Merdigo Ferez the overlord was having one of the more annoying days of his life. Once more, his charges were slowing up more than usual.
The lanky weasel was watching the woodlanders plowing the fields when a young mouse had collapsed with the heat. Merdigo had had to order two squirrels to run and get water for the unfortunate peasant. He'd been revived, but the punishment for falling asleep on the job was absolute: A full day's work and forfeit of provisions for that day.
Merdigo sighed. This field was the farthest from the Abbey. Getting the proper amount of equipment out to the border on Mossflower Wood was all but impossible. This was the second day that the weasel would be unable to get them to work without losing one of them.
He eased the ten-gallon hat off of his head, scratching his laborious fur underneath before replacing the hat. Once more, he would be short of the "recommended" amount of labor, all because of his worker's failure.
Not that this was a serious offence. Merdigo was notorious for maintaining his work ethic. A day that was below average always was followed by one above average. However, if he were to allow himself to slack off like other overlords, things could get ugly. Repeated failure never went unpunished around Abbeytown. And although he had never been brought before Mortenoir in his life, his curiosity over the Supreme Overlord of Abbeytown was cancelled by his love of his own life. Mortenoir's visitors tended to end up dead.
He sniffed, and returned to work. "Hey, get him up and get back to the plow!"
The pathetic mouse rose unsteadily to his feet, balancing himself on his plow before urging himself onwards. The plowing resumed.
Merdigo leaned back in his lawn chair and watched them. There was something very relaxing in watching the woodlanders work. The poetic life of labor they led was to be admired…but not envied.
Something caught his eye on the left of the plowing field. Somebeast was walking out of the wood.
Merdigo was far from naive, but in all his twenty-two seasons he'd never seen anyone outside Abbeytown.
The figure drew closer, materializing out of the haze of a warm summer day like some restless spirit. His very way of gliding across the plains seemed ghostlike, in fact. Without any regard for the peasants, he strode across the field and towards the weasel, like oil over water.
It was then that Merdigo got his first good look at the beast. He was tall and slender, with chestnut brown fur that was tipped with black at his ears, his paws, and his hindquarters. He wore a faded tan duster over equally-unremarkable black jeans and shirt. His hat was a plain black preacher's hat, flat and wide. A thin scar lined his left eye, over which a black eyepatch was worn. His remaining eye was a piercing emerald green. Slung over his back was a dull brown haversack.
And he wore a gun.
Merdigo could not see the gun itself, but the telltale leather belt worn low with loops holding shining brass cartridges was a telltale sign as any. Many of the loops were ominously emptied of bullets.
All in all, he was a very intriguing…a very interesting…
Merdigo was far from stupid, but he realized that he had no idea what sort of creature this was. The ears were pointed yet upright. The fur was lustrous yet sleekly pressed against his body. His tail was flat and board-like but still bushy and rich-furred.
It would have been hard to call the stranger anything at all, not a weasel, a stoat, a fox, a ferret, or any kind of woodlander. He just was, whatever species he belonged to.
But the gun worried him. A non-overlord carrying iron could only mean trouble.
Slowly, Merdigo reached for the lever-action shotgun under his chair.
"There's no need for that," came a voice, corpselike in tone.
It was the stranger. "All I want is a little water, if you've got it."
Merdigo was convinced that this creature was some kind of woodlander, even through he didn't look it. Maybe some kind of land otter, or a squirrel, or…
Merdigo realized how fruitless labels were. But it was time to put this intruder in his place.
"Hey, how come you're not working? Sundown's a long way away, woodlander. Maybe you wanna give us a hand, before you get reported, runt?" sniped the weasel.
The insult seemed to pass completely beyond the stranger's hearing range. With a small movement of his (rather clawlike) paws, he began rolling a small cigarillo across his arm. With a flick, he struck a match with one of the claws on his other paw, lighting the small cigar. He proceeded to drag on it pensively.
"I'm not a woodlander, pal. I'm just kind of thirsty right now, got any water or not?"
Merdigo was tired of this insolent…whatever he was. His hands were already around the handle of the shotgun, and he whipped it in the direction of the stranger and fired.
Unfortunately, he had disappeared.
The massive crack of the sotgun recoiled against Merdigo's shoulder painfully. The massive sound of the shot echoed off the trees of Mossflower, and then silence followed.
Merdigo stared, thunderstruck. He had been there, he had been right there –
He froze as he heard the double-click of a revolver's hammer directly behind his head.
"That was damn stupid of you," came the disembodied voice of the stranger, icy and emotionless.
Merdigo gasped as he felt a cold ring of metal touch the back of his skull. I'm dead, he thought.
The cold revolver barrel was retracted, and suddenly Merdigo felt a sizzling, burning sensation across his neck. He screamed in pain.
The stranger stopped pushing the lit cigar into the back of the slavedriver's neck. "I'd like some questions answered. Sound good?"
"Fuck you," snarled the ornery weasel.
The stranger pressed the burning tip of the cigar against Merdigo's ear this time, causing another shriek of pain. "Make this easy for me and it's easy for you. Is Mortenoir still in charge?"
"Yes," gasped Merdigo.
"Is there an ottermaid by the name of Miriam McCall living in Abbeytown?"
"I – I don't know, maybe?"
Another burn came. "Yes or no."
"Yes. She lives on the northern side of town."
"Who's your commanding overlord? Who runs this side of the fields?"
"A ferretess. Rosa Munoz."
"Thank you. May I suggest you leave now?"
Merdigo felt the shotgun being wrenched from his grasp. The double-click came again as the stranger lowered the hammer on his gun.
Merdigo gasped with relief.
"Turn around, weasel."
Merdigo did. What he saw was a nightmare.
The stranger was standing there, his colorless coat fluttering in the wind, his one green eye seeming to pierce Merdigo's very soul. He held in one hand the shotgun, and in the other he held the most magnificent revolver Merdigo had ever seen. The flat hat on his head ruffled slightly in the breeze as he spoke.
"I know that the first thing you'll do will be to find your masters and tell them about me. And that's fine, I like reputation. But know this: Make trouble for me and there is no word to describe the destruction I will inflict upon you. Now git."
Merdigo did, running without a break, and without looking back once. He just wanted to be clear of this insanely wily creature. As clear as he could be.
--------------------
Back at the field, the stranger noticed the peasants looking at him in awe. "What're you looking at?" he said sullenly.
They said nothing, too afraid to speak.
He put down the shotgun, and slid the six-shooter back into its holster on his hip. "You can all can take the day off. I'm not gonna make you work."
Slowly, not entirely trustingly, they filed off the field, looking incredulously at this indistinguishable creature that had, in the space of a minute, upset the entire order of things.
He sat down in the lawn chair Merdigo had vacated, slid the wide black hat over his face, and slipped off into a light sleep.