The General's Lament

General Norman Hastings, Second Southsward Expeditionary Force (attributed)

Long ago,

I swore

An oath

to make war

And to fight

And to guide

With my might

And my mind.

And a shocking day it was

When I glanced down at my paws,

And saw them covered in the blood of innocents.

That day, I swore

Another oath unto myself,

Never again to take the life of anybeast.

This new oath

Never saved

Any creature

Any pain.

They always just insisted on bloodshed.

Now I chase after these

Four wretched thieves

And the men under my lead all find it grand

We hunt now

For these "foes"

Who are too young

Such pain to know…

Any God, If you are there,

Please answer this one prayer,

That I make my choice without regret.

Oh, that my homeland ne'er was ruled by monsters,

And that the King and I had never, ever met.

Prologue

"And you can take your 'surrender demands,' turn right at the corner, and go on straight to hell! And take this…this rabble with you." Field Marshal Edgar Stryker of the Long Patrol finished his rant and stared down at the messenger from the so-called "Southsward Expeditionary Force." The liaison scurried off to his general, somebeast named Norman Hastings. All in all, the old hare thought, a nice start to the day. It's been a while since I got to kill something.

Norman Hastings was an awe-inspiring figure, a giant in fluidly curving sapphire steel plates with a jade-bordered sea-blue cape billowing out around him with the wind. He turned to his commanders, speaking with a rich tenor. "I had hoped to secure Salamandastron as a bastion without bloodshed, but the hares seem intent on wiping themselves out."

A fox standing beside him in slightly less elaborate crimson armor and golden cape spoke up. "We've planned for this ever since we crossed the desert, General. The men know what to do."

"I know that, Colonel Parte. Just as I know that peace was a forlorn hope to begin with. But that didn't stop me from wanting it."

"Sah, with all due respect, you should stop philosophizing and get on with it, wot. The men are anxious to begin, and I'm worried about how long we can restrain the…newer additions." The newest speaker was a hare himself, a brown-furred creature with charcoal-smudged leather armor and a smoke-blackened knife at his side.

"Good advice, Colonel Naples," Hastings acknowledged. Then he breathed in deeply and sighed. "All right, I'm ready. Have the auxiliaries fall out into a screen and signal the general advance. Take your infiltrators in as soon as the first Patrol charge hits home."

"Yessah!" Naples acknowledged.

"Yes, Sir!" Parte signaled his agreement with a flick of the tail under his luxurious cape.

"And Parte, Naples…ensure that everyone knows that any hare who lays down their arms, or does not bear them, is to be spared. No exceptions. And give our people ample warning…you know my policy on warning and punishment, of course."

"Yessah!" Naples agreed again.

"Consider it done, milord."

"Good. Very well. Runners! Musicians! To me! Sound the advance!"

And thus the great siege of Salamandastron began.

Sergeant-Major Gatling spurred his platoons into action. Veteran hare lancers pounded along the sandy shoreline, long barbs tilted towards the slow-moving mass of Hastings's army. Their targets fanned out into a great line, two and a half score across and five deep, with a second block well behind them. Their armor glinted sullenly in the morning light, as did the massive shields raised by the first rank and the barbs on the unusually long spears of the others. Less well-outfitted mobs deployed-if such a word could be used to describe so undisciplined an action-to screen the flanks of the core of armored regulars. Gatling winced despite the evident discord of the screening elements, for several detachments of Runners had been directed to strike the inland flank of the invading army. Now, though, they would be unable to strike home, leaving Gatling and his seventy-five-strong charge to strike home unsupported. His wince became a vicious grin. Just the way I like it…

A few of the greener bucks began looking around nervously, pace slackening, as the slowly-marching line of armored foebeasts hove closer. "Keep it together, laddies," Gatling urged. "Hit them hard, hit them fast, and you'll be back in the mountain by noon!" A seasoned campaigner himself, he was able to maintain his gallop with ease even while speaking.

"Those are some awfully long rat-stickers out there, eh, Sarge?" his old comrade Lancer Carabin pointed out.

"Aye, but it shouldn't make a difference," Gatling replied, consciously keeping his voice raised for the benefit of the others. "We'll find out how well they fight right…about…now!"

The hares' lances were almost in contact with the shield wall when a drumbeat sounded and the fifth rank of their foes leveled their massive polearms. It was a tactic the hares had never seen before, and their charge stalled as lances bounced off of impossibly strong armor or lancers ran themselves through on the sudden fence of barbed points. And as the Long Patrol's charge fragmented, the other ranks rippled their weapons out in time with musical commands, ever enlarging the nigh-impenetrable thicket. Gatling was among the few who even left a mark on the line, driving his lance home through the visor of a shieldbearer and letting it fall in favor of his long, curving sword. This he swiped at one of the spearmen behind his first victim. His foe's armor turned the first blow, but not the second, and the sharp-eared head of a squirrel lay at the hare's paws. He felt a momentary sense of surprise at this, being completely unused to attacks by "civilized" creatures, but quickly shunted that aside in favor of the necessity of battling for his life.

It was a battle he lost. Despite the hole he had dug in the fence of speartips and the aid of comrades who had poured through it behind him, some of the polearms swung around, stabbing, stabbing… Carabin let out a roar as his comrade fell, charging through, determined to avenge Gatling's death. But not everyone was as mad, and not everyone could stand. The glorious charge of the Long Patrol, the charge that had splintered so many armies before this, now broke, scattered survivors abandoning weapons and pelting towards the relative safety of their mountain stronghold. But their hearts sank within them as they saw the "screening elements" they had assumed were simply guarding the flank now curling in behind them, walling off their escape. The Patrollers fought desperately, striving to break through and save themselves, but it was not to be. Seventy-five hares had sallied forth, not half a score lived to surrender.

Captain Mauser struggled to keep a level head. His veteran sergeants, despite shaken, were moving through the assembled Patrollers just within the main gate. Some hares they coaxed or cajoled into place, others they threatened, and some they even repositioned through main force. But try as he might, Mauser could not see any real way to triumph. The armor and shields of the heavy infantry had proven damnably effective at turning aside weapons, although at least someone had managed a few kills. Longbow archers in the upper caverns had claimed several more, but nowhere near the numbers to be expected from such powerful weapons. And even the bows had ceased their volleys as startlingly precise and accurate shafts struck back through the arrow slits.

The captain began thinking aloud. "Those spears won't fit in the caves, and there are enough openings to hit them from every flank imaginable. We know these tunnels well enough that we should have the advantage. Everyone!" he called to the forces under his command. "Pull back. Ambush them from the tunnels as they advance!"

Only as he entered one of the aforementioned tunnels did he realize how badly he had failed his soldiers. The silence of the archers above had not been merely due to fear…no, indeed. Somehow, the enemy army had scaled the sheer cliffs of the mountainside, sneaking into the caverns and flanking the gatekeepers just as they had meant to flank the legions without. The captain permitted himself a grim chuckle of irony that took the black-clad ferrets before him by surprise. Drawing his rapier, he began his grim dance, listening to the panicked screams echoing through the mountain halls as the invader's impossible trap was sprung.

The Badger Lord Naranto watched as his forces were overrun and the invading army pushed into the mountain keep. "Why can't anyone ever accept peace?" he asked his orderly. "Why do we insist upon war?"

"Well, m'lord, I think it's the way we've been raised. I heard it wasn't always like this, but things have just fallen down, wot? We're bred to fight, and we won't accept anything else." This observation came from Chester, the young orderly who aided the ancient badger in all that he did.

"Perhaps you're right, lad." Naranto sighed and forced himself up. "I need to go greet our guests. Fetch my armor, will you?" As Chester scurried off to bring the plates and warhammer favored by Naranto, the elderly lord pushed himself up despite his protesting muscles. "Ah, well. I'd better get ready, then. Time to give this scum a real Long Patrol welcome!"

Field Marshal Stryker was completely panicked. Out of the nearly fifteen score Long Patrol hares who had been deployed, barely two dozen survived. General Hastings strode over to the quivering hare. "Convinced yet, Field Marshal?"

"Convinced? Convinced? Was there really any need for this? You, sirrah, are nothing more than a common murderer!" Stryker gained confidence as his rant continued. "You deserve a sound thrashing, and I would just love to be the one to provide it, wot! Make your peace with whatever deity will still take you." The hare officer readied his needle-sharp lance. Despite his advanced years, he was still lethally fast and had the weapon out in barely a second.

Hastings swung his sword around to point at the field marshal, and then turned it so the edge faced the ceiling. "My men will not interfere. At your ready."

The Field Marshal possessed blinding speed. Hastings's, however, was invisible. Before Stryker could even make one jab with his lance, his quarters were sliding away from each other. No one had even seen Hastings move. "Rest in peace, you poor old fool."

Sergeant Barrett, one of the few resisting survivors, organized the fourteen Patrollers he had gathered in the vast kitchen cavern, hoping for some miracle that could save them from the unstoppable legions now pouring through their mountain fortress. Young Chester pattered down the stairs, panting for breath. "What is it, youngster? Has something happened to His Nibs?" demanded Corporal Garand.

"No, sah. Naranto's on his way down right this bloomin' minute. Let me sit a moment and-gah!"

A mousy silhouette appeared in the doorway, hefting a strange apparatus. An arrow shot from it, seemingly without being drawn back. Chester died quickly after the bolt punched trough his throat. The mouse only adjusted his aim with the strange bow, but it continued to spit shot after shot. Private Remington went next, then the eager Recruit Colt. At that moment, inspiration struck. Barrett pointed out "Of course! This is a kitchen. There's oil all throughout the place! Try to pour it in the entrances, then light it with something."

"But what about 'Is Nibs, sah?" complained Corporal Arkebus.

"He could bloody well crawl through a firewall if he had to! Now move! And stay moving; don't let that sniper get another one of us!"

Momentarily, the fire was lit. Seconds after that, the sniper came clattering down the stairwell at the kitchen entrance to land in a heap in the center of the blazing puddle. Naranto bounded down to land perfectly beyond the inferno. "Neat trick, Sergeant."

"Thank y' sah." replied Barrett. "Sorry Chester bought it before I thought it up."

"He was a good lad. He would have made a fine Patroller if…"

The weary creatures shared a moment of silence.

"Now, I know a way out of here," the badger rumbled. "But first…."

Sergeant Barrett smiled viciously as Naranto outlined his plan

Within ten minuets, the hares had filed out. A small detachment of Hasting's soldiers approached the kitchen, just in time to witness the entire stock of oil go up in the first eruption since the mountain's ancient molten core had died. Hastings felt the tremors from his ad hoc command post three floors up. Moments later, the sole survivor came up, badly singed. Hastings ordered him off to the medics, and then asked his mouse subaltern the results of the engagement.

" Sir!" the young soldier squeaked. "Twelve of ours dead from the fire, sir! Seven dead during tunnel combat, eighteen from the field engagement, sir! Nineteen wounded altogether, sixteen of those walking, sir! As far as we know, one-hundred percent casualties among the fighting hares, sir! Noncombatants and leverets were spared as you ordered and are being confined in the barracks chambers, sir! No sign of the Badger Lord, but we think he was in the caverns for that explosion. Sir!"

"Thus ends their Long Patrol," Hastings said, shaking his head sadly.