Chapter One
The sun shimmered low in the sky, a blazing ball of fire dappling the waters of the horizon. Klitch relaxed, basking in the rays of gilded light that shone down upon his glossy tan fur. Idly, the weasel stretched out upon the sand, enjoying the warm sensation of an evening sea breeze and the general tranquility that an escape from horde life could bring.
His eyes were just beginning to close as a ferret strode up. Goffa, unlike his companion, shifted nervously back and forth. Ever-anxious, he gnawed at his lip, not daring to break the silence and arouse the anger of Klitch with the news he brought.
Klitch glanced lazily at his minion, who twitched and fidgeted even more under the blue-eyed gaze. The weasel stretched languidly, yawned, and repositioned himself on the warm sand. He couldn't be bothered to acknowledge Goffa; what was the bastard doing here anyway? He'd been sent out with the foraging party hours earlier.
Goffa finally spoke. "K-klitch?" he stammered reluctantly.
The weasel rolled his eyes; hadn't he made it clear enough that he wished to be left alone?
"Yes, Goffa?" he responded condescendingly. "What is it?"
"Er--ahh, the Master wants to see yer, he told me y'd be out here, I'm sorry fer-- "
"He wants to see me--about what?" questioned Klitch in a particularly unconcerned voice.
"Er, well , y'see, ah… word's gotten 'round to yer father that you been--ah, eh, that you've paid a certain bitch ter--w'l, that is…" he trailed off miserably.
"One of the camp whores has been talking, is that it?" Klitch's voice had become sharper, and his ears pricked. He got to his feet quickly and strode off. Goffa followed at a distance.
The sunset painted the sky gold and pink by the time they arrived at the camp. Klitch was in no great hurry to answer his father's call; there were other priorities to be seen to. He made his way through the horde until he reached his tent.
Slipping inside, Klitch rummaged around in his bedding until he found several small apples, a smooth purple stone and a necklace of abalone shells. He stuffed these into a rough leather pouch at his belt and emerged from the tent in a hurried manner. He had business to settle.
Taking care to ensure that Feragho was not near, the young weasel skirted the edges of the horde secretively until he had arrived at his destination. The last golden rays of sun disappeared below the horizon as Klitch darted towards a small, slight figure who sat under a scrap of faded canvas that served her as a dwelling.
"Whelk!" he rasped hoarsely to the figure, who whipped around suddenly. "Whelk, it's me!"
Whelk was a young stoat, about Klitch's age. Wearing only an ill-fitting, ragged tunic, she was the image of squalor itself. A filthy gray rag, embroidered with faded pink flowers, kept her long, frizzy, oily black headfur from spilling over her deep brown eyes.
"Y'have m'payment, dontcher?" she asked suspiciously, brown eyes narrowing at the sight of the empty-handed weasel standing before her. Pretty, she was, if one looked past all the dirt and grime, but every bit as unpleasant and dishonest as the males.
Klitch crossed his arms and spoke in a tone of deadly calm. Though he was quiet, anger emanated from his being.
"You've been talking, Whelk. When I first went to you, I made you promise not to say a word. Not a single word! You agreed, then. You've broken that promise."
Whelk smiled a horrible smile. "A promise, what th' hell's a promise ter me?" she asked, laughing shrilly and exposing sharp little rows of teeth. "Did you honestly think I was going to keep this a secret, fool? Has it been any different for others of your status?"
In that instant, Klitch's hand went to a knife tucked into his belt, and he drew it menacingly. Whelk retreated nervously into the shadows, cowering and holding up a paw for mercy. Klitch had caught her unarmed. "P-please, n-n-no, eheh, just jokin' there, sir!" she babbled nervously.
Klitch's manner had become more tense, and his voice took on a heated tone. Brandishing the knife threateningly at the stoatmaid, he muttered through gritted teeth, "You, Whelk, are a lowly prostitute. I, on the other hand, am the son of the leader of this horde! If you value your life, shut yer yap--now and forever! Or I'll do it for you!"
He took a step forward, yelling the last sentence. Several nearby soldiers turned to look, but Klitch paid them no mind. He grabbed the trinkets from his waist-pouch and hurled them to the ground. "Here, take your payment! But in the future, if you dare to talk again, I'll have no part of you!"
The young weasel stalked off in high dudgeon, back to his tent for some much-needed cooling off.
Unfortunately, Feragho had beaten him there. As Klitch neared the area, he noticed his father leaned up idly against a nearby rock, combing his tail. The older weasel watched as his son drew nearer, mentally planning his words.
Feragho continued to groom himself as he spoke. Betraying no emotion, he said simply, "I sent Goffa out to get you at least two hours earlier. Where were you?"
"That's for me to know and you not to find out," Klitch replied smartly. Feragho raised his head slightly and allowed the delicate wooden comb to drop from his hand. He decided to make his point, and dropped all notions of calm from his manner.
"Look here, whelp. I'm fairly sure I know where you were as it is, and I'm in no mood to take any shit from you!" Feragho continued patronizingly as he saw his son's ears redden with anger.
"I'm not sure you realize, though, young one, that we've no time to mess around with--with the likes of that scum-of-the-earth whore you've been providing business to. You see that mountain? Inside it, that hellborn badger and his longeared hares wait. They're our enemies, we're plotting against them! In times like this, I've come to expect better from you! You ought to be devoting all effort to conquering that place with me, not to banging filthy temptresses and ruining your reputation as an up-and-coming leader! Do you understand, you green recruit, you?"
Klitch sneered. "Not like you haven't been doing the same as me, old one!"
Aye, thought Feragho, I have. I'm just better at keeping it a secret, that's all!
Fuming, the young weasel continued. "How do you know my whereabouts when you're not paying attention? How do you know I'm not… err… making plans of my own, say?"
Feragho smirked unpleasantly. "Oh, a few coins to the captains and I have eyes everywhere, son. Your old father has seen it all and heard it too."
With those words, the blue-eyed assassin turned his back and walked away, leaving Klitch, sputtering and angry, to be alone with his thoughts and the crash of waves on the shore.