Chapter two

To Become A Warlord

Vaniska was a young fox with grand ambitions. Having left home at a young age, Vaniska set out to find his fame and fortune. With no trade or skills to speak of, he fell back on his only talent: bullying. It was in this manner that he formed a small band of followers. These cronies of his were all young creatures who felt as though their elders were not giving them a fair share of what the entire world had to offer. Mostly foxes like Vaniska, their gang robbed and vandalized small farms and settlements in the southern regions of Mossflower. They were not considered a real threat to those living in the area, more a great annoyance. Even though the band was quite content at the moment, their leader Vaniska was not. He wanted more than the food and trinkets they lifted. He wanted to go down in history as the greatest warlord of all time, not to be forgotten as just another robber fox.

The answer to his dilemma came as he sat by the fire when the band made camp. He gazed into the flickering flames, watching them devour the twigs and branches until only cinders remained. It was then the fox realized the greatest tool he could have would never be a sword; it would be his flint and tinderbox. It was at that moment Vaniska took on a title that in his mind would cause all creatures to tremble. The Arson, how devious it sounded rolling off the tongue. Having given the idea of titles a great deal of thought Vaniska was pleased with his final choice. Somehow Vaniska the fire starter, or Vaniska the great burning fox didn't sound quite sophisticated enough for an aspiring warlord.

With a smile on his face and a plot in his head, Vaniska brought his band to a small farming community. Making camp in the trees only a short ways off he sent Wayta, his second in command, on a mission to deliver his terms to the village and return with their answer. The wheeze from Wayta's lungs announced his arrival to Vaniska. Lifting the flap of his small tent, he bid Wayta to enter.

"You have their answer then?" he asked, trying to hold back his delight. He thought his plan so perfectly villainous, surely the villagers were trembling in fear of him.

"They didn't accept, Chief," Wayta said nervously.

"What! What do you mean? You told them exactly what I told you to, didn't you? Why didn't they accept? Don't they know who I am?" Vaniska stomped a circle in the tent, his rant turning to angry mutters as Wayta continued.

"They think you're bluffing, sir. They said you wouldn't burn the village down and you were only trying to take advantage of poor, hard working creatures. They said they would send the otter tribe after you if you visited again." The young fox inched towards the exit, not wanting to make the leader angry.

Vaniska stopped his pacing and ranting, taking a deep breath and thinking the situation though. Inexperienced and headstrong, the fox tried to be cunning but wasn't altogether clever. Yet at moments his memory and attention to detail surprised even him.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. They're going to send otters out after me?" A smile came over his face. "Most otters are away at the seaside this time of year, some gathering or jamboree of sorts. Their precious otter tribe won't be home for a while yet. Who's bluffing now?"

Wayta stood speechless, unsure if he was supposed to reply to the question or not. "So what are we going to do?"

Vaniska smirked wickedly. "We burn them as promised. If they didn't give us the tribute we asked for we'll burn the whole lot to the ground tomorrow evening while they sleep."

Wayta nodded, than excused himself from the tent. Rackam, one of the few weasels in the small band, stopped him.

"So what's the chief hollering and yelling about now?" he asked, nodding his head towards the tent.

"The village turned down his offer. So they will burn as promised," Wayta replied matter-of-factly.

"Ye mean Vaniska is actually going through with it?" The young weasel was surprised, to say the least.

"Aye, and knowing Vaniska's current mood he'll want no survivors, no one left to tell the story." With that, Wayta moved to walk on but Rackam stopped him again.

"Hold on. If no one lives to tell the tale, 'ow's anybeast gonna know we did it?"

"Well, I guess Vaniska will leave a note or something."

"That makes no sense, mate. We're going to burn the lot of 'em and leave a little note saying, "Look at this, we did it, Sincerely, Vaniska." What Warlord does something like that eh? "

"But it would be like a calling card."

"A calling card is something you do over and over again and creatures know it was you that did it. So we'd have to burn towns up and down the country before we could call it a calling card. Besides, they need to know who it is that is leaving the calling card in order to know who did it. And if there're no creatures left to tell the story, then there's no way to know who's calling card is being left by who because we'll still be unknown."

"You isn't making any sense there, Rackam," Wayta said and went on his way.

"We're following a fool," the weasel muttered under his breath.