Becoming the warlord's clerk was the turning point of my life. From there, my view of the horde deepened with each document I was ordered to transcribe. My inconsistencies as a fighter were protected within the harbor of my position. My weapon was a quill and my battlefield was the parchment. I couldn't help but enjoy my work.
Change was the only constant of hordelife, as was leadership. A few seasons after hiring me as the horde's clerk, Levit started speaking of this principle of change, that anybeast who chose to ignore this reality would meet certain death. He also confided in me that being a leader was a very dangerous position, and only the most ruthless and wise could hold it for long, without succumbing to insanity. "Reuben, promise me that you never become a warlord. Power can be gained in any position you choose. Warlordship is overrated."
I noted this on the parchment I was writing.
I awoke the next morning to find something in my paw, a parchment wrapped around an iridescent green stone on a brass chain. The parchment was in Levit's notable slanted script. It told me of expectations and life and of things I didn't really understand. The words were written in an abstract prose that I never knew the warlord to use. He finished it with some words in a tongue that I could not decipher. I discovered soon after that Levit had left the camp. From then on, I kept the small roll of parchment at the bottom of my parchment bag and the necklace underneath a navy bandana I always wore. Whenever I was confused or afraid, I rubbed the stone. No matter how much I rubbed it, it always stayed cool. It seemed to radiate Levit's own cool confidence.
The words of the parchment haunted me, both those understood and those mysterious.
The opening lines echoed along the corridors of my consciousness, The meaning of what I say here may not be heard until the right time….
I was kept as a clerk for the numerous warlords that followed. Finding a new, indispensable leadership beast for any horde took a few tries. This was especially true for our horde, for beasts were separated into groups of varying opinion of what traits a proper leader should have.
It didn't really matter to me; I just took orders, transcribing whatever I was told to write. Looking back, I do not think I was a suitable beast for the job; my still inexperienced paws smudged ink along the page and my penmanship was small and clumsy. Still, it didn't matter. The beasts that came and went from the warlord position usually didn't know the mysteries of the written word, let alone letters. As the seasons slipped by and my penmanship, prose, and mind began to mature, I took advantage of this fact, for the good of the horde.
My habit started by changing a few words in a letter that ordered the surrender of a smaller horde we had just defeated in battle, cutting out mentions of us 'ripping out their gizzards' and inserting mentions of the advantages of our horde's size and strengths.
Soon, I was not strictly writing what the warlord said to write, but an outline of what he probably meant me to write. I began to love the power these words contained as they flowed upon the page and made results. My paws were worthless in battle but upon the parchment they were dangerous, the quill and ink capable enough to save or slaughter another beast's life.
In a horde however, nothing remains secret for long. Even though half the horde couldn't read, those that could became suspicious of the 'weekly notices' from the warlord, a task I took up without his knowledge. This inconsistency was noticed and accepted. A reputation grew when I wasn't watching, muted words as I entered the mess tent at meals, always an open place, usually a smile, sometimes some choice words. Mostly friendly gestures greeted me, though I was awkward to return the favor, my rhetoric and social skills detached by my thoughts of possible word uses and sentence structure.
The respect also came from how I dwelt with the ever-changing warlords. I had the capability to stand up in the storm of a tirade without flinching a whisker. I never told anybeast that it was because whenever I wrote, I faded away into the words and only heard the things meant to be written from the warlord's maw or that were implied. I learned to ferret out details of a beast and situation with only a glance. I relished details.
I will not deny that there were bribes from those who knew my power, and will admit I accepted those that suited the horde best.
I was in a position of great power and yet I refused to admit this to myself. I chose instead to focus on more lofty thoughts, beyond the realms of the horde, of life and death and love and hate. These were such deep issues that it also became a habit to sink into a dark depression that glazed over the events around me. So instead of thinking of these things, I wrote about them, and kept writing. I begin writing even when there was no order to do so. Between assassination orders and body count forms, I wrote of the immenseness of the sky and the forms of the clouds. While I composed a suitable suicide note for a stoat who was trying to get rid of his tentmate, I wrote of the questionable nature of the mess tent food. I couldn't help myself note the pattern as a bird flapped over the camp ever so gracefully and tumbled with an arrow through its chest ever so smooth, when a fight over woodpigeon leg broke out I couldn't help but remember the dialogue and actions. I became lost and immersed among details. I began to struggle to keep companions. A few grew used to my social detachment.
"You hold great power in your paws," one of my few friends, Hicker, a fox captain of the horde, noted one day. "You don't think like most of us. You are original; now, could you help me figure how to do away with those brutish ferret brothers at the edge of camp?"
I composed a fake order for them to investigate the nearby redstone quarry, knowing the rumors of snakes the place held, and handed the parchment over.
In the afterglow of this action, once Hicker had left, I paused, and my focus sank into the flicking lamp at my foldable writing desk. My paws rubbed along the oak wood, across the bumps and ink stains...
Who was I? What made me what I was? Why did I live? Did I choose my actions? Or was it fate?
Those were not questions to ask...yet.
The smell of conflict distracted me. Any experienced hordebeast can sense coming conflict, they can smell it, feel it, taste its tangy sap.
I blinked.
It was deep into night already, many hours since I had met with Hicker. My lamp was running out of oil, flickering, threatening to escape into nothing except a smoldering wick. For the first time in a long time, I saw my tent. I had been so long in my work and transferring of warlord power and general horde activity I didn't bother to pay attention to my own surroundings.
I was a weasel, sitting in a moderately sized tent, alone, no decoration or battle stories to flaunt, no chest of special belongings to reflect upon, no true friends to turn to, no life outside of the parchment. I knew only how to observe and react. I knew hordelife. The quill was in my paw.
I was a vermin.
That racial phrase finally caught me.
Vermin. Goodbeast. The lamp faded to black.
My mind faded to blankness.
I needed a walk.
I slipped out into the cool night, the mists of midnight making contact with my fur. I shivered, pulling my cloak closer around me. Moonbeams filled the camp, as did the snores of rodents and canids and muskelids alike, curled up under threadbare blankets, some tucked in so their tails provided warmth and pillowed their heads, except for rats, of course.
My mind was being pulled by invisible strings towards the topic of Goodbeasts. As I considered them, I found I didn't know much except from tales around the campfire as a kit and the occasional skirmish when we stole necessary supplies from any small society of moles or squirrels or mice or otherbeasts of their nature that lay in our path. I never saw them, I only knew what the reports told me and from the few carcasses and skins that were brought back as battle prizes.
I had to admit, the tail of the squirrel was quite an interesting specimen to observe. The warlord used it as a duster.
The only way I would be able to see a Goodbeast would be to accompany fellow hordebeasts on a skirmish... I was not suited for battle. If not for my writing, that would be a deep mark on me as a hordebeast.
The overwhelming sensation of being alone crept along my tail, spreading over my sable fur and sinking into my heart.
"Rueben?"
The whisper almost caused me to jump out of my skin, letting me escape from my thoughts. A weasel came out of the shadows; I couldn't remember his name and the night atmosphere didn't help me pick out any defining features. Still, he seemed to know me. "Rueben, could you take my watch for a bit?"
I was wary to agree.
"Please, my mate, Juniper, said she wanted something...personal, I won't be long. There's not many other times to have private, ya know. And I'm stuck on guard duty and it's medial but I can't just leave..."
I understood. Everybeast needed a little privacy with a mate now and then, I decided, and hordelife wasn't abundant with moments to have some. Against my inner voices, I agreed to keep watch. He quickly described where I had to pace and left, an anticipating grin pasted on his maw. I wished I could remember his name.
I was alone again, a spear now in my paws, and only my thoughts to accompany me once again. They were in mottled masses now, fragments of ideas that refused to form into coherence. I paced along the edge of the camp.
The woods seemed to grow gloomier with each step, and the night noises turned to an eerie flow of sounds.
I wished the weasel would come back soon.
I heard a crack from within the gloom of the forest. The spear fell from my nerveless paws. I was caught between picking the weapon back up and running back to my tent.
Another crack.
My breath caught.
Then the figure stumbled out of the foliage. I couldn't make out the creature; it wore a heavy cloak. The only thing I could tell for sure was he was injured. His movement was muted and I could hear him groaning.
Was this the conflict I sensed?
I walked up to the creature and knelt down beside him, placing a paw on his shoulder. I was shaking. "Are you alright?"
The creature whimpered.
I saw his leg; it was at an unnatural angle. It wasn't a leg I had seen before, either. In the moonlight, I could make out the features, its design. The cloak's hood fell.
I jumped back.
A mouse. A solid mouse. Definitely not a rat. I needed to do something. Raise the alarm. Get that weasel. Kill the mouse...
The memory of the false alarm came back. I didn't know who the weasel was or where his tent was, and even if I did, I would most likely be walking in on their privacy. Killing the mouse was a thought that I didn't even consider twice.
I was again caught, between running into the camp and...what?
The mouse was delirious, trying to get to his footpaws. With the leg as it was, the action was impossible. A horrible decision came to me as I saw the mouse struggling.
It was a Goodbeast. An example and live specimen of a Goodbeast.
The rest of the night slipped by without event. The weasel returned, looking highly satisfied.
"Thank you. That was worth it, beyond worth it. If we get a male kit, we'll name him after you," the weasel said, half in jest. "Anything stir?"
I shrugged and handed back the spear.