Chapter 4: Plans
A plan was quickly formulating in Konnel's mind. The white fox paced around the seaside camp muttering to himself as he ran through every possible detail. He knew, as did most of the vermin that Tarza would not stand for the insults paid to her this day. There would be retribution, and even as they formed up on the beach, she was likely making plans of her own. Konnel wasn't about to be offered up as Fredik's sacrifice. The fox knew he would need to use every ounce of cunning he could muster to finish this feud between the two mink.
He watched as Fredik's creature's unloaded supplies and weaponry from their own ships. Mink and other vermin had been sent into the forests to harvest stout trees. These would be used to construct a battering ram and a series of three crude catapults. Others built sledges with which to haul weapons and supplies to the site of battle.
"We'll build a siege tower." Konnel announced aloud, though nobeast was near him. "We shall build a tower, high enough to reach the top of the wall, fill it with archers and casks of oil." He cast a calculating glance towards the lumber already collected. Flicking his tail pensively he ran the numbers, how many beasts would he need, how much wood, how many archers could be spared? Unlike Nicara he wouldn't dream of presenting an idea without giving it every consideration.
Nicara was in a foul mood, as was growing to be more and more common. The vixen quickly realized invading and conquering was not as easy as she hoped. There was a lot of waiting around, this particularly displeased her. In her wanderings around the camp, she came upon Fredik who was in council with his captains around a warm fire. The mink did nothing to send the vixen off, and allowed her a spot to warm herself.
"Our immediate problem is those hounds." She spoke up, anxious to do something. "We should slay them all and be done with them."
Fredik's own beagle Tracker huffed, his hot breath mingling with the cold winter air. His dark lips curled up in a growl exposing the row of canine teeth. The mink passed him a warning glance.
"Tracker vill see to dese hounds." He explained, but the answer didn't please the vixen.
"Those devils slaughtered at least four of my creatures."
Tracker gave a barking laugh. "An' they will slay many more before this fight is over. My brother Hunter knows these forests, your creatures don't."
"An' just whose side are you on anyway?"
To this, the beagle laughed again but his brown eyes gazed deep into the vixen, there was something unsettling about the way the hound stared. "Like any good hound, I stay on the side that sees me fed and cared for. My brother will do the same. You've seen what they can do vixen, beasts like that are hard to come by. There is no need to slaughter them all, once they see who has the upper paw they will come around."
Nicara looked on with disbelief, was Fredik truly willing to trust these beasts? From the look of the mink it seemed he did, but not without some caution.
Rising off his haunches Tracker barked to his beagles, all fully armed wearing the tabards of this master. "I think we best go for a run, get the lay of the land and see if we can't find Hunter." He spoke no words to his troops; just a few sounds came from his throat. To the untrained ear it might sound as if Tracker had some sort of cough, but to the beagles the noises were clear commands. They dashed in formation, scattering as they met the tree line.
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The night wore on and Fredik's camp tried to gain what sleep they could. Sentries were posted in the surrounding area, as it was suspected Tarza may attempt to drive them out. A few of Nicara's vermin were assigned this task, mixed in with Fredik's troops and the various mercenaries and corsairs. They tended to huddle among themselves. The language barrier was making an already stressful situation all the worse for the lowly hordesbeast. They couldn't understand commands or orders, even when the minks commanding them attempted to sign or otherwise indicate their orders. Frequently the lowest of Nicara's ranks were beaten or otherwise humiliated for making mistakes. They were thought to be idiots by the superior officers and even other beasts of equal rank. The varying corsair and mercenary crews seemed to welcome one another to share vittles or the warmth of a fire, but this simple comradeship was not extended to the vermin of the southlands.
Two weasels; Dingear and Bitwort had been simple wharf-weasels prior to Nicara taking them from their village. They knew their way around a fight sure enough, but fighting in a tavern was far different than waging war. They clutched their slings for dear life. Staying close to one another they watched the forest for any sign of trouble.
Dingear wrapped his grubby cloak about his lanky neck. It was worn and thin, hardly any protection against this bitter cold. "What I'd give fer a warm fire an' a nice mug o'grog right about now."
Bitwort blew on his paws trying to keep a bit of life in them. "Stow that gab messmate, won't do you any good anyhow. We're stuck out here all till daybreak, if we're lucky to live that long. Methinks those mad beasts will charge after us again. No warm fire or any amount o'grog would save ye then."
Shuffling around in the snow to keep himself awake, Dingear scoffed at his friend's grim outlook. "I dunno, give me enough grog and I doubts I'd care what those hounds might do t'me."
The two weasels laughed hoarsely, catching the attention of one of the mink officers.
"Shhh..." He hissed pressing a claw to his lips indicating silence. He had given up trying to communicate in any other fashion. The sleek black creature, moved on to the next guard posting, leaving as quietly and as quickly as he had arrived.
"Huh, shh yerself y'great grease bag." Bitwort muttered as the mink departed.
"Bitty, y'can't talk like that." His friend warned. "If 'e 'ears ye ye'll be flogged fer sure."
"That beast don't know what I'm saying not more than I know what 'e's saying. Ain't no fear o'us being beaten for back talking an officer. Not when they can't tell if we is back talking 'em."
Dingear scratched his head thinking over Bitwort's words. "Huh, suppose y'got a point there. Yah, off y'go y'great grease bag." He shouted in the darkness. He nudged Bitwort's shoulder. "See what I did there?" He asked most pleased with himself for following his friend's lead. When the weasel didn't say anything he nudged him again harder this time. "Come on Bitty, quit playing."
But Bitwort wasn't playing. Slumping into the snow the weasel fell down stone dead. Dingear crouched, unsure of what had happened. Protruding from the weasel's neck was a bolt made of wood delicate yet deadly. The poisoned bolt had been fired from a crossbow, the shooter out in the darkness, somewhere. Dingear immediately erupted with panic. Leaving his post he shouted.
"Somebeast is shooting, look out mates! poison darts!"
The other southlanders caught the warning immediately and began looking for cover. For some, the warning took a little time to sink in. More cries came up from the parameter as more sentries fell to the weapon. Suddenly shouts in all manner of tongues could he heard, sending out the warning that indeed somebeast was attacking.
The little poisoned bolts whistled through the winter air. They found two more targets, one of Fredik's minks, and a burly rat mercenary. The rat wore a tunic made of heavy linked chainmail. It did little to protect him from the toxic dipped projectile that caught him through the snout.
In a mad dash of panic some of the lower ranking mink turned tail and fled back towards camp. Dingear was of mind to join them. Without any warning one of the retreating mink tumbled to the snow covered earth dead. No poison bolt snuffed them out. None of the vermin dared move as one of the mink captains strode towards the dead. Without a flinch the officer pulled his arrow from the mink's back, wiped it clean and replaced it in his quiver. Dingear didn't need to understand the language to know the message. Retreat was not an option.
More mink and mercenaries arrived, bringing with them torches and longbows. Several shots were fired into the darkness, no sound of injury or death rewarded the effort. Trying to shelter himself behind a tree, Dingear loaded his sling, anxious to at least look less cowardly. He near jumped out of his skin when one the beagles came upon him. He lifted his loaded sling, aiming to use it as a club, but the hound caught it, preventing the blow.
"You idiot, we're on the same side." He indicated he was wearing one of Fredik's tabards. His ears flopped as he shook his head. Had Dingear been less terrified, he might have thought this quite comical.
"Oh, sorry mate." The weasel apologized, hoping not to evoke the hound's wrath.
Rather than beating or shouting at the weasel for his mistake, the beagle was quite surprised and most relieved that they shared a common tongue. He pounded Dingear heartily on the back with a heavy paw.
"Just try t'watch for next time. 'sides if I was one of Hunter's dogs, you'd be dead." He smirked, the joke only bringing the weasel more fear. "What's all the noise about anyhow? Tracker's sending us around t'have a look see."
Before the weasel had a chance to explain, the hound started sniffing the air. His square muzzle twitched as he deeply inhaled the night air. "Smell that?"
Dingear snorted loudly as he tried to imitate the hound. "Naw, nothing but cold, an' the stench of that blasted whale oil stuff."
The beagle shook his head and continued tracking the scent through the air. "No, out this away, I smell rats. Not searats, forest rats. I can smell pine on them."
Dingear sniffed again. "You must got some snout on ye matey. 'ey don't go that way, they'll get y'for sure." The weasel watched as the beagle moved out deeper into the forest. He followed after him, his curiosity about these strange hounds outweighing his fear of the poisoned bolts. Dingear couldn't help but feel safer with the hound, than with the other guards.
Plodding through the snow, he struggled to keep up. The beagle hot on the scent looked all the world like an excited child. "If you're coming you have to keep up." He whispered back. The white tipped tail wagged as he followed his nose.
Scrambling Dingear hurried along, his loaded sling at his side. Up ahead he caught the sound of a rustling branch, without thinking he let a stone fly. There was a low thud followed by the further rustling of brush as the body of a rat fell into the low-lying shrub. The rat had a bolt fastened to his small crossbow; he was perhaps only a moment from firing on either one of them.
The beagle pulled the body out of the shrubs, getting a good look and smell of him. Dingear watched amazed at how the hound worked. "That's him. That's the one who was shooting by us, must have snuck back her when he saw me coming." He nodded his head to Dingear. "My thanks to you."
Dingear shrugged modestly."T'was nothing matey, you would 'ave done the same for me." The look he got from the beagle, suggested this may not have been the case.
"You killed the rat; he was going to slay me. That means I owe you weasel."
Dingear rather liked the sounds of this. "Yeah, I suppose it do. I'm Dingear, what do they call you?"
The beagle was already on the scent again, his answer in a low whisper. "I'm called Chase."
Chase trailed on ahead, and then suddenly paused. Dingear readied his sling, anticipating another rat. Instead Chase began making the most haunting noise the weasel had ever heard. The low baying howl echoed through the forest. Suddenly it was returned by another series of barks.
"What's that about?" The weasel shuddered.
"The second rat won't be causing us any grief, Tracker got him good." The beagle returned to Dingear's side sighing. "Too bad, would have liked t'have sport with him."
Dingear gulped."Er… Sport?"
Chase nodded. "Yeah, y'know give chase, wear him down a bit. Then finish him off, maybe take out his legs first." He sighed discontent. "Not much sport up here. All of Fredik's enemies are terribly slow. I almost hope some of Tarza's beagles give us chase, what I'd give for a good run."
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Fredik examined the bolts and cross bow, one of Tracker's hounds had brought him. When he had finished with it he tossed it angrily in the fire, letting fly a string of curses. Konnel watched, having been called to council. The mink lord paced around the fire, until he came upon Konnel's position.
"Tell me again of dis plan of yours." He insisted.
The white fox having carefully prepared the idea was only too willing to. "We lay siege to the fortress. Catapults to the walls, batter the doors, and construct a great siege tower that will pout burning oil over Tarza's walls. We pummel her with stones of course, but we must use another weapon. We will insight fear among her creatures, drive them mad. We make her beasts think the rat's slaves have the plague, even that we ourselves are infected. We toss the bodies of dead slaves over her walls. When they see the bloated and discolored corpses they will suspect nothing less. It won't matter that the beasts died of exhaustion or the cold. Nobeast wants to be trapped inside a fortress, much less one with plague. "
The mink scratched his chin. "I like dis." He spoke slowly."Yes, yes I like dis." He gave his mink several commands indicating that they were to follow Konnel's plans. They would lay siege to Tarza.
