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Chapter 8. When the Battle's Lost and Won
by Dànaidh a'Sginnearach
"Ye hate me, dinnae you?"
Dànaidh a'Sginnearach sneered as he slapped a yellow-stained wood disc atop a green-stained disc at the center of the table, gnawing at the stump of blackroot protruding from the corner of his jaw. The hedgehog raised his gaze slowly, eyeing his opponent across from him. "Well, do ye now, ya chookter?"
The able-bodied shrew sat with arms folded, frowning at the makeshift game board they had fashioned with chalk on the tabletop. The meandering edges and smudges betrayed their inebriated artistic efforts. The shrew tapped at his chin as he groaned his frustration, the hedgehog mocking an expression of amazement. The shrew flicked his gaze to the hedgehog and back to the board quickly.
"What're you doin'?" he asked, his bass voice reinforced with a small burp.
"Baskin' in th' glory o' a stoatin' mind," the hedgehog sighed, resting his face in his cupped paws as he batted his eyelashes. "Och, what great intellect! The keen…tactical…tacticalness…"
"Dànaidh!" the shrew interrupted. "Yer drunk an' I hate you somethin' terrible!" He threw his paws wide and sank back into his chair. "Bask, ya devil! Bask!"
"Glow!" Dànaidh giggled as he removed a green wooden block from the edge of the board and threw it over his head. He rose to his footpaws amid light applause from the creatures sitting at nearby tables, raising his tankard high and pulling the blackroot from his mouth. "A toast, lads! To Trip the shrew!" He bowed slightly to his opponent, who raised his own tankard and eyebrow simultaneously. "A good sport 'n' sonsie basker! May ye all beat 'im as soundly as I have!"
"You rogue!" Trip grinned from ear to ear as cheers and shoulder pats surrounded him. He nodded to the well-wishers and drank a mighty swallow from his tankard. "Yer a good mate, Dànaidh. I'd toast you m'self, iffen it didn't mean I'd join you in Hellgates!"
"Aye," Dànaidh said, collapsing into his chair like thunder. "'n' I might enjoy it: change of scenery, a sight better climate, na stodgy pew-hoppers crowdin' ye…but I don't take to fancyin' Asmodeus biting after me arse." He smiled and winked as Trip erupted in cough-laden laughter. "Anither round, Trip, t'take those coughs awa'!"
"I need t'stop losin'," Trip grumbled, fumbling for his money clasp at the small of his back. "Yer always thirsty."
Dànaidh shook his head, replacing the blackroot to the corner of his lips and snapping once towards the bar. "Trip me lad, when you've gone sae deep in th' muck na breathin' beast 'as e'en heard o' ale, grog or mead, yer throat gits a bit dry. Nae much muddy water kin do." He smiled as a mousemaid approached the table. "B'sides, I'm nae fightin' tonight! I've got a' least thee days o' sleep I'm needin' t' fall on." He coughed three short, hollow coughs and inhaled slowly.
Trip nodded. "You look better, Dànaidh. More stout. And you've been practicin' with your reader—I can tell." Dànaidh returned the nod as Trip turned to the mousemaid. "Yes, another round of drinks for my awful friend, and score up a cup of Beet Brew, please?" He handed the mousemaid two pieces of Silver.
The mousemaid gawked at the generous amount Trip left in her paw. "Yessir, but…I don't have any beets to—"
Trip pulled up a bulging haversack from below his chair. "You can keep one o'those coins for y'self if you hurry," he said, handing her the sack. "Oh, and bring me back the rest of th'beets."
The mousemaid beamed and curtsied. "Yessir!" As she disappeared, Trip sniffed and grimaced, waving in front of his face with a paw and burying his snout in the collar of his shirt.
"Burn my bridges! Dànaidh, was that you?" He turned to the hedgehog with watering eyes.
Dànaidh halted in mid-grasp, looking up at Trip with his paw surrounding Trip's tankard. "Was what me?" He closed his eyes and pressed at them with his free paw. "Cor, Trip, don't make me think tae hard, mm?"
"The scent, you buffoon!"
Dànaidh stole the tankard and sat upright, sniffing. "I dinnae smell it, so it weren't me." He sniffed again, turning, and gestured toward an unconscious rat sprawled across a table and chair, snoring through a gaping, slobbery maw. An occasional bubble floated up from the rat's jaws and popped above his head with a following snore. "I think it's him."
Trip snickered and shook his head. "Sorry, Dànaidh…I thought you'd—"
Dànaidh leaned in close to the rat's posterior and sniffed, turning his head and raising an eyebrow. "Hmm." He returned to his original position and nodded to Trip. "Yep, 'twas him, poor bastard. He's planted quite a caller fer himself, 'n' he'll nae enjoy wakin' up that ripe." He swallowed the remaining contents of Trip's tankard and exhaled in satisfaction. "But na apologies necessary, Trippy. You'll git to know mah scents better ower time." He closed an eye and bit a lip; a hollow, tinny sound shot up from Dànaidh's chair. "Now that was me."
"You're rotten!" Trip exploded, leaning forward with both paws on the table. Dànaidh followed, leaning in until their snouts scrunched together. They stood staring and silent until Dànaidh twitched slightly, a quiet snort escaping his nose. Trip bit his lip to keep the smile from growing around the edge of his mouth. Suddenly the two were falling back into their chairs, clutching their stomachs as they shook with terrific laughter. Dànaidh leaned back until he upset his chair, his legs splaying like weeds in the wind. Trip and Dànaidh continued to laugh as the hog stumbled to his footpaws, struggling to right his chair. He leaned over to the table occupied by the comatose rat, grabbed his tankard, sniffed the contents and knocked them back down his throat.
"Easy there, Dànaidh," Trip warned, wagging a meandering claw. "I can—can't carry you home."
Dànaidh nodded and pursed his lips in seriousness, turning back to the rat's table. He sat the empty glass down and patted the rat's snoring head. "Corinth bless ya f'th' drink, lad." He wheeled, almost fell again, and caught the back of his chair to straighten himself. "Bah, I'm as stout as a tree trunk! You worry about yersel', wee 'un."
"Wee one?" Trip narrowed his eyes. "I could take you, Dànaidh. Three Gold to flesh says you'd remember what I gave you tomorrow!"
Dànaidh descended very slowly in his chair, lifting his head to face Trip with effort. "A few bruises? Aye. Mebbe e'en a loose tooth or two. But ye cannae hurt me, Trip. You love me awfy much."
The Haze came. He couldn't control it; he could have, if he had kept his drinking in check. It dulled his senses and calmed him down…at least that's what he told himself. In reality—and he knew this deep down, back where he watched them bury his dead opponents as the cash collected in his open paw—it brought him closer to The Edge. He didn't realize it until he was already there, dancing on The Edge and feeling the push of the wind daring him to fall over, to careen and leap into dead air, to pitch and collapse completely into the murky depths of The Haze, which gave him The Spectacle. Normal Time was his at peace. He saw what others saw. He knew his limits; he had never been one for subtleties, unspoken communication, flights of fancy or other social games, and that made him an outcast for ladies and gentlebeasts. Cufflinks and collars, evening gowns and perfume, air on strings and polite laughter all made him confused. What was the allure? He was a simple hog with simple tastes. Warm food, plenty of strong drink, sometimes a someone to hold him in the dark, and time…time to do whatever, or time to do absolutely nothing. It was his time, and he cherished it more than any winnings purse could bring. But he couldn't be peaceful. It wasn't his way. They trained him well, if he could think of it as training. It was forced on him. Sharpened sticks and wrapped chains, dirty water and filthy rags, muddy pits and claws and teeth…always teeth…and the sharp, metal scent of blood. These were their tools, and they wielded them without mercy. He remembered the first one: a young rat that had just outgrown his birth fuzz. The fight was quicker than he anticipated, and he huddled, shivering, in the corner when it was done. They came and drug him over and forced him to stand over the broken body, squeezed his cheeks hard and told him to look. This is death, and it makes you strong. Then they laughed and beat him and locked him up for a long time. He didn't try to keep track of the days. He could feel himself growing older, and was aware of the heat of sun and the cool of darkness. They told him of The Edge, made him feel it and map it out. He knew its shape, knew where the edges were and the depths of its shallows and trenches. They told him to befriend The Edge—it would make him stronger. They forced him to it early and told him beneath its surface lay The Haze, and that's what they wanted more than anything. Get him to The Haze and he'll kill anything that moves. He dove through The Edge and nearly drowned in The Haze, and it cost him untold hours (or days?) on a small cot, gagging on a wet cloth to keep from biting out his own tongue. They eased him back and told him to be careful or they'd break his bones again. He cleared his thoughts and tried to picture The Edge, but it came on him so fast he nearly passed it again. The first score of fights went by in a blur; he allowed himself to sprint past The Edge and welcomed The Haze with a snarl. He'd come around later and have to ask another fighter about his match. They would laugh and shake their heads. It was during a practice match that he learned how to breach The Edge and keep himself alive in The Haze, and that's when he started killing more than ever before. The Haze gave him The Spectacle. The Spectacle showed him an altered mirror of the real world. Colors, shapes and places all remained normal, but his view of beasts changed. Wherever he looked, he would see potential wounds grow on them—a torn eye socket, a gash on the jaw exposing teeth and gums, a severed artery, a protruding and bloodied collarbone, massive splotches of brown and green bruises bursting from internal hemorrhages. As his focus on them moved, so too would the potential wounds he could inflict on them. He knew how to accomplish each injury with precision, so in a sadistic manner, The Spectacle gave him a horribly accurate smorgasbord that he could choose from. Seeing through The Spectacle was ghastly, but it ended many deadly fights and left him with few life-threatening injuries himself.
So now he was drunk, and he'd passed The Edge when he left sobriety behind, and the wobbly Haze he inhabited forced him to see through The Spectacle. Trip's familiar grin was replaced with a bloody, toothless smile. A jagged hole appeared at his throat. He scratched at the back of his head, and his ear disappeared, along with a good swatch of fur and skin from his skull. Dànaidh closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, trying to calm down, calling for his right mind—his tide—to come back and wash The Haze away. He'd summoned his own tide before…all he needed was time…
"—eh Dànaidh?"
Dànaidh opened his eyes slowly. The Spectacle was still there. He sighed.
"What'd you say, ye old borgus frat?"
Trip leaned in across the table, winking. "I said you're easy to love when you're not around!" Trip clapped a paw over his mouth as the two fell back into another round of drunken laughter, tears falling down their cheeks as they thumped the table.
Their revelry ended with a harsh bark.
"Hey, Norther! Keep ya liquor quiet an' shaddup, eh?" A mean looking hare snickered from his spot against the bar, his head wrapped in a strange hood. Two black, glossy large orbs protruded from where his eyes should have been.
"What's this, now?" Dànaidh said, rising slowly and straightening his posture. "A crabby rabbit?"
"Ooh!" The hare mocked a blow to the heart, a cruel smile twisting across his scarred face as he nodded to the weasel, squirrel and otter drinking with him. "That's below the skirt, chum. Poor eyesight, obviously."
"Obviously," Dànaidh nodded, stepping forward. He carefully tucked the stub of blackroot into a pocket. "But then me ma ne'er let me play wi' a goofy-lookin' numty."
"She dressed you in a skirt, though, right?" The hare took a swallow of his orange drink.
Another step. "Aye. Only when th' wimpy wee jimmies needed a beatin'. It made 'em feel comfortable."
"I'll bet you make a fair princess."
"When th' lights are on, laddie, I'm a sight tae see. But you'll nae forget me in th' bedsheets."
"C'mon, you tell that to all the boys."
Dànaidh stopped mere inches from the hare, inhaling a strong scent of rot. "Bless yer heart," he said. He slapped the hare across his left cheek, then back-crossed the right; the strikes cracked like whip snaps. A thin line of blood trickled down the hare's lip as he flushed in embarrassment and rage. He slammed his drink down on the bar and reached for the dagger sheathed below the waist of his pants. Dànaidh grabbed the hare's forearm and thrust to the right, never breaking eye contact. The hare's arm broke at the shoulder and fell loose in Dànaidh's paws. The hare bawled and collapsed to the floor, his shriek bringing his drinkmates to life. The clink of drawn weapons blended with assorted cursing and roars.
This is a public place…
"Skew the son of a bitch!" The squirrel charged with a stained dirk, his eyes wild. Dànaidh backed up two steps.
Don't kill them! This isn't a match!
"Whoreson!" The squirrel slashed in a wide arc. Dànaidh caught his wrist and broke it back against his arm with a squeal. He let the squirrel drop to his knees as the weasel and otter dove into him, crashing through several tables and chairs and spilling assorted food and drink across the tavern. He shifted his weight and rolled the weasel over his head in an awkward cartwheel, but the otter pinned him to the ground, bludgeoning his face and head with his balled paws. He heard other shouts from above and the sounds of another fight breaking out; he had to get this otter off of him. A well-aimed shot connected with the bridge of his snout and Dànaidh's head ricocheted off the hard floor. He saw pale yellow for several seconds and fought to stay awake, churning up the murky waters of The Haze and allowing its greasy fog to darken.
"Get off him!" someone barked. The otter continued his attack, snarling and biting at Dànaidh's defending paws. Two strong beasts tackled the otter and held him fast to the ground as another hoisted Dànaidh to his feet and pulled his arms behind him, attempting to bind his paws. Dànaidh snorted and broke through the blindness of pain, suddenly aware of a dozen Long Patrol officers breaking up the fights. Another voice cried out, "Watch out, mates! This…hare…looks like he's got mange." A stout male with chinfur stared directly at Dànaidh, pointing at him.
"Stand down, sir! This is for your protection!"
Dànaidh reared back and connected the back of his skull with the face of the officer attempting to restrain him. The officer yelped and released his hold on Dànaidh; the hog charged the hare in front of him and ducked under his desperate but poorly aimed punch. Dànaidh drove his paw against the hare's knee and knocked it soundly out of place. He grabbed the hare by the front of his red uniform as he fell screaming and reared back a paw, ready to demolish his nose. A blow to the side of his head from a billy club sent him to the ground without a sound. Several of the LP officers gathered around him, clubs drawn. The hare who struck him nodded to the others as he stuck his own stick through its hold on his belt and wiped at his bleeding snout and crushed lips.
"Lay in to him, fellas. There's a penalty for striking a Lieutenant."
Dànaidh came to in an awkward standing position. His head throbbed in a million different shades of purple hate and torrential pain that massaged every inch of his brain and threatened to poke out his right eye. He exhaled hard and sucked down his saliva—he was so thirsty! His arms refused to move; he lifted his eyes and saw his wrists were chained through a series of hoops that held several other beasts in similar restraints. He recognized the squirrel, weasel and otter, but there were rats, stoats, ferrets and mice chained as well. Light from a suspended lamp shot a fresh sting through his eye and he shut them quickly, desperate to end the nagging hurt. He twitched and coughed twice, feeling the familiar weight on his lungs. Damn those coughs!
"What else? Tell me, filth ears!"
Dànaidh opened his eyes again. Several red-jacketed Long Patrol officers stood around the mange-riddled hare tied to a rickety chair directly under the lamp, their sleeves rolled up and their paws bruised and bloodied. The hare bled from multiple lacerations and gashes, his face a torrent of sweat and blood. He moaned and whined and shook with every breath, fear wiping every trace of smug superiority from his face. One of the officers—the one with a green, black, yellow and blue roundel just above his armband—hovered over the hare and gestured to the officer directly to his left; that officer pinched and twisted one of the hare's ears, and as he grimaced and yelped, the central officer reared back and slugged him savagely. The chair collapsed under the blow and two of the officers stooped down and righted it as the slugger shook the pain and assorted liquids from his paw.
"Leave 'im alone—he's just a bully." Dànaidh surprised himself by speaking up.
The central officer's head whipped around. "What was that, sah?" he asked. His voice betrayed his own surprise at Dànaidh's outburst.
"Na tae kill 'im just fer you're pent up 'n' don't have a'beast tae rammy." He smirked at that one; it felt good to verbally punch the self-righteous.
"I see." The central officer jerked his head to his subordinates; they untied the beaten hare and drug him over to the far corner, slapping his wrists through manacles and pulling them taught against the main chain of the wall. "And who, may I bally well ask, do I have the pleasure of addressing, wot?"
"Dànaidh a'Sginnearach, o' th' burgh Cwet Bair." Dànaidh pulled on his chains, giving him enough leeway to imitate a bow. "'n' ye, good mammal?"
The hare straightened his collar and nodded formally. "Captain Ferguson Q. Parsenwaller, Squadron Leader of Queen Group, Long Patrol, sah." He gestured to two of the younger hares. "Please bring our jolly narrator over here."
As the two hares unlocked Dànaidh's chains, the door to the room opened and Skipper of Otters entered, followed by Abbess Dittany. All of the LP officers stood at attention, dropped to a knee and extended a paw toward the abbess. "Your grace," they greeted in unison.
"Please, rise," Dittany said, smiling at the handsome and supple group before her. "I'd heard your squadron arrived, but I didn't receive your greetin', Captain."
"Apologies, Grace," Parsenwaller said, accepting her hand and kissing it lightly. "We've come off twelve-hour patrol, and what with the traveling and all, I gave the boys permission to enjoy the festivities, don'tcha know? I'm afraid this rabble"—he gestured around the room—"caused a bit of a blimey ruckus before I could extend formal pleasantries."
"I see," Dittany said, staring at the wretched lot. Her gaze stopped at Dànaidh, who walked between the two officers towards Parsenwaller. He nodded politely to her, and she smiled. "Mister Hedgehog, what are you doin' in here?"
"I'm sorry t'say this one started the fight," Parsenwaller said, frowning. "Don't let his charm fool you; he broke quite a few bones this afternoon, including a sergeant's knee and lieutenant's nose, wot."
"You attacked Long Patrol officers?" Dittany asked.
Dànaidh shrugged. "They was breakin' up a legitimate expression o' conflictin' ideas, ma'am."
"Oh, stuff me grandmarm," Parsenwaller scoffed.
Dittany frowned at him and turned back to Dànaidh. "Still, that's no reason t' attack officers o' th' peace. You're too young t' get mixed up with vermin."
She raised her paw towards his face. His irises shrank.
She's going to touch me!—don't touch me DON'T touch me I don't know you I don't know where your paws've been or what you do you're a stranger Why can't you leave me alone this is None of your business crazy Beasts touch others without Permission I didn't tell you You could I didn't touch you don't do it Don't Do It DON'T DO IT
She touched his cheek gently. "Just cooperate and everythin' will turn out fine, dear."
He blinked twice, rapidly. The Edge. The Haze. The Spectacle.
Parsenwaller saw the change, but too late.
"Don't touch me," Dànaidh mumbled.
His paws moved like smoke on the air, clapping both of the hares flanking him on their arms, driving them behind him in pain to the floor. He pulled back his right arm and bent at his right knee as Dittany said "Wha—?" He released the force of energy in the form of a flat-pawed shove that socked the abbess in her sternum, knocking the wind from her lungs as she flew back against the far wall and crashed against it, collapsing in a heap.
The next moment was a blur: Parsenwaller barking profanity-laced commands; nearby officers leaping onto Dànaidh, punching and kicking at him until he collapsed under their barrage; chained vermin hooting and hollering their support to Dànaidh; Skipper running over to Dittany's side, helping the abbess to her feet, growling at Dànaidh. She stood up shakily, her face pale and sickly and overrun with fury, a small stain of vomit spattered on her habit.
"Captain," she whispered, her eyes dark, "I think this creature needs some discipline in his manners."
"Indeed, wot," Parsenwaller said, nodding to Skipper as the otter led her to the door and helped her exit. Parsenwaller closed the door quietly and turned the lock, pulling his billy club free in one tug. "We'll see what he's made of, won't we, lads?"
"Aye," came the angry chorus. Popped knuckles and clubs slapping paws echoed in the room. Two hares hoisted Dànaidh to his knees, restraining his legs with their footpaws and holding his arms tight. He felt his chin rise by of the clubs lifting it, and found himself staring directly into the fiery eyes of Parsenwaller.
"Ah, shite," Dànaidh said.
