6. Far southeast: Making of the Warlord
Thirty one to thirty seasons ago
Zayrha's feelings proved to be correct. As spring turned to summer, Boshan and Ferric argued more and more. Boshan was increasingly critical of Ferric's achievements as a fighter, while Ferric responded with barbs about Boshan's plans and ideas, never crossing the line of a direct challenge for leadership, but regularly making use of the fact that Boshan was reluctant to try setting him straight by naked force now.
"Do you want Ferric to slay you? Do you really wish for that?" Zayrha asked Boshan one evening, when they found a moment of privacy for themselves, leaving younger creatures and Dusttail at their campfire, cleaning bones of the woodpidgeon, whom Ferric downed today. "He's the Taggerung. The beast born to conquer and crush his foes underpaw. And you're treating him as if he's going to remain a milksop forever."
"By earth and sky!" Boshan sat and looked at Zayrha angrily. "Can you go one day without talking my ears off about Ferric this, and Taggerung that? I understand everythin', all right? But he's not ready! All Taggerungs of the past were warriors among warriors, but Ferric is not yet there. As a hunter or tracker, maybe, but as a fighter? He's not surpassed me yet, and know that I'm no great slayer. So, stop pestering me, Zayrha! Have you missed that I too, am no longer a milksop?"
"When he surpasses you, it will be too late," Zayrha thought. She wanted to cry, maybe tears could have moved Boshan even in his current mood, but her treacherous eyes remained dry.
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In the early days of summer, Boshan led their small group of outcasts westward, across the mountains bordering the great sandy plateau. He and Ferric often scouted ahead of the rest, and so they were together on a hot day, when Ferric spotted some barely visible tracks, and when, by following these, they found a couple of weasels, who sought refuge from midday heat in the shadow of a huge rock. The weasels were not Juska, but from one of the plateau tribes – instead of facepaint they marked themselves by piercing their ears with small bones, they happily wore nothing but their own fur in this weather, and their scanty tools and weapons were cruder than those of Juska tribesbeasts – spears with barbed heads of sharpened bone and small bags for the rest of their belongings, made of material suspiciously resembling beast hide. But more importantly, they were drowsing, blissfully unaware of danger.
Boshan examined the desert weasels carefully from a safe distance downwind. They did not seem to have much to take, though he could clearly smell roasted meat – they must have killed a bird or a small snake today, and saved a part of the kill for the evening. In seasons before, he might have preferred to give them a wide berth, but recently he felt emboldened. And desert tribes were traditional enemies of Juska, after all. With a few silent paw signs, he explained his murderous intent to Ferric, and the younger stoat nodded. The two crawled on their bellies like slithering snakes, until getting to a dozen steps from the weasels. One of their intended victims woke up at the last moment, and grabbed for her spear, but it was too late – Boshan's spear was already about to fly from his paw, and it transfixed her straight through the midriff a moment later, just as the Ferric nailed the second weasel, her mate. The male died before waking up, and Boshan was upon the female in a couple of leaps, finishing her off with a couple of sword chops, while she was in shock. Everything took just a few seconds.
Boshan pulled his spear out, wiped sweat from his brow – the day was hot, after all – and looked around, surveying the weasels' meager belongings and looking for meat. He found it in a moment, on a rock, poorly covered from insects by a ragged cloak, and immediately regretted his find. The pair of relatively freshly roasted haunches obviously belonged to a rat, or at least a similar rodent. Juska were not completely above eating creatures who could talk, but not if such creatures also were covered in fur. Even flesh of preybeasts was considered taboo among Juskalin, never mind that of their fellow species. Boshan felt a slight nausea.
"Uncle Boshan?" Boshan heard the words, spoken in an unusually polite tone, and turned to see what Ferric youngster wanted. Then there was a heavy impact, and Boshan staggered several steps back, looking in dumb puzzlement at the shaft of one of the weasels' spears protruding from his chest. Then his own blood filled his throat, and all strength suddenly disappeared from his limbs. He tried to make a step, or raise his own weapon, but his footpaws went from underneath him and he collapsed.
Ferric lowered his right paw that already held another spear, the one that he normally wielded, ready for a throw.
"You… you fool!" Boshan gurgled, using the last of his strength. "My sons… they'll kill you for this!"
Ferric sighed, before speaking. "Ogon and Agutai will mourn your death at the paws of desert weasels, and swear revenge on them. So will I. Then Ogon will become my strong right paw and Agutai my faithful left paw. Rest easy in the Dark Forest, for I will give them the life of victory and riches you never could."
He stopped talking, upon seeing that Boshan's eyes were already clouding.
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There was much quiet mourning in the small camp this evening. Boshan's children were still unfamiliar with death of relatives and friends, and all of them loved their father. Even Ogon, who never cried from pain or hurt since he learned how to walk, could not hold back tears. None of them doubted Ferric's story, not after he carried Boshan's body almost until meeting the rest, who were following their trail, pretending silent grief and desperate hope that his foster father is not yet dead. There was no time for sentiments until the sun sank below the horizon. They had to bury Boshan, by quickly digging a pit in a sandy spot and placing a simple stone for a marker – Juska usually burned bodies of those who fell valiantly in battle, but there was not enough firewood around to collect and no time – and quickly leave the area, for more cannibalistic desert weasels could be lurking nearby. But now, as darkness deepened around their tiny bonfire, well-hidden amidst steep cliffs, Ferric could hear that everybeast in his family was sobbing and sniffing.
Everybeast, except Zayrha. It was her reaction that Ferric feared. He knew that his mother was wise and not easy to fool. From the moment of seeing Boshan's dead body and throughout the day she was too busy doing what needed to be done. But now, instead of consoling her younger children, or weeping with them, she went far away from the bonfire, sitting on a lonely high rock, without even a cloak to cover herself – and nights in the mountains were cold even in this summer season.
Ferric decided to confront his fear head-on. He picked the cloak of a dead rat soldier which Zayrha now owned, and went to her. The sky was cloudless tonight and the air very clear, with countless stars glittering in the sky, and the soft gleam of the Milky Way distinctly visible. All Juska knew that fate of beasts was written in the stars, and though Ferric could not read it, he thought the eternal sky revealed all of its beauty today as a silent sign of approval.
This much light also allowed Ferric, who had excellent night vision, to easily navigate the tangle of rocks. Zayrha did not look at him as he approached, and kept looking into the distance with dry eyes.
"You'll freeze, Mom," Ferric put the cloak around her shoulders.
She did not recoil from his touch, but as he straightened, she spoke, calmly and so quietly that nobeast except Ferric could possibly hear. "I always could tell when you were lying to me, Ferric, I always could smell it, hear it in your voice. So now tell me the truth. Were you the one who killed Boshan?"
Ferric answered without a slightest hesitation. "Yes, I was the one who killed him. By not being fast enough, I've killed him! By not giving a good warning, I've killed him! By not being worthy of my title, I've killed him! If only I trained harder, if only I was swift and mighty like the Taggerung should be, Boshan, the only beast I've ever called "father", would have lived!"
Shame and grief resonating in Ferric's words were quite real, for Ferric himself believed most of what he was saying. If only he was strong enough, if only he had enough presence to make Boshan acknowledge his authority! And perhaps that's why Zayrha believed him.
"Sorry," she whispered, as her body started slowly rocking back and forth. "Sorry. Sorry. I had to ask. It burned me inside. I'm sorry, Ferric, I'm sorry for ever suspecting you!"
Ferric sat next to his mother and embraced her gently, as her body was wracked by silent sobs. After some time, he spoke: "I'm the stoat who should be sorry. I've failed today. But I will not fail again. I, Ferric Lin Taggerung, swear by the eternal sky and all the numberless stars, that there will be no more losses and grief, and evil fate for you. I'll protect us all and raise us above all creatures, even if I'll have to fight the whole world for that!"
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Snaggletooth the rat had no idea where to go. Not that he was confused about lay of the land, no. Rather, he was confused about the future, and about whether he had any. Snaggletooth was a common soldier under a small-time warlord – in truth, he spent most of his life tilling the earth, together with his family, but, of course, no proper free beast could admit to being a dirt-digging farmer, an occupation suitable only for slaves and prey creatures, and Snaggletooth was obliged to come and fight whenever the warlord called upon likes of him for serious fighting, therefore he was called a soldier.
That is, until two days ago, when beasts carrying blue cloaks with signs of the claws came in the night, burned everything and killed everybeast they could find, because Snaggletooth's warlord allied himself with old Baur, or maybe against old Baur, Snaggletooth could not remember that too well. He was not sure if such details mattered. A beast left without a warlord had to be a real mighty slayer if he was to be welcomed into the fort of any other warlord as anything but a slave. Snaggletooth was big and strong, but somehow he doubted his ability to reach that mark. So now, when he was reasonably sure that nobeast was chasing survivors like him anymore, he sat on a rock in the warm sun, with no idea where to go next, or, in fact, where to find food for his grumbling stomach.
Snaggletoogh sighed and sniffled and looked around, as if hoping to see some answer appearing out of nowhere. And then, to his surprise, he found a stoat sitting on the grass in less than three steps from him. A sharper beast would have panicked, but Snaggletooth just stared dumbly – the stoat was obviously young, of average height, with reddish fur, bright, piercing eyes and whiskers that just started forming a moustache. Clean-cut features of his face were marked with paint – orange stripes from nose to ears and blue signs on his cheeks. Most importantly, he held a short spear in his right paw, and on his broad belt, adorned with silver medallions, he carried a real long sword in a fancy scabbard. Before Snaggletooth could formulate a proper reaction to this strange creature – which to be fair, was going to take him quite some time – the stoat smiled, showing gleaming white teeth, and spoke:
"Hey, friend. You look gloomy like a raincloud. Mind telling me what misfortune befell you?"
Snaggletooth was slow, but not entirely devoid of logic. He reasoned, that telling his story could not hurt. And though Snaggletooth had a spear of his own, trying to use it on a beast, who had weapons worthy of a house warrior could hurt a lot. So, he talked.
"…and I, um, ain't got no idea where to go now," he finished gloomily a few minutes later.
"I do have an idea, though," the stoat answered. "Go with me, for I am Ferric Lin of Juskalin, and I can find a place among us for a big, tough beast like yourself. A bit of paint and some experience would make a nice Juska out of you!"
Snaggletooth could barely contain an enthusiastic grin at the mere thought of no longer needing to think for himself.