Prologue: The Last Leaves of Fall

Book 1: Distant Storms


The morning sun was just peeking out from the orange and red trees, as the rays of blinding light illuminated the meager and simple camp of a single vermin creature who struggled to awake itself. A single unburnt campfire disposed of during the night now barely had the strength to blow out a puff of smoke. The dry air and rustling of the leaves barely bothered the weathered creature who slept in a white cloth tent. By the time the sun's warmth was spreading life into the tent, a brown rat stirred with some life.

Most referred to him as Markem, although the surname of Brownnose escaped most who knew him. Markem was, and is, a simple lackey without a warlord to swear to, even though he had known many. Most were dead now, or worse, and for all those seasons of loyalty he had earned a decent hare-made sword, some chainmail, and a tent. This was all he had to his name, not that many cared to hear it. Markem awoke and began his usual rituals; cleaning some of the dirt off his armor to prevent rust, rummaging his knapsack for the few vittles he had, being disappointed at his food situation, and then to pack up his camp and head north-east of Mossflower. He heard that another band of vermin had gathered around a warlord named Pelg. Markem knew very little of the warlord, nor did he really care much, he just knew that a new band meant new vittles and maybe some loot for himself. This idea made him frown as he ached his way up the hills and through the forests of Mossflower, the fall leaves crunching beneath his armored feet as he strode.

Markem was perhaps not the normal vermin soldier, a expandable lackey who died at the end of a Long Patrol's spear or underneath the hammer of a badger, he was a skilled warrior in himself. Perhaps not a perfect warrior considering all of his misadventures. Markem thought back on those days and events with limited regrets. He worked for a band of thieves when he was younger, got abandoned, and was picked up by some northern band who brought him into the service of a fox warchief in the far and hilly north. It was there he learned much of his trade, even making his way up to bodyguard, maybe even captain, up until he died to some stupid civil dispute with some wayward brother he heard nothing about. When the purges of command happened at that warband, he fled at the first signs, and thank goodness too. Last he heard, the warband charged headlong into a Long Patrol fort in northern mossflower, and each member was slain.

He wandered, much like he always did, selling his services to one warlord and tribal chieftain after the other. It felt like a sick joke the way things happened. The warlord gave him food, weapons, and responsibilities. Warlords die by the hand of their own incompetence or by a fellow vermin. The warband falls straight off a cliff into the grave that they dug themselves. Yet here Markem was, wandering again and again. He was even tempted to join that bigger warband led by Kasg. Kasg the Craven they called him, a great warlord from the far north. He led a massive horde of vermin and nearly overtook Mossflower itself. That great black rat hammered his way nearly into Salamandastron, throwing his empire of like minded warlords and chieftains into the fray.

They failed.

He knew little of what happened, and he frankly didn't wish to know. He heard stories from injured soldiers who fled southward of the tales of Kasg the Craven. He heard of the great host mustering for a great war with Mossflower, and fell at the hands of the hares and their allies. Another defeat in a long history of defeats, a pointless war whose only conclusion was slaughter and swift justice onto its enablers. Markem felt lucky he had not been conscripted into that cursed army. He had been resting from a previous bad employment in the far southern end of Mossflower. Once he had been healed of those scars, he had journeyed to see if Kasg was even still alive, he was eager for new employment, only to find disappointed vermin soldiers limping away from the campaign, back to their homes.

Markem continued to wander onward through the forests and thickets of fall. If he had been smart like others, he would have been more worried about his dwindling food situation. Winter was going to be on Mossflower soon, and there would be no food for himself. He trudged ever onward until he began to crest a hill.


Markem was about to climb a hill, not necessarily to get to where he needed to go faster, but more to see where he was. He wasn't blind to eastern Mossflower, it was where he grew up. These hills were both familiar and foreign to him, he knew vaguely of their existence when he was younger, but never actually climbed them till now. As he climbed the hill and looked over its edge into the forests of the east, he heard the crunch of leaves behind him. He swiftly drew his sword from his scabbard in response.

"Hol-Hold up! I mea'n ya no harm!" A ferret's voice echoed from behind a tree. A long and snakey ferret of a dirtied coat and badly fitting clothes came out from behind a tree. Markem scoffed at this.

"If ya mean't no harm, why the sneaking then?"

"I didn't mean to give ya a fright, friend. I am just curious why a armored beast such as ya, are wanderin in my territory."

"None of your business." Markem said in an annoyed tone. He knew this trick all too well, fell for it once or twice. Pretending to be a fool wanting to be friends, not revealing the dagger behind their backs. At least the ferret held out his paws to reveal no ill will, but his twitching smile did not give Markem confidence.

"Maybe, but ya still are walking all over my territory, and-" He paused as his smile grew a bit wider "Me brothers."

Those words personally terrified Markem. One foolish bandit was bad enough, several was worse. Markem looked around, wondering if there was some sniper looking down from some distance, or some silent rustling being the movement of well armed vagabonds. He heard none, but he knew better than to put his guard down.

"No reason to get tense." The ferret said, giving a sarcastic shrug, "If me brothers were here, and not in the camp below us, then i'd not be very friendly right about now."

Markem gave a curious look at him, and slightly lowered his blade, but not enough to lower his guard. The ferret slinked to the side, trying to get more comfortable. "Ya see, I saw ya coming over an' I be thinking to myself 'Hey Sloakom, maybe this rat woul'da want to help out poor old Sloakom an' his brothers get some free vittles' "

Free vittles? Markem thought. Well, he needed vittles, but how did this ferret know.

"What if I don't need vittles?" Markem pried. The ferret gave that weird twitchy smile again. He answered "Don't we all need some vittles, food and other good stuff? Vittles be worth more then gold and gems in some parts of the world ya know."

"Hmmmm, I suppose that is true. Why do you think I'll help you?"

"Why not?"

Markem had to think that one over for a moment, and even then he didn't really have an answer. If the ferret had ill intentions of ambushing him, he'd have done it by now. Markem lowered his blade fully and glared at the grinning ferret. "Alright. I'm listening."

"Come down to our litt'el camp, an' I explain it better, with warmth and vittles."

Markem pondered for a moment. Am I desperate enough to trust this bandit? I may be low on food now, but who knows what I may come across later. However, what exactly was there to lose.

Markem followed the ferret down the hill, sheathing his sword but never letting his paw wander too far from it.
_

Sloakom looked like a creature of the hills, dirty and wild. It was obvious to Markem as he looked upon his camp that the jolly group of bandits had been poaching the hill for some time. The fish bones, scraps of bird, and dried out campfire which centered a small clearing of trash and lopsided gear made them rather typical of far off folk. Sloakom may had been foul to look upon, but his brothers fared far worse. Some had missing fangs, others were scraggly and ill looking. The younger of the bunch was barely the age of a child, and Markem could not tell if Sloakom's 'brothers' were even his true brothers. Of the ferrets, only Sloakom had a lighter black fur, with a deep slick of white down his back. His brothers were a mismatch of various colors, some were a darker brown.

Markem relaxed when he entered the camp. Even if the vermin had jumped at him all at once, none of them looked to have the strength to actually challenge him. There were seven of them total, with Sloakom being their obvious leader. As Markem sat upon a log bench, Sloakom slinked into some well hidden hole near the campsite and came out with a cup. He offered it to Markem, in which the rat politely refused.

"Still do not trust poor old Sloakom, eh?"

"I mean nothing by it, I just know better." Markem replied. "You said you had free vittles ya needed help stealin?"

The other ferrets around Sloakom nodded, and one with a large straw hat spoke up "Aye! There be a farm on the other side of a stream from here. Big ol' farmhouse, far from villages and long patro-"

"But guarded." Sloakom replied quickly. "We got beaten by some dumb otter who didn't like us stay'in near there. Gave us a good wackin." Sloakom pulled down part of his worn shit, revealing a nasty gash on his shoulder. Markem only nodded.

"I see, and you need someone like me to help ya."

"Aye! It be a farmhouse, lot'sa loot. Lot'sa fun."

Markem pulled up his eyebrow at the statement. "Fun? I'm here for vittles, not pranks."

One of the younger ferrets grinned "Aye, we are serious about takin some loot, but we also wanna get back at that dumb water dog for chasin us away from our camp!"

Markem had to think for a moment or two on this. On one hand, raiding a farm sounds easy enough, even if the damn creature is armed. On the other hand. Joining with some hooligans to let off their steam on some farmers is dangerous. They may just get me killed or worse if they aren't careful, roping me in to get the best loot while I take the majority of the blows. Typical.

"I'll help ya. For vittles, and nothing more."

"Agreed." Smiled Sloakom. "We will head out next morning, for now, we need to rest an' prepare."
_

Markem was used to being alone on his journeys, but now he missed it deeply. Eating the rotten and dried food of these ferret brothers made him physically nauseous. His head hurt as the ferret brothers went about their day as if there had been a festival the whole day, beating each other in mock competitions, fighting over scraps of loot that no one knew who it belonged to. Only Sloakom seemed normal, at least as normal as a smiling and grinning ferret was, looking over Markem at a safe distance as the rat sharpened his blade with a stone.

Sloakom broke Markem's trance with a question, not out of curiosity, but out of a need to annoy the rat in front of him. "I gotta ask, rat. Where ya headed anyway, bein armored an' all. You ain't a normal soldier of some warband, are ya?"

"Not much of your business, ferret." Markem answered back, not swayed by the question and more focused on his delicate task.

"Maybe it be my business one day, ya must be headed toward a horde, right?"

"Maybe I am, maybe I am not."

Sloakom wasn't very amused, he nearly let down his grin with annoyance. Markem however knew the truth on the matter. He was going to a horde, he heard of warband forming near the northern mountains. A captain of Kasg the Craven who had survived was held up there, fighting with other warlords for land. The horde was big enough to keep the Long Patrol at an arm's length, and supplied enough for his own needs. If worse can get worse, he could just bail on the horde at a moment's notice, not accepting it to survive long. Sloakom not knowing of this horde was not a big surprise, it wasn't exactly advertised. Markem only needed to find the horde's general area, and from there he could follow tracks of scouts or others back to their holdings. After a time, Sloakom simply dropped the whole issue, leaving Markem to his thoughts. Whatever came tomorrow, he would fill himself up on the vittles of some poor farmer, and he would be off once again.

What could possibly go wrong. He thought to himself, laying down once all the other ferrets were sound asleep.


At first light, Markem half suspected to have his gear stolen in the night, which is why despite some discomfort, he had worn his armor and kept his sword in hand. His knapsack kept even closer with what remained of his valuables. He didn't even unpack his tent, fearing worse that the ferret rabble would just tear it apart. Yet when he woke up, the group seemed more organized, with Sloakom commanding them and bashing heads together in a comedic tradition.

"Gorz! Grabel! Get your weapons, you slack-headed morons! We move at first light, an' I see ya sleepin! If I catch one yawn out'ya I'll turn ya into bone meal!" Sloakom waved an iron knife at the lot, likely stolen considering the hilt was large. The seven ferrets were not in a real hurry, but Sloakom wanted to be prepared. Markem awoke and readied himself in silence, as the group set off from their camp far before the afternoon. The crunching sound of leaves were tread as the group followed Sloakom through the hills and forests of Mossflower. Markem knew only casually where he was, being on the north side of the River Moss. This was dangerous territory for non-vermin of any kind, a wild place in later days even before Kasg the Craven. It was where Markem called home, and a wild land that remained difficult to tame, even for the Long Patrol.

This was the perfect environment for bandits like Sloakom and his brothers, and as they tread through the yellow fields of the deeper forests, Markem kept his guard up. He was half sure that the group haphazardly walked over a hare's patrol grounds, but had not stopped to fully check. Markem may have looked stoic and calm to the younger bandits, but he was anxious. He may have been skilled with a weapon, but was not confident in facing a Long Patrol soldier. He heard tales of their cunning, each one more terrifying than last. He once heard a single hare could bound over vermin with a single leap, others could skewer them on pikes before they even had time to scream. It was likely these youngsters never even seen or heard of a hare before, but they yet knew what the Long Patrol was.

It was evening when the group slowed their pace. They were here, and Sloakom motioned the group to bend down. Sneaking along the edge of a small ditch as the group huddled near the edge of a clearing. In the distance laid a small barn, being barely as tall as a tree. A fairly humble structure, with a humbler cottage next to it. Markem was a bit disappointed. If this was the place these ferrets were set on raiding, he expected something a bit richer. In the field beyond was a large otter, sweeping up leaves and humming a peaceful tune. That hum hauntingly could be heard where the bandits laid, with Sloakom peering his head out ever so slightly to get a good look at the otter.

"Aye, there he is."

Markem could barely see him from the ditch, the otter relaxing humbly as he swept at some leaves in the front of his barn. He was large, sure, but not something that should terrify seven ferret bandits. Yet Sloakom spoke and spat with grievances. "I need ya to kill that water dog, kill em' dead. Me brothers will help ya take em' down."

Markem paused and looked to Sloakom with a bit of annoyance, raising his voice ever so to make sure the ferret heard him "Okay, but we are here to raid. You and the rest of your lot need to start lootin. If the Long Patrol are around, they could quickly and swiftly kill us."

"Don'tya worry, Long Patrol ain't patrol much arou'd here."

Markem noted this mentally, not that he believed it. He would help these ferrets, kill this otter, loot his home, and move on to his destination. Sloakom was the first to move, leaping over the ditch as the ferrets silently followed suit. Markem followed at a distance as the ferrets silently crept closer. The otter turned his head to the crunching of leaves, his eyes opened in fear, and lowered again in annoyance. He dropped his rake and ran into his home as the group drew closer. The day grew darker, the wind picked up, and the rush of paws upon the ground grew louder.

The ferrets leaped over a fence, yelping and chirping. As the brothers drew closer, the large otter farmer jumped from the house, sword in hand and slashed immediately at a younger ferret close to him, as the group slinked back from him. Markem slowly gripped the hilt of his sword and drew it, coming closer to the tormenting group of ferrets as they tried to avoid getting bitten by the otter's blade.

"Get out of here, you bastard creatures! Ill fed, ragged bandits!" The otter cried. He slashed at Sloakom who nearly flipped onto his back retreating backward. One ferret tried to come up from behind, his wooden knife ready. A voice from inside the home alerted him in time, as the otter grabbed the arm of the ferret who tried to strike down upon him and flung him across the field, and landed with a sickening crunch. The others cared little as their brother rolled on the ground in agony. The defender was strong, Markem could see, but he wondered if he was good with his sword. Markem crept close to a shaken Sloakom, who angrily spat and ranted beneath his breath.

The otter stood firm, taking a defensive stance as the vermin surrounded him, but from out of the home Markem spotted the otter's mate and two young pups hurrying along. The otter spoke to them, but kept his eyes on the ferrets who prodded from afar "Run to the barn! Lock the door!"

"Micha-"

"I said run, Mia! I will hold them off! Go!" The otter stepped forward, cutting a wooden spear in half with his blade and grabbed a ferret. He threw him into two others as he quickly dispatched the others. Sloakom looked on as the otters made for the barn, and his frown shaped into a grin.

"Ya handle this cretan. I got the small ones."

"No, go for th-" Markem was about to begin, but Sloakom was off, collecting the three downed ferrets who joined him as they slinked toward the barn. Markem was annoyed, but all he could do help them for now. He did agree to aid them after all.

The otter defender looked to his own horror as Sloakom gave chase, and rushed to gut Sloakom personally. Yet he stopped when Markem cut him off in time, holding his sword out in front of him. Markem was silent, and so was the otter. The other ferrets backed off from the otter, knowing full well he could kill them. Only Markem was the true threat that stood between him and Sloakom, and he had no time to waste.

The crinkle of leaves notified Markem of the Otter's coming attack, as the otter struck from up high and swung low, but caught Markem in a parry. Markem pulled back his sword and unleashed a furry of quick strikes, exploring where the otter would strike. This wasn't Markem's first duel, nor was it the otter's. The Otter swung wildly, each strike was to push Markem back as the two tugged at the ground beneath them. Markem pushed the otter back, as the otter pushed Markem. The ferrets around the two provided a small circle, silently cheering Markem on, fearing that his failure meant they would have to be next to protect their boss. Markem eventually made a mistake, the Otter slashing into the side of his armor. Markem felt a tingle of pain as he regained his footing. He felt a little bit betrayed. This wasn't a farmer. It was a warrior.

The otter rushed forward again, but as he did, Markem raised his sword as if to crash down on the otter. The otter raised his sword to parry, but did not notice in time as Markem feigned his blow from below. In a swift strike, the tattered peasant robes of the otter did not protect him well enough, as the otter grasped his chest in pain and fell backward. As he did, the ferrets drew closer. The rat shewed them away by waving his sword at them as the otter got back up and again tried to rush forward, more desperate than ever. There was a scream of rage as he tried to crash through Markem, but for his efforts, Markem thrusted his sword into his chest. Giving out one last painful cry, the otter slides from the rat's sword, and slumped to the ground.
_

There was a silence for a short while as Markem whacked the otter's blood from his blade, splattering the ground beneath him. His job was complete, despite Sloakom's quick abandonment. Markem heard a scream from the barm, turning to see the barn was opened. The ferrets outside slinked into the otter's home to get their spoils, but Markem was more interested in what was going on inside the barn. He had come for food, and he had made the farm defenseless. Markem rushed the barn, witnessing Sloakom looking over the body of the otter mate, her two pups looking mortified. They had failed to keep Sloakom at bay, and had tried to get to the higher rafters above the barn, but the ferret was quicker. He had taken his time, and now held the larger of the otter runts in his paw, pricking at the pup's face with the end of his knife.

"Ya wretches force me from me hole, ya pa's goin to be real angry when he see's what i'a goin to do to ya." Sloakom grinned, giving a pained twitch. The Pup looked into his eyes with fear and hate, but mostly fear. Markem spoke up with disgust. "Sloakom. Let em' go. Not worth the time. Just start gather'n the spoils and we will call it a day."

Sloakom looked over with a deadly glare at Markem. He looked half mad, devilish eyes peering back from the darker corners of the barn. He spat out "I se'ya survived. That bastard dead, eh?"

"Aye." Markem replied. He felt another cinge of pain and gripped his left side where the otter had hit him. He may have been well armored, but the otter's strength held firm. "Then what does it matter. I'm killin them." Sloakom sounded disappointed, a worrying sign to Markem. Had he really just come all this way to help some degenerate fulfill his petty revenge. The ferret partially plunged his knife into the pup's face, but Markem perked up his voice.

"Don't ya try it, ferret. I-" Markem had to think. It was a shudder of pity for these small runts, one which he had not felt before. Last thing he wanted was to see them die, let alone hear their pained screams. He was a soldier. Not a murderer.

"I'll claim them as part of my loot."

Sloakom stopped and looked at Markem with a furious expression. Markem still had his sword out, but he did stop and let go of the runt. "Fine. Ya can have them."

Sloakom let go of the young pup, the largest of the two, who dropped onto the ground. He looked with horror at the warped face of his mother, whose pool of blood was creeping ever closer to him. He got himself up, gripping his face which further bled and grabbed onto his younger brother. Markem watched as the pup dutifully tried to escape, purpose of escaping the hell for which Markem had brought upon him. In the wilderness they wouldn't survive long regardless. Markem had no interest in keeping them, so he began looking for spoils and found very little. Some cabbage, wheat, and a few rotting apples were all he had for his efforts.

Yet, what he didn't suspect was when a torch flew across the barn's upper windows and into the hay above him. Markem looked behind him, seeing the door almost closing around him as he quickly bursted out. The ferrets had not seen him as Markem angrily shoved them aside as the barn went up in flames from above. "No! No no no!" Markem shouted and raved.

"You idiots! I was not done there! I was in there!"

Markem had little time to process what was around him. Sloakom had ordered the entire field burned. The house burned, and now the Barn. The two otter pups had not escaped into the woods as he had hoped, but were languishing over the corpse of their father, watched over by their would be executioner. Sloakom looked out to Markem, a grin across his face and tapping his paws with some delight. "Yes, and?"

Markem drew his sword at once, yelling at Sloakom "You damn degenerate. I should have just cut you down while on that hill."

"Yet, ya didn't."

"You promised me vittles."

Sloakom tossed a half eaten apple on the ground in front of him, and then spat on it "Yer vittles, mate." The ferrets gave out a sickening laugh around them. Sloakom drew his blade, motioning at Markem's partial wound. "Now, I'd end ya, but I think I'll just steal from ya instead. These pups will make good eatin, an' me poor brothers are hungry, ya know. Why don't ya take what ya got an' leave, to where ever ya goin."

Markem was now annoyed. Perhaps he had seriously misplaced his beliefs, or perhaps he cared more to shut up the ferret in front of him. Markem had no time for this, so he stepped forward in a slow pace, as Sloakom slicked forward with his posse of gangsters behind him.

Sloakom tried to stab the wound in Markem's side, but the rat crashed down his blade on Sloakom's arm instead. Sloakom perhaps did not exactly get prepared, or underestimated the rat's strength, speed, and skill. Yet as Sloakom cried out in pain, his brothers did not go forward, but pushed backward in fear. A light drizzle of rain began to pour from the sky as clouds rolled in, as Sloakom tried to slink back from Markem. The rat held down Sloakom by the throat with his fingers and drove his sword into Sloakom's throat, and impaled him out the neck.

Markem arose and shook off his sword as the drizzle of rain continued. The ferrets looked at each other and quickly decided that their loyalty to their boss was not worth their lives. In a moment, the other ferrets quickly retreated elsewhere, scattering back to their camp, leaving Markem and the two otter pups alone at the burning farmstead, the fire which dimmed in the rain becoming the only light as the clouds covered the sun.
_

Honestly, Markem, out of all the dumb things we do, this was-ahg! Markem gripped his side. It still stung as he looked over the smoldering mess before him. Two dead otters, a dead ferret, and a burning homestead with two pups in shock. The older pup, brave as he was before, had tried to tear his young brother away from the cold body of their deceased father. Diligent as he was, he had been in shock himself, and it was that lateness which Markem was quick to exploit. The rat was angry, about a lot of things, but he had done a lot for so little. He was heading towards a warlord, so dragging along two young otters to give to the taskmaster of the horde would perhaps earn him some vittles? Maybe, he hoped, but he had to keep them in line. At least he thought.

Markem wasn't really a slaver at heart, and it showed. He trudged his way over to the two pups, the older brother trying to pry his brother as heard the damp and pounding steps of the rat draw close. He stopped and gripped both of the smaller children by the back of their necks. Both squirmed, but the larger one tried to shove off. The rain continued to drizzle as the larger one spat out.

"Let us go! Murderer! Help!" he said, trying and failing at holding back tears. Markem's pity soon turned to blasted annoyance. He didn't meet any children in his life, but as the two tried to free themselves, he was glad he didn't know many. Markem gripped harder and pulled the two away. He wasn't going to get anywhere with these two captives if they kept struggling as they did, so his first instinct was to let go the larger pup and smack him over the head with his claws.

"Be silent, and be still, or you will be sharing a grave with your oaf father." Markem sneered. At first in pain, the youngster stood up, perhaps a bit weakly, but he stood up in defiance and ready for a brawl. Yet his strength left him when he looked at his terrified brother, shocked from the day's evil events. Markem took out from his sack some rope he used for his tent and began binding the two young otters. Once subdued, Markem pegged the rope lead to a tree as he went about some short business.

The ferrets couldn't have destroyed. . .everything. Right? Markem knew there was little he could do about the fire. Even with the rain, the smoldering insides was a clear signal for others farther off. Markem collected what he could, vittles still freshly sown, seeds, and even the large otter's sword. All the two young captives could do was stare in disbelief of what was happening, like a terrible dream they hoped to wake up from, only kept in reality from the tap of water on their heads. When Markem was done looting what he could, he came over and looked down at the two.

"We will be marching northward, and you will stay quiet or I will gag you. You will not speak, or I will hit you both. You only know me as Markem, and if you cause me too much trouble. I will kill you."

The older one wanted to speak up, say something brave perhaps, but he could not. He was tired, as if his soul had left him standing, and with a tug of the rope lead, the three marched past the forest's edge and into the wilderness, leaving the ruin and disaster behind them. They would not return.


Janis had some bad days before, but nothing like this. In front of him was his father's murderer, ranting under his breath with each step on the cool ground. His father's sword laid to the vermin's back, a trophy for several lives ruined. The Oakwaters had a long history of battles and wars. His grandfather was a Skipper of a northern holt, fought in a war against a horde of ferrets, and won. His father was a guard for a town to the farther south, fought in battles, and won. His father once proudly proclaimed to him that every coin spent on the barn and house, every possession they had, was gained with hard work and due diligence. His mother decorated the household with plants, she weaved his favorite blanket, and read stories of her own family's long history as wandering gardners to him. When Dakab was born, Janis used to watch the crib, making weird and nonsense oaths to invisible kings to protect his baby brother.

All of it was gone now, burned in a fire by a vengeful ferret and his infernal brothers. Janis felt another tug of the rope lead, which pinched into his arms.

"Keep up. I don't want to be in this lowland when the sun starts setting."

Janis looked behind him at Dakab, his younger brother. The otter was silent for the entire trip. It had been two long and gruelling days in captivity so far, and neither was handling it well. Both had cried each other to sleep, and both awoke at absurd hours to walk even further. Janis didn't even know what to say to him to comfort him. He didn't know what to say to comfort himself.

Janis looked to the uncaring rat who tugged them along and spoke up.

"Where are you taking us?"

Markem snorted at this "North, as I told you."

"Bu-" Janis was going to ask why, but Markem stopped and turned. "We are heading towards a horde I was looking for employment in, and if you ask another question, I am going to have you be stuffed with a cloth."

Janis gave pause to this as Markem turned and tugged even harder on the rope, still muttering under his breath. He had no clue what the rat was saying, but he didn't want to be stuffed with a cloth. After all, if they came across the Long Patrol, he'd need to call for help.
_

It was close to dark when the three stopped. Dakab was close to collapsing after the march, and Janis helped his brother find a seat as Markem set a camp underneath a crooked tree. Tying the rope lead to the tree itself, Markem looked around and gave a loud sigh.

"Rest up, we have a final day tomorrow to reach where I am headed. I'll be back shortly."

Janis didn't react, not that Markem wanted them to. Janis and Dakab sat down, shivering in the fall wind as the leaves blew in many directions about them. Once Markem was out of sight and sound, likely foraging for something to eat, Janis shook his brother to keep him from falling asleep.

"Dak. Dak, keep your eyes open." Janis whispered.

Dakab responded bluntly "I am tired, Jan. Like, really tired. I can barely feel my legs." Dakab spoke fairly loudly, in which Janis quickly tried to sush him. Janis looked around, looking to see if Markem was there. Janis had fear in his voice as he spoke "We need to get out. I'm going to bite into the ropes, try to get you free. You need to run."

"I don't want to leave you, Jan!" Dakab spoke up. Janis had no time, he had to get his brother to safety. Maybe he could make it back home? Maybe the villagers, or the Long Patrol saw the smoldering ruins of his home and were tracking him? He needed to get out of here. It was a duty, something his father taught him. 'Don't let a bad situation remove you from your mission' or something like that. Janis bit into the rope, with Dakab pleading with his brother to stop. The rope was stronger then his teeth it seemed, but it did not deter him.

Perhaps if he had been smarter, he would had been biting the rope above his brother, attached to the tree itself, so both could escape. Yet Janis's dedication clouded his judgement, as Markem returned to a poor sight. The rat looked down, more annoyed than angry, as Janis pitifully tried to bite away the rope. When Dakab looked up in utter fear at Markem, Janis stopped, having bitten not even halfway through the rope restraints around his brother's arms. Markem returned with some berries he had picked from some nearby bushes, or well, what was left of them. He ate a berry and set his small pile near his side of the camp.

Markem's first action was rather simple. He tore off a part of Janis's shirt and made a small cloth gag and tied it into his mouth. His second act was just as simple, which took Janis by a bit of surprise, as Markem beat him harshly. Dakab cried out "No! Stop it!" Markem felt the small and untidy claws attempt to dig into leg as the younger otter tried to save his brother, pounding harmlessly. Janis felt as Markem slapped and beat him harshly, and then suddenly stopped. Markem stood over Janis, tears streaming from his eyes as Markem effortlessly picked up Dakab and sat the otter down next to his bruised brother.

"That rope belongs to my tent, and it is worth a lot more than the lot of you. If ya continue with that foolishness, I'll just kill ya."

Markem picked up some berries and handed some to Dakab. He looked mortified, looking at his brother who laid still, fearful of being hit more. Markem spoke with the younger otter directly. "Eat up. Your brother will get his meal later tomorrow. You two will sleep and remain completely obedient, or so help me."

There were no more disturbances that night. Dakab slowly ate his berries, and Markem ate his, and all three slept under the moonless night.
_

Janis hadn't spoken much for most of the morning. He was bruised and battered, but his spirit was strong. At least that is what he told himself. Realistically he limped along and by the time the three marched a little ways, Markem slowed his pace once the three crested a smaller hill. Janis looked out with his brother and beheld a large camp in the distance with a small palisade surrounding it. Several vermin warriors and families were huddled inside, a small city of tents and ditches surrounding a larger mudbrick barracks. The forest camp was based in a large clearing near a stream which flows southward. At the entrance was a more formal looking weasel in a large overcoat and wielding an iron axe, and next to him was a rat with a scroll and feathered pen. Markem's heart softened when he saw the encampment, as he saw a storehouse in the far distance where a couple youths were clumsy transporting a box of grains. Vittles. Markem thought he had found his employment at long last.

Janis and Dakab however saw something a bit different. They both looked down at the camp and saw a rather mortifying sight of several mice slaves working on a ditch near the main gate, and adding wooden spikes to the outer wall. One had slowed for only but a moment before a nearby taskmaster whipped him, letting out a shriek of pain. Janis gulped through his cloth gag, as if seeing his fate right before his eyes, and had no means of manipulating it. He had suspected Markem to make note, torment him even, but the rat was still looking over from the hill at the vermin encampment.

Markem bent down to Janis and undid his gag and threw it away. He took out some berries and plopped them into his tied paws. "This will likely be your last meal with me, so eat up." Janis was far too hungry to resist and ate his makeshift meal immediately. When Janis was done, he felt a slight tug on the rope lead as Markem dragged them down into the mustering grounds of the horde. Janis and Dakab held onto some resistance, but the sharp tug of the rope lead from an impatient Markem kept their pace. Janis could not take his eyes off the small work team, and as he got closer, he became more worried. Scars from long seasons of work tore at their tattered clothes, gloomy eyes, and an undeadish movement to their hollow steps. They looked like they had been slaves for a while, and were miserable every moment of it.

Markem stopped at the head of the weasel and rat with the scroll, tugging the rope lead close to him as he awaited to be introduced. The rat with the scroll looked him over, smiled, and spoke with a happy tune "Ah. I'gotta say, ya look like a biggun. Well armored, well armed. Whatcha name, stranger, and why'a here?"

"Markem. Markem Brownnose if ya lookin for surnames."

"Nay, just firsts." The scroll rat wrote down into the scroll, confident in Markem's joining with the horde.

"Very formal, eh?" Markem noted. The weasel spoke up with a grunt "Aye. Boss says he want names, so we givem names. Ya well armored for these north folks."

"Southerner actually, believe it or not. Or well. South of here."

The weasel grinned "Heh, southerner meself. Far south."

The scroll rat chimed in when he noticed the two young otters "I see ya got some slaves with ya. Recent captures, I take it?"

"Kind of. Long story made short, I saddled meself with some bad loot. Ya probably won't see the smokestack from here."

The rat bent over, running his claws into Janis's teeth who shifted uncomfortably and even tried to bite at him. The rat grunted "Ill tamed, I see. Yours I take it?"

"I was actually hopin to give em' over for some vittles."

"Ehhhh, I'll take em' I suppose. Not sure how long'ell last. Kids ya know, shatter real easy."

Markem winged at this at first, and he honestly didn't really know why. He cautiously let go of the rope lead to the weasel who just began to drag the two young otters away to a terrible fate. Markem gave one look to Dakab's face and suddenly blurted out "Wait! I changed my mind. I mean to keep them."

The weasel turned, annoyed now "What, why?"

"That rope be me own, I don't mean to give it away. Besides, those two be helpin out keepin me armor clean."

It was a bold lie, and nearly all of them knew it, all except the scroll rat who spoke up "Just givem back his servants, ya dumb brute. Ya heard em'. Ya here to join the horde after all, right?"

"Aye." Markem said a bit lower as the weasel harshly put the rope lead back into Markem's claws. He looked down at a confused Janis. Janis himself didn't really know what to think. His father's murderer had saved him from hard labor most likely, but to what end or to what cost, he did not know. Markem didn't really know itself. Assigned to a section of tents at the northern end of the camp, he was put under the command of a brown rat captain who didn't bother to meet his new recruit. As the day began to set again, Markem began setting up his tent, gathering some food from the storehouse, and put his most prized possessions inside. Once settled, he sat in the small tent, where the two pups watched as Markem did all this work as if it was some ritual.

Markem sat in front of the two otter youngsters, and for a moment, he had no clue what to do. He wasn't even sure why he had saved them. He had to eventually unbind them when he began setting up his tent, and the chewing through part of the rope annoyed him deeply. He would have to find, or steal, a replacement. He looked at them, as they stared back. They were weakened by the journey, and frightened. Far from home and civilization, the two brothers could not but wonder what the rat wanted of them, and Markem had no clue what to even tell them. Markem eventually got up and told them to stay put, and that he would be back shortly.

Janis and Dakab sat on the grassy floor of Markem's tent. Freed of their bonds, they still felt the weight of everything else around them. Janis wondered about his options; He could flee maybe, take his brother and bolt for the forests, but then get caught by the guards and patrols of the vermin horde and be sent to be worked to death in some chain gang. He could try to sneak out, but it would result in the same fate. He doubted there were friendlier creatures around, and the rat acted strange. Janis and his brother sat in silence, unsure of what to do of themselves. Dakab wanted to speak up and ask what to do, but he felt it was perhaps pointless. Every moment Markem was gone felt like years driving by, and options being wasted. The curiosity of his options faded when Markem returned, barely some ropes from the armory.

Markem fastened two ropes in a loop around both Janis's and Dakab's necks. He did nothing else as he spoke up at them. "Okay, so I decided something that I am either going to regret or deeply regret. These collars will signify your ownership to me, so I'am goin to lay some ground rules down to you two."

Collars? Janis thought.

"Firstly, you refer to me as 'sir' or 'master' or whatever. Or well. Uhhh. Ye know what I mean."

"Secondly, you obey. No questions. No anythin. If I tell ya to jump, ya jump. Ya try to run, I will beat ya till your fur becomes blue an' black."

"Thirdly, those things don' come off. Ya don't fiddle with them. Ya don't look aut'em. Get use to em."

Dakab looked down at the overly large rope around his neck, and Markem sighed "Wha'ch I just say."

Dakab looked back up, as Markem continued. "An finally. . .uhhh. . . ." Markem looked at them both, not sure what to call them. He could ask their names, but he wasn't really good with names. He looked down, noticed their brownish fur, and decided on the spot he would just rename them.

"Yer names are now Dirt." Markem Pointed to Janis. "An' Mud" and pointed to Dakab.

"You can't just do that, my name's J-"

"Dirt." Markem sneered harshly. 'Dirt' silenced himself. He didn't want to get beaten again, and the rat didn't seem much in the mood. Markem tied a rope to both the feet of the two youngsters and pegged them to the ground outside. The rat had a long day, and didn't wish to be disturbed while he slept. He felt pity, perhaps even a twitch of empathy for these creatures he had doomed to captivity. It was a new feeling, one which disturbed him deeply. What a weird, damned world. Food first. Then sleep. As Markem ate his evening meal and began to sleep, 'Dirt' and 'Mud' attempted to comfort themselves outside. 'Dirt' held his brother close to try to keep him warm in the fall cold, and wondered about the earlier day. Had he ran, would he and his brother had made it? The thought returned, but it mattered so little now, for the star lit sky came, and provided a small and flimsy light on the vermin camp.


'Dirt' felt a light kick to his chest, with Markem standing over him and his brother. It was morning and the rat had something to say it seemed. "Okay, I've been thinking, an' now that I own ya, I think I gotta put ya to work. I think that's how that works. So here' the deal."

Markem cleared his throat and began untying the two sleepy otters from their bindings. 'Dirt' looked up and folded his paws. He was listening, but he was angry that he had to. Markem began a short speech "I am' leavin my armor and tools here while I explore this place a bit. Ya are to keep me tent tidy, me armor clean, an' me vittles safe. Ya fail, I beat you. Ya mess up, well, ya get the picture. I hope."

'Dirt' spoke up "And if we refuse."

Markem folded his own arms in response "Guess."

'Dirt' did not have to guess. Markem however was still folding his arms. 'Dirt' didn't really understand until 'Mud' spoke up. "Jan. I think he wants you to say 'sar' "

"Well I ain't saying it to a murderer."

Markem let down his arms, and was about to unleash hell on earth on the poor creature infront of him. 'Dirt' looked up in fright and quickly corrected himself "I'm sorry! Yes, sir!"

Markem relented and paused. He grumbled and took his sword into his belt "I'll bring back a water bucket so ya can get started. Just make sure me tent is tidy, an' I'll feed ya."

'Dirt' and 'Mud' gave a weak nod, and the rat left them alone as he wandered around the camp.
_

Markem wandered a bit around the camp, exploring as it were. It wasn't an unusual tradition for him, he had done so before. In his life, he served several warlords and chieftains. He liked to scout out the camp, walk around, make mental notes of landmarks and buildings. The southern side of the camp was mostly tents, and where uncompleted parts of the wooden palisade provided weak protection. This wasn't an uncommon tactic for newer camps, as building walls was expensive and difficult to maintain. A couple simple palisades kept the camp contained from outside threats and provided an aura for smaller families and gangs of vermin to feel more comfortable without spreading too far apart. This told Markem a lot, as the warlord of the camp, supposedly a captain of Kasg the Craven, was seasoned enough in campaigning to start out this way.

The main feature was a small crested hill which stood a brick barracks, likely the home of the boss and a meeting place for his captains. It was also where the warlord kept his loot, although Markem noted that this was likely the most dangerous place for creatures like him. Being in the eye of the boss was usually a surefire way for newcomers to get killed, usually as part of an example. . .or a joke.

To the north where his tent lies was a storage bunker with some small lopsided silos. These small and hauntingly broken structures were clearly vermin made, and extremely makeshift. It told Markem that the boss had a lot of supplies, but not a lot of slaves. Slaves usually built things, cooked things, kept things in order. If the vermin here were building their own stuff, it was because the warband wasn't very active. This was good, this means the warband isn't warring or fighting off the Long Patrol. I could perhaps even live here for a while, eat my vittles in peace. Better than wandering in the wilderness.

A stream laid across from the eastern camp, it was small and likely connected to the Moss rivers, or some small lake. It sloped downward and was where the vermin were gathering water from. It was also likely where they were showering and taking care of their own business. I'll have to show those two to take water from the downstream. Last thing I need is my armor smelling of yesterday's breakfast.

As Markem walked along the main rows of tents on the western side, he turned a corner and bumped into a fox on accident. The fox had been carrying a wooden bowl of cold porridge, and spilled much of its contents on Markem. Markem looked down at his soggy clothes, and gave a deep sigh, trying to wipe off the cheap stew.

"Sorry, mate." The fox said. Markem looked up at him, who looked a bit annoyed he had just lost his meal. He looked fairly young, almost a teenager, but spoke as if he was a grizzled veteran of long fought wars. He wore a cheap garb of leather and wielded a short sword. His fur was a lighter hue of orange, but he seemed almost a little short. It was difficult for Markem to tell if that was just because of his age, or a curse of nature's jests.

"Sorry doe'n fix my clothes, sadly. I accept your apology though."

"Tis good ya do." The fox replied. "I truly am sorry though, believe it from a fox or so. I got a fresher amount of cloths at me tent if ya want some."

"I mean, if ya are offerin."

"Aye, the poor rat I stole'em from wasn't me right size."

Markem gave a short chuckle at this and followed the fox to his tent.
_

In fresher clothes, Markem returned to his tent with a pale of water, dropping it at the foot of his tent. 'Dirt' looked out from the tent as Markem commanded the otter to begin cleaning his 'good clothes' and gear, before leaving in a fresh brown garb to sit and eat among his new friend. 'Dirt' wanted to speak up, but the rat was already gone. His resistance foiled, 'Dirt' struggled to pull the bucket inside the tent, and began his work.

Markem had been invited by the fox, who revealed himself in short conversation as Jarolom Foxtrot, to sit by a campfire. Markem wasn't much for company, but Jarolom had been kind. The conversation they had still rung through his head as he was replacing his clothes.

"Name's Jarolom. Jarolom Foxtrot. Although I doubt ya would know me name well. An' you be?"

"Markem. Markem Brownnose."

"Markem, eh? Called Mark, I imagine?"

"Not really, only one of me old bosses use to shorten me name, an' even then he just called me Mar."

"Heh. Funny. Where ya come from anyway?"

"South."

"Really? Ya look almost like a northerner. Height ya know. Me pa was southerner. Came out of the great inland lake, south of that red abbey."

"Huh. I heard grey foxes be down there."

"There were. They'r dead now. Now some rats live on the isle mostly, peaceful folk. . .very strange, i'd say."

"I best be off, I was meaning to do something real quick in the day, bring some water to me tent. Washen an' all that."

"Heh. Well, me and a ferret were goin to drink at a campfire at the center of the northern end of camp. Far northern. If ya come by, I'll provide a drink. Had some leftover booze from a sea rat I traded with awhile back."

Markem usually enjoyed the company of friendly vermin, soldiers and brutes like himself. Far better than the captains who commanded him for most of his life. His first horde he served had binded him to a fellow rat who used a whip as punishment if his horde ever got out of line, and those scars on his back never truly did heal. When it came to others around him, he missed them terribly. One was a good friend, a brother and fellow warrior from when he first began marching in vermin warbands. A rat named Purl, a large and well voiced rat who drank and sang the nights away. He was dead, Markem knew, for he charged straight first into a spearwall of otters at his captain's command. Markem had many experiences similar to this, and each experience depressed him as he made his way north of the camp to find Jarolom's campfire. He enjoyed the company of a drunk weasel who told him stories of his past life as a sailor who wandered the eastern seas. He laughed at the jokes of a foreign gray rat who had an ironic sense of humor. These companions were lost in time, but he enjoyed the company of his fellow mooks.

Markem found Jarolom and a lengthy ferret sitting down at a campfire, enjoying cups of vermin ale. Jarolom called out "Aaaeehhh! Markem, sit down beside us! Ya didn't miss much. Scarl, this was the rat I was talk'en about."

The ferret looked up from his mug and gave a weak smile. He was young, much like Markem was, and didn't have many seasons to him. The ferret definitely looked a lot friendlier then the ferret bandits Markem had recently encountered, more groomed perhaps. He took a swig of the ale, choked on it a little from its awful taste, and sat it down carefully next to him. They both sat on small branches, with Jarolom half drunk as Markem joined them.

"So i've been here a day so far, and haven't seen much of the captains. Ya know who runs this part of the camp?" Markem began. Scarl shrugged "Some brown rat named Grob. Or somethin. I didn't really catch his full name."

Markem nodded. Jarolom offered a beer, Markem sniffed it and smelled an all too familiar strong stench of grog. He chugged a part of it down. It was better than water, it was alcohol. Only the woodlanders ever had something better.

"Grob is it? Never heard o'em. I heard the boss was a captain of Cask the Kraven."

"Aye, although the captain is a bit oversellin it." Scarl commented "Don't lettem captain or him hear ya on that, but word around the bush says he was Kasg's armor bearer who stole a bunch from him and fled. Now he be leadin a horde himself."

"So we are rich right?"

"Nay." Jarolom intervened "More like the boss being rich. We got vittles, sure, but I doubt it'll last a week before we got issues."

Markem sighed "I hope ya don't mean to imply I traveled all the way here for nothin."

Scarl only nodded "I think ya might have, but at least ya came out of yer own free will. Poor ol' me and Jarolom here got dragged out of our camp not too long ago."

Markem sighed. "Conscripts, eh? When I came in, things didn't seem that desperate."

"Things were a bit different not too long ago." Scarl snorted "We stole from a Long Patrol bunker not too far from here, I think the boss has captured a scout, forced him to tell em' some secrets. Likely dead by now."

"How. . .how do you know all this." Markem interrupted. "Ehhh, I just hear things really. A little bit of vittles here, some promises there, a little overhearing in sem' of them places."

Jarolom laughed "Scarl here is one of the best informed beasts in the whole horde. A lot better then your captain, and ours. Good luck if Grob even realizes you are under his command. Vermin come in by the day, lookin for vittles. They get put into a division of sword beasts. Or spear beasts if ya gotta be technical."

"They seemed organized when I was comin in?"

"They are." Jarolom took another swig "Well, their subordinates are. Got me rations in fair order, even dolled out some patching for me armor. Bosses though? Couldn't even remember they are in charge unless ya told em'. Bad sign I say, but the Long Patrol don't notice let alone mind. They probably know we are here, not exactly hard to see from fort Tussock." Jarolom looked past the northern woods, looking into the darkness, as if suspecting some obvious hare to ruin their day. Thankfully, that was not to be. He returned his attention to Markem "Thankfully, the boss isn't dumb enough to try to challenge them. To the Long Patrol, we are just another warband on a well fortified hill. They would have to be pretty dumb to come on by to torment us."

Markem drank to that. The three joked, discussed, and drank into the night. Markem didn't learn much from either. Their boss had no name, all they knew was that the warlord was a shorter rat with a temper, a creature to avoid the attention of. The three joked about the state of their wellbeing, and even discussed Markem's bizarre adventure just reaching here. Scarl and Jarolom gave Markem trouble for being the only vermin soldier to own two personal slaves, with Jarolom mockingly even calling him a king. By the time the rat had returned to his tent, he was good in spirits. 'Dirt' and 'Mud' had fallen asleep in the tent, having only half done their task. Markem's clothes were washed, and his tent was tidy to the best effort two young children could do for most of their day. Yet they had failed to find a means to dry it, and slept inside the warmth of the tent. Markem didn't bother to wake them, and fell asleep in his tent. The day had been a good day.


"You slack-jawed, useless, short tailed wretches!" Shouted Gorb. Gorb as Markem would soon learn was a large brown rat, but his height didn't exactly match his absurd weight. He was a fat creature, who gorged himself on birds and all manner of meat. He smacked vermin left and right to get into position to inspect his part of the army. Of the many vermin assembled, a mix and match of peasants and warriors, tribals and bandits, only Markem stood out in his armor. He half regretted it.

When Markem had awoken this morning, he had gathered near the horde's kitchen to get his rations. He shared a part of those rations, some very mushy gruel, with his servants. 'Mud' nearly barfed when he ate a piece of it, but swallowed it down once he had threatened the young slave. Markem made a list of duties for them in the day, primarily keeping his tent tidy and fetching fresh water from the stream. Markem showed them both where to get the freshest water, and where to better hang the clothes on the tent so it could dry in the sun. Both understood their instructions, and Markem began to get a bit more comfortable. That comfort didn't last long when an armored soldier came through the camp and began gathering the other vermin.

"I am Gorb, yer captain, an' ya listen to me! Yer boss, Pelg the Tall, demands that I shape ya up into a proper army. I'm gonna drill ya till ya drop, make you bleed left and right till ya no longer feel pain! I want ya all in tip top shape, an' the boss will half yer rations if he sees ya as useless! Now, get into rows of 6 by 6. Move! Move!"

Markem was pushed into a smaller group of fellow vermin, as Gorb came up to him, looked him over, and snorted with a cruel glint to his eye "Ya well armored for some dumb brute. Yer name?"

"Markem. Markem Br-"

"Markem eh? Ya good with a sword?"

"Aye?"

"Good. Ya get to be in the vanguard of me division. Yer gettin a shield."
_

The training was rather easy for Markem, brutal for his peers. Markem marched with a small host through the forests in small circles, sparred with some poor younger weasel who could barely hold up his spear. The rat had a long history despite his age when it came to these small behaviors, so it came fairly naturally for him. All except using a shield. Gorb had gifted Markem with a small, round, and wooden buckler, which looked fairly worn. This was a weapon for those stuck in the vanguard of an army, the front line where they were the first to come to blows with an enemy. Markem outclassed his peers by quite a bit, although one of the foxes has cleverly undercutted him nearly knocked out a fang. That humiliating bout didn't earn much favor with Gorb.

As Markem was resting from the training, he noticed a figure approaching with an entourage of soldiers, one for which was carrying a flag. Most wore a strange garb, a pure black garb with iron helms. They surrounded a short black rat, who comically wore an oversized helm fit for a far larger and imposing beast. This must have been Pelg the Tall, the black rat looked over at his new found troops.

"Gorb you idiot! What is this, a procession of clowns!" Pelg sounded exactly like a warlord of his stature, his high pitched voice nearly brought out a chuckle from Markem. Markem held it in forever, for his dear life. If the warlord or his entourage noticed him mocking him, he may as well be dead.

Gorb came over, gripping his paws together tightly and knelt to plead "My lord, I am sorry! This rabble is harder to train than normal. These are bandits, vagabonds, and wretches of Mossflower. Forgive me, I'll do better."

"Well, you better! In the name of Kasg, I want this rabble in shape for our march."

March? They were planning to leave? Markem pretended not to hear, but he couldn't help but stare at Pelg. The rat seemed wild eyed, and out of place. His entourage of black clad vermin seemed even more so. One of the weasels in that entourage even whispered into his ear, and the warlord left without much of a word. He didn't understand what exactly was going on, nor did he want to know. Gorb got up, and began yelling in his direction "Get up you slack jawed wretch! Train! Do something! Go go go!" Markem got up from his rest and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
_

'Dirt' and 'Mud' struggled to carry the water bucket down to the stream. Markem had shown them where to get water from. 'Dirt' didn't want to do any of this, and he had regained his strength in the day, but the fear of getting beat again made him not wish to tempt fate. The two young otters carried themselves upward towards the stream, and with their small paws, they began to fill the water up. Several vermin who passed by them didn't bother them, not really thinking them as intruders. Only one older rat questioned them, but once he saw 'Dirt's' bruises and the rope which clanged to his neck, he had let them pass. As the two worked, 'Dirt' stopped and looked out longingly towards the northern end of the forest, as if it beckoned to him. He looked around, seeing only a slumped over rat who was half asleep near a tree.

'Dirt' had an idea. Not the best idea, but it may be worth it. He pushed his brother to get his attention and spoke softly.

"Dad said some time that there was Hare fort. You remember that. North of here?"

'Mud' only blinked. He nodded "I. . .I remember. Camp Tus-tuslak? Tusmack? Turac?"

"Yea yea. Were north. Of this camp, right?"

"Yea." 'Mud' seemed shaken as he turned about him "Jan. I don't know. There are so many of them. Ya plan on runnin, right?"

'Dirt' smiled. His little brother wasn't dumb, he knew all too well of his plan. "Yea. Pass the stream. We'll get help from the hares. Long patrol ain't far. Just gotta keep goin that'a way." He vaguely pointed in a direction beyond the stream.

"What if we get caught?"

"Then i'll hold them off. You run, and keep running."

'Mud' was terrified and spoke up "No! I cannot lose you, not like. . ." 'Mud' froze, remembering that ill fated night. 'Dirt' didn't understand, and tried to shake his brother further.

"I'll be with you. This is our last chance, I'll be with you. Every step of the way, but you gotta do as I say." 'Mud' reluctantly calmed down. He wanted to escape as much as 'Dirt' did. The two youngsters looked around for an opportunity, and seeing it within the ill guarded north forest, they crossed the stream and silently fled. Janis looked behind him one final time. He would return for his father's sword someday, but first he needed his brother to be safe.

Their journey went well so far, not even noticed by the sentry who was guarding nearby. The two hid in piles of leaves as one guard stepped on by. Janis and Dakab were nearly far enough to not even see the camp anymore, only the grimmly lit forest and cold wind blowing around them. As they bound across another group of trees and toward the grassy knolls beyond. As the two silently slid by trees, Janis felt a twinge of hope and grabbed his brother by the paw. He rushed out, running for his dear life, and rushed into a clearing.

This had been a terrible mistake for him, for as he rushed into a clearing, a fox in leather armor was sitting on a rock, enjoying a meal in peace. The fox had just set down his bowl when he noticed the two otters. Janis froze in true fear, especially as the Fox quickly got onto his feet. In a moment, he turned to his brother, gripped his paw, and ran as fast as he could. The fox called out something, but he couldn't hear. He just kept running. All Janis had to do was make it past the camp, lose the fox, and find the fort. He couldn't figure out where he was going, his head hurt, his legs buckled, his eyes wide. He had to get out.
_

Markem was walking back from his tent, tired and miserable. He spent much of the day training, and all he wanted to do was rest. He was given meager rations, which he dreaded sharing with the two otter captives. He wondered what those two had been up to in the later day, and sharing a tent with them seemed more awkward than useful. At least he would have fresh water when he got back, instead of having to get it himself.

Markem's hopes were dashed when he saw Jarolom in front of his tent, standing over with paws crossed, staring down at two frightened and dirtied otter pups. Janis stared at the ground, even as his brother looked at Markem approaching.

"Yer servants tried to escape it looks like. Didn't say much, even bit me a bit, but I caugh't em. Nearly put them with the taskmaster, up till I noticed these." Jarolom dragged his paw over 'Dirt's' rope collar. "I kind of figured they belonged to ya. Ya mentioned it before. Not sure why ya didn't give em on over to the taskmaster for some good vittles. I mean the real good stuff, ya know."

Markem stared down. Dakab was mortified at what he saw, the eyes which once showed a glimpse of pity was now just gone, replaced with anger. Markem looked up at Jarolom and only gave a weak nod. "Yea, not sure what I was thinkin. Thank ye. I got a sword if ya want it."

"Nay, not necessary. Think of it as a favor, friend." Jarolom smiled. The fox trotted off, leaving the three in that awkward hell. Markem came down hard, and began pulling at the rope collars of the two as Janis shouted out.

"Wait! No! I'm sorry!"

"You had your chance. You're going to the taskmaster now, and I'll be done with ya."

Janis cried out "Please! My brother! You'll kill him!"

Markem paused and let go of them. He turned to the two frightened, small creatures before him. He angrily spat out "Should have thought of that first then. If i'd been smart, I'd have just left ya to that ferret. Yet here I am. Ya are just a bunch of slave beasts, anyway. Ya proven to me ya can't be trusted, can't do much, and yer too damn spirited to keep. Stupid ol' me thinking this was a good idea, an' for what."

"Do what you want with me, but let my brother go!" Janis cried out. Markem relented for but a moment, as the youngster stood in front of his brother. Tears ran down his cheeks. Markem then took Janis close to him and began to beat him, harsher than before. Dakab cried out in horror, trying to separate Markem from unleashing his brutal blows. By the time Markem was done, Janis was blackened with bruises, crying uncontrollably from pain. Markem shook his paw and looked down with malcontent at the two, as Dakab held his brother close.

"This is my final warning, to the both of you. You are my property, and you obey me. Ya got it! Ya run again, ya even think to resist me, and I'll end ya both. Consider yerself lucky I don't just throw you to the taskmaster, or trade ya for vittles. Ya understand me."

'Dirt' and 'Mud' gave a weak and defeated nod, as Markem dragged them both back to his tent.


'Dirt' and 'Mud' dragged a water bucket towards the upper stream, although it pained him to do so. It has been over a week, and neither of them really counted the days. It had become a habit each morning since their attempted escape. 'Dirt' was tied outside, with 'Mud' being allowed to sleep inside. They would wake up, stare at the ground, as Markem gave them some basic orders. They would clean up his tent, make sure his gear was clean, they would keep a tab on things, gather water, clean the sheets, and so forth. Both otters felt dead, as if their souls had left their bodies some time ago. For 'Dirt' it felt worse, the threat of being sent to an even worse form of captivity loomed over him, and now all he could do was obey. Markem had kept a rope binding on his legs, making it more difficult for him to walk, and the young beast limped.

The two collected water at the stream, filling the bucket slowly with their paws, although 'Dirt' had found some small tree bark which helped him and his brother fill it faster. The two purposefully went slow as they filled the bucket, as the stream was far enough from the camp and more exposed to the fresher air. 'Dirt' enjoyed the lack of noise. The young otter, through his blackened eyes looked outward at the trees beyond. He could see the path he and his brother had taken, and looked longingly at it. Had he not exhausted his supply of tears, he would have cried again at the sight. Yet he stood there. 'Mud' snapped him out of his trance, fearful he would try to run again. Once the bucket had been filled, the two struggled again to bring it back to the tent, the water half tipping each time they moved toward the camp.
_

The day was growing darker as Markem returned from training, still tired. He learned how to use his shield more effectively, but his legs felt they were going to give out. The horde was training further, and Markem long awaited when the day grew darker. It was during this time he would collect some water, some vittles, and go out to meet with Jarolom and Scarl. Every other night it seemed, Markem and the other two vermin would exit the camp and move ever deeper into the woods to drink and talk. It was one of those nights. As Markem was putting away his armor and preparing to leave, 'Dirt' gave a loud cough.

"Hmm?" Markem looked over at 'Dirt'. His bruises were healing again, although albeit more slowly. He slowly attempted to speak up, fearful that any word would set off the rat.

"S-sir. Me and Dak are hungry."

"Mud."

'Dirt' froze for a moment, as Markem folded his paws, and remained silent.

"I haven't forgotten. However, you aren't eating till mornin still."

'Dirt' looked at the ground as Markem grabbed him by the rope collar and dragged him outside. He tied a rope to that collar which was stuck on a camp peg in the ground near the tent. The small dirty path of the tent cluster was where 'Dirt' had been sleeping for the past week, making his name more and more meaningful. Markem returned inside, gave 'Mud' some cursed looking vermin rations, and left. 'Mud' came outside the tent and attempted to give some to his brother, but 'Dirt' turned him down.

"No. You know how he is, and you won't get fed well. You eat that, and get some sleep Dak. I'm. . .I'll be okay." 'Dirt' rested his head on the ground, waiting for the next day to come.

Markem returned in a short time, humming and half singing a song he remembered, something he learned from Jarolom who drunkenling sung into the night.
_

"Pluck em' feathers, Break the casks, feast till your heart be fast. Behind be home, tomorrow be filled, build em plate with bowls of stew. . .emmm. . . .build em plates with bowls of stew!"

Markem stopped singing as soon as he felt a tap of rain on his snout. Again?! It must be some kind of rainy season or something! Markem walked at a faster pace till he had gotten to his tent, passing by 'Dirt' who had been sound asleep, only to be awoken by Markem passing by along with some other vermin. He had crawled closer to the tent, hoping in vain it would prevent the rain from keeping him awake again as he slept. Markem barely even noticed as he came inside. It was dark inside the tent as he looked for the padding of his bed and tried to get some shut eye.

Yet as he tried to do so, he spotted 'Mud' sitting upright on a botch of cleaner clothes and trashed rags. It had been his bed in the tent. It wasn't good, but it was certainly better then the hard ground most of the other slaves had been sleeping in. 'Mud' hadn't gone to sleep yet, intriguing the rat enough to ask "Awake, eh? Get some sleep."

'Mud' looked up at Markem and looked out at the drizzling rain outside. It was obvious he thought of his brother, and Markem wasn't blind to it. He perked up and asked "Why do you treat us like this?"

Markem paused and looked down at him. It was a good question, but it had an answer he was uncomfortable to simply just speak aloud.

"Pa would do the same to me. Beat me, leave me out in the cold if I misbehaved. Left shortly there after. I'la be honest, 'Mud'. Don't know kids all too well. It just makes sense, an' besides, yer slaves. Me slaves. Get some sleep."

"What if my brother catches a cold, or gets hurt. . ."

"He won't."

"How do you know?"

"I survived. He will too."

That speech didn't comfort him, but it did make Markem think. He looked outside, seeing the rain get worse. Maybe he was being unreasonable, and he hated being that way. He felt he was smarter than most other vermin in some way, he knew the signs of a bad horde, knew how to fight better than others, how to even march better. He told the young slave to sleep, and went to sleep himself.

I'll deal with it tomorrow. Markem told himself.


'Dirt' sniffed a bit, drenched in rain. He coughed loudly several times as stood at attention inside. The Otter looked down at the ground, the dirty floor inside Markem's tent grew ever more muddy as he remained there. All the rat could do was pity the young otter, especially now he could only confirm he was sick with something. It was obvious to him at a distance. The otter had an uncontrollable cough, mucus dripped from his nose, and shook a little. Huh. Maybe perhaps I did go a bit far. Hmph. Weak creatures, but they are mine. I wonder if it's contagious?

"'Mud', collect some water. By yourself." Markem commanded the younger otter. 'Dirt' was about to protest, but closed his mouth in a hurry. He didn't wish to challenge the rat. 'Mud' didn't make a sound or even move. Markem stared angrily at him and commanded again with a more vicious voice "Collect the water. Now." 'Mud' slowly went out of the tent, and grabbed onto the water bucket and went to do his tasks. 'Dirt' didn't understand what was going on as Markem sat him down with his claws.

"Clean yourself up, 'Dirt'. Yer sick, but it doesn't look too bad now, but could get worse."

'Dirt' looked up at him, his passiveness turned to anger. He spat out angrily, in a boiled up fury. "Why do you care, it isn't enough you killed my family! I'm not going to die, not whil-" 'Dirt' began to cough, and only realized a bit too late what he had done. He looked up, mortified, but was surprised to see Markem had not turned to anger.

"I did. I killed your pa, and by extension may as well orphaned ya. Not sure why I care enough to even keep you around, but I do. I know ya do all this for yer brother's sake, and he does his for your own sake. I cannot rob ya of that, nor do I intend to, and nor do I wish ya to suffer if ya believe it or not."

Markem sighed as 'Dirt' softened a bit, relieved he would not be beaten again. "I'm not here to torture you, I don't see a point in it. I beat you because ya don't obey. If I wished yer death, I'd have just ended you there an' now. Or even let ya go and die in the wilderness. Yer property to me, just like others are to other vermin, but I ain't goin to kill ya. Ya can either be a help to me and live long enough to one day get outta here, or die under some idiot's lash. Don't really matter to me none. Ya keep yer head down, keep doin what I tell ya, and there won't be an issue."

Markem got up and began putting on his armor again. He struggled a bit to do so, since his wardrobe had been a bit complicated. 'Dirt' sat down and took some rags from a pile and began to clean himself as he coughed, taking Markem's words to heart.

"I'll find medicine before I am mustered, and saw some salves in the storage pile. I'll be back shortly."

'Dirt' didn't know what to say, but it was a bit too late as Markem left. He wasn't sure if to curse him or thank him, as the young orphan continued to clean himself and rest.


Markem arrived early at the small storage shed and talked with the quartermaster. The rat faked a cough, it sounded a lot better to the skeptical quartermaster if he was sick and needed some medicine, and not his personal servant. Markem scavenged through the cramp storage, looking for some medicine, finding a small wooden vial filled with a blackish substance.

"It won't cure ya, but it will mak'a comfortable. Just don't ingest too much of it." Markem gave a nod to the quartermaster and put the vial into his belt and began to make his way back to his tent. His plan was simple today. He would give the otter some medicine and then from there muster back out into the field as he had been doing. That plan was stopped as he re-entered the tents and bumped into a familiar face, a dirty looking ferret with a poor smell and ragged look.

"Oh! Sorry, sir! Excuse-" The ferret began, coughed loudly, and then sneezed louder. Markem looked awestruck, as the two stopped in their tracks. Gear grinded in the ferret's head as he realized who was in front of him, and Markem realized this was one of Sloakom's 'brothers'. It was the younger one who had been with him, and he shook in fear at Markem's sight, expecting almost to be ended right then and there.

Markem had thankfully had not been angry enough to do so, much to the ferret's relief. The loud coughing of the ferret rang out however, making the rat back up enough to not get mucus and disease all over his clothes

"Last thing I expected to see eh." Markem noted

"Ya can say that again!"

"What in the name of every spirit and demon ya doin here? Aren't you Sloakom's brother?"

The ferret sighed a bit "Aye, although couz'n is'a better way to say it. Fled in the wrong direction, go figure. Got lost. Got grabbed by a patrol and now i'ma here."

"Shame. Shame about the cold too." Markem felt he should be standing back more as the ferret sneezed again, and lacking anything else, used the rags of his shirt to wipe away the dripping mucus. Yet, Markem again felt that twinge of pity as he looked upon the miserable creature. He was a coward and a wretch, sure, but he was a young idiot. By extension, Markem was once a lot like him once. He pointed to the storage house not too far off.

"They got some medicine in there for ya, if ya need it."

The ferret dropped his eyes a bit and sighed "I tried, but they don't let'a me near it."

"What? Why. I'm practically new here an' they let me use it."

The ferret gave an even louder sigh "I. . .I may have stolen some'em vittles they had in there an' got caught. I was hungry an' all, so the quartermaster chases me away if he see me. It ain't fair, I tell ya, it just ain't."

Markem shook his head. Miserable thief, an idiot not worth anyone's time. Damned conscripts, always taking things that they should know better to not take. Markem however still felt pity for him, a cramp in his mind which made him want to both slap Sloakom's 'brother' as much as give him aid. He took out the vial and spoke with annoyance

"Ya shouldn't steal what ain't yers, especially from your new boss. I'll give ya some medicine, a little, but it should cool ya off." Markem gave the ferret a part of the medicine and retracted it. The ferret gagged a bit, discomforted from the taste. "Bah! It tastes of poison!"

"You'll live. Now get." The ferret gave a weak smile, bowed his head a bit, and was off.


Markem had arrived back at his tent, but was surprised and even a bit worried to see Scarl hanging by his tent, with a fresh bucket of water on the ground outside of it. Markem approached, with Scarl waving to him as he approached.

"Mornin, Markem."

Markem broke that friendly ice of a conversation early on. "Did one of em try to run again?"

"Nay actually, but your servant did cause quite a scene try'an to carry a bucket full of water up into the camp and failin. I just decided to. . .ummmm. . .help."

"Odd for a vermin to help a slave."

Scarl smiled "Odd for a common hordebeast to own two of em' "

Scarl knew that Markem had two slaves, but neither of the friends in the brown rat's new circle of comrades talked about it much. Scarl approached, picking at his teeth with a knife, trying to dislodged some kind of small bit of meat he had eaten earlier. "I mean ya no harm, friend, although as advice I'd have just gotten the water yerself."

"I suppose, usually I send both."

"Why didn't ya?"

"One is sick." Markem showed him the medicine vial. Scarl seemed deeply intrigued, and the ferret wanted nothing more than to know. "I see, eh? Odd ain't it, ya helpin a sick slave. Ya know takin from the storage is goin to cost ya vittles if a captain sees ya. They are crak'in the whip more on supplies more often."

"Well, they be mine as me sword is. Just cause the blade gets a bit rusty don't mean I just smash it and hope for another one."

"True, I suppose. Just an odd way of lookin at it."

Markem realized something and squinted "Hey. . .how do you know the captains are thinkin or doin?"

Scarl gave a chuckle "I squeeze some paws every little bit, good to know where the captains are half the time. I call it me hobby."

"Hobby?"

"Thats what the woodlanders be callin it. I just like to know things."

Markem shook his head "Huh. Usually knowin too much gets ya killed."

"Sometimes, but it certainly is useful. Such as knowin where the captains keep their vittles when no one is lookin." Scarl picked a particularly large crumb of meat from his teeth and it flew to the ground in front of Markem. The rat wasn't sure if he should be impressed by Scarl's intrigue, to chastise him for playing the spy in a vermin camp. Spies don't last long, and spymasters usually end up impaled on stakes by easily disappointed warlords. Scarl either didn't mind, didn't care, or perhaps he didn't even know. However, the rat didn't have a lot of time to decide, for a morning horn was blown, the call for the training muster.

"Well, I must be off Markem. I'll see ya tonight?"

"Aye." Markem noted as Scarl went off, slinking through an unusual way as he weaved between tents, as if avoiding the more elite band of guards and nosy vermin scattered about. Markem fed 'Dirt' some medicine, with a shell shocked 'Mud' inside who explained in a poor way that he was too weak to hold up a full bucket of water. It was to a point that the sickly 'Dirt' had to comfort his brother, with Markem being off and leaving the two without orders. 'Dirt' was partially relieved, at least the two had an excuse to rest easily this day, before quickly regretting it with a vicious cough


"Alright you claw-brained imbeciles! Today, the boss gotta big speech he be plannin, an ya all need to be in tip top shape, eh!" Gorb began, his own speech didn't fill any of the vermin in front of him with confidence. Markem, being a part of an 'elite' group of armored vermin stood to the side, the days of training in the horde's army had made him get some extra vittles and a promise of good loot. This group consisted of 10 vermin, most of them a mix and match of warriors. Some had iron helms, one wore a stolen Hare chest plate, one was highly skilled with a spear. This elite rabble would join Gorb as his personal guard in battle. Markem was hoping for the best, training hard in those days, to get this kind of position. If he was lucky, they may even build an entire barracks for creatures like him, a proper bed, served with proper food.

"Its goin to be a huge announcement. The horde been docile an' lazy for too long, an the boss wants ya all in shape for the comin raid."

Finally. Hordes usually sustained themselves by stealing, pillaging, and raiding the woodlanders of their valuables, and sometimes even stealing the woodlanders themselves. Farming wasn't an option, for what self respecting vermin farmed his own crops? It was the right of every horde to smash and burn, and Markem had a good deal of experience even beyond what happened at the homestead of those otters when it came to bring out the damage and making away with the valuables. With this horde swelling, he hoped it was a town or village that was the main target. The horde could quickly consume several smaller communities and began really building from the slaves, and collect good amounts of vittles. It gave the rat a spark of hope.

Gorb looked about, inspecting his troops, up until he came across one which displeased him deeply. Markem had not even noticed at first, when he realized the captain looked at a sickly ferret in front of him. Gorb spoke up

"You. Whats'ya name, wretch."

"G-G-G-" The ferret couldn't speak. It was the brother of Sloakom that Markem had earlier ran into. The ferret slunk down in fear as Gorb came closer, towering over him. The ferret held firmly onto a wooden spear and gulped, finally blurting out "Goch, sir!"

"Goch? What a stupid name! Come over here, boy, I need to give a good example to the more useful vermin in this miserable horde!"

Markem looked on curiously. Vermin captains loved to cruelly embarrass or harm their subordinates, and this was no different. Goch slowly came on over, holding his spear as it were his mother, and approached till he face the horde. Gorb spoke up "Now, I know ya lot are strugglin for a fight, and strugglin more some vittles, but Pelg demands ya all be in fightin shape. In other words, ya shouldn't all be lookin like this weak, pathetic, stalk of useless meat and bone like Goch here!" Gorb smacked the ferret harshly upside the head, and fell face first into the ground. Gorb cared little, up until the ferret gave a vicious, sickly cough. The fat captain gave a wicked smile.

No. Markem said to himself, holding his position. He feared what would come next, watching from the sideline. Goch gave one final look to Markem as Gorb picked up the young ferret by the gruff his neck "Ya hear that lads, this stupid thing is sick! Almost equal to my sickness of the lot of ya!"

Gorb slammed the ferret back into the ground, hearing a sickening crunch. The young ferret screamed out in pain. "Please! Mercy sir! Mercy!"

No. Don't do this. Markem pleaded in his mind, his face drooped as he looked over, cheering in silence as Goch slowly began to rise up. Gorb however smashed his feet down onto the ferret's back, pushing him further into the dirt, losing his spear with a thud. Several vermin in front of him snickered wildly, while others simply stared in amused entertainment. Only Markem seemed mortified at what he saw.

"Mercy be for weak beasts an' slaves, not for Pelg's horde! Ya may be some dumb conscript you pathetic wretch, but ya should'a been born stronger if ya wanted to live."

The young ferret cried out as Gorb began to torture his victim by cracking his feet into the ferret's back. The young creature attempted to squirm, but it was a pitied attempt. The ferret then did the unthinkable, and attempted to strike at the captain with his claws. The slight hint of pain made the captain retract his feet with anger and yelped. None of the snickering vermin dared laugh as the last bit of hope drained from Markem. You fool. You idiot. He would have let you live. . .I think. Please. Run.

Goch grabbed his spear and turned, trying to explain himself, but struggling to do so. "Please, sir! It was'an accident! I swears it on me brothers! Please!" Gorb was having none of it, looking at the slight red stain on his legs. Gorb came over and pulled out his sword, and Goch realized perhaps a bit too late he had wasted his grace to run. Frozen in horror, the ferret kneeled and begged, his word muddied from his slurred speech and whimpering.

"Please! I'll do anythin! I'll clean ya shoes! I'll join the slave stockade, just let me live! Please! P-"

Time should have slowed for Goch, but it didn't as the rat dragged the ferret over, the crying and whimpering creature thrown down where he was before. Markem looked on, his heart sank as he watched. He can't do this. He- - -He can do this. Much like how Goch arose and looked into his sneering peers, accepting his fate, Markem accepted that Gorb could not be stopped as he rammed his sword down the ferret's neck and killed him. Gorb pulled out his sword and gave a wild laugh "Ya see, lads! Weak. Weak and pitiful you all are, an if ya are weak, ya are dead like this pathetic corpse!" Gorb kicked the body harshly.

"You two! Grab this body and put it outside of camp, I don't want it stinkin up me field!"

Markem froze as he watched the ferret get dragged away. His face was not peaceful, his eye open with fear. Markem gave a low sigh, and began sparring with one of the other vermin, as Gorb casually began to limp about the field.
_

Markem walked to the new site where Jarolom and Scarl were, seeing the campfire in the distance. As soon as he approached, he sat down on a log, his face slumped low. Markem was young by the standards of most soldiers, but he looked grizzled and old when he sat by the brimming fire. Scarl almost knew immediately that something was wrong, as he offered Markem a drink. The rat took it and chugged it without a word, angrily giving it back to his friend.

"Ya look grumpy tonight, ya old brown nosed idiot." Jarolom said playfully. The fox chugged down his own drink. Markem looked up with a docile frown. "A bit."

"Somethin ya wish to share with us? Hope a lady rat from the family camp didn't turn ya down." Scarl prodded

"Nay, although I wish that were the case."

The fox leaned in closer, listening intently "Ya are in a good place, and far from camp. We won't tell the boss anythin if ya don't tell him that Scarl keeps stealin from their secret little stash."

Markem gave into the fox's prodding and spoke, his voice not filled with weakness, but a deep regret. The wind died down as Markem spoke up "The captain killed a youngster today. Right in front of us all. The dumb, idiot ferret was one of the brothers of some ferret I had killed. I shouldn't, nor do I, feel mournful over such a loss. Ya hear of it all the time, ya know? Captain sends his mooks to their demise, or does it himself. Ya avoid those kinds of creatures, but yet, seeing it got me thinkin more and more on it. These warlords, captains, and other cretans come with big swords and bigger hordes to say they goin to feed us an' take care of us. Yet each time it ends the same. They lead those poor saps off a cliff, or kill them themselves. They treat us like slaves, ya know. Treat us like worse than slaves I reckon, conscriptin us into these hordes like ya, or forced to go to them just to get food."

Scarl looked a bit surprised as Markem spoke, the rat finished by asking for another drink and chugging it again. Jarolom listened and did not speak, although he neither nodded or shook his head at the rat. It was perhaps the only thing a fox could do was listen to such things.

"Tis a shame." Scarl began "I think I knew who ya talked of. Smaller cretan, dirty. Bumped into a few times I think."

"Aye."

"Bah! Listen to yourselves!" Jarolom gave a cruel laugh "Talkin about like woodland beasts try'en to give some big speech about mercy an' life. Were warriors and bandits, us all. So what if some dumb wretch got em'self killed by some big oaf, at least none of us died, eh?"

"What if it was us, Jarolom?" Scarl folded his arms, but he didn't speak with anger. It was perhaps a disturbing facet of such conversations, as these things were expected. The fox smirked a bit and raised his wooden cup in a cheer. "Caus, it wasn't us of course! Let the others take the hit fer yourselves, and be grateful yer alive! Less trouble for the likes of us. I'd love to change it, sure, but it won't. No matter what ya do, it just doesn't happen. How many of ya been in a horde which treated its soldiers and servants like good and real beasts an' not cogs in a machine. So long as they don't send us to our deaths, we don't need to act the role of cowards an' slink away in the night an' hope we don't get caught. We are strong beasts, friends, and we got less to worry about till we en' up in a grave."

Neither Scarl nor Markem were motivated by such a resounding speech, let alone at peace, but both agreed in some part to Jarolom's call for self reliance. After all, they thought, Pelg wasn't going to do something stupid like march on the Long Patrol.


They are going to kill us.

This was the first thought that rang through Markem's head as he gathered along with other vermin to listen to Pelg the Tall's villainous speech. Some of the dumber vermin looked up with hope and admiration as their fearless leader swiped at them and gurgled out as loud as he could his great intention. The rat spat and cursed wildly and loudly, as his horde had mixed feelings on what he was saying, flanked by his black clad bodyguards who looked out with stoic looks at the gathered mass. Pelg's captains mingled into the crowd itself, although not to hear the speech, but to whip and bully any creature who didn't show efficient enthusiasm.

"My horde, my vast host of rats, weasels, foxes, and ferrets of Mossflower! Today is a good day, for I have decided we shall march against the cursed Hare fortress of Tussock! Long ago, I was but the humble armor bearer of the great Kasg, Kasg the Mighty, Kasg the Unbeatable! Yet his reign was stolen by the sword of a hare, and we are here to avenge him! I gather ya all here for this great continuation of this war, to bring death onto the enemies of all vermin kind! As Kasg gathered the northern and western warlords to war, I gather you to do the same! There is a great treasure in camp Tussock that I demand of you to gather for me, a great treasure that only I can wield! It is there you shall find a great many vittles and loot for you all to squander, for under my command we shall reign death onto our most hated enemy! Days ago, we captured a Long Patrol scout trying to map out our camp for attack. I ask ya all here, to follow me and show that long eared, high nosed, pompous bastards of ill mothers that Pelg is back! Pelg will pillage, Pelg will burn!"

The speech was thankfully short, with many cheering. Markem was not however. Tussock was a fortress and barracks for the Long Patrol, and each hare could easily dispatch 50 or so vermin before being downed or injured themselves. At least, that is what the tales described them as. Pelg the Tall was going to march the entire horde into a death trap, and Markem knew this suicidal march would kill him. He was a part of Gorb's personal division, not being a captain to command other vermin, but skilled enough to be called upon to defend him in the heat of battle. This meant to Markem he would be the first to fight the Long Patrol, and also the first to likely die against them. He fought hares before, and he dreaded it.

Markem looked around him at cheering vermin, occasionally and weakly shouting Pelg's name. Many had felt similar to Markem. One weasel looked mortified, a rat could be seen accidentally backing away to escape, a demoralized and elderly fox looked on with regret. Everyone knew now why Pelg had been so secretive, why his captains began to train the horde for war. They were going to war, not to raid, and none of them were ready for it. Markem looked up at the short rat, ranting and raving about what he would do to the Hares of the Long Patrol, and witnessed something that made him angry. A black clad weasel stared down at the crowd, smiling.

Damn them. Damn them all. Markem thought. If they want to use me as a damn tool for their assissted suicide, I swear they will come to regret it.
_

Markem returned to his tent, with the camp in a fury of debate on what to do next. Markem hoped to hear the word 'abandon' and 'mutiny' around, but instead he heard 'finally' and 'avenge'. Perhaps I should have scouted a bit better. Markem had thought. He had come to find a horde he had hoped would at least stay docile for a few seasons, well protected as any settlement. Settling down and doing some farming or craftsmanship was far from his mind, he didn't even know where to start. As the rat neared his tent, he saw 'Dirt' and 'Mud' drinking some water as they looked about the busy camp of vermin running in and out of their tents.

Markem entered his tent in a huff, sitting on his small roll bed with an angry and dejected look. 'Dirt' feared to ask what was wrong, unsure if the rat was angry at him or something else. Markem then made a sudden demand of the two.

"Start packing up all you can. Tent' an' all. Ya will carry most of it."

The two otters stared blankly at him. However, Markem viciously kicked 'Dirt' with his foot, falling down onto the ground. "I said move!" Markem barked at the two. 'Dirt' and 'Mud' didn't really know what to do, so 'Dirt' got up and herded his brother outside the tent to try to undo the stakes as the rat began to pack up his cot into a neat roll. He would need it for the journey ahead.

Just as Markem was nearly done packing up a part of his cot, he heard a shuffle of feet outside of his tent. Markem turned, his sword drawn in fright that it was a captain or worse, but he only saw the peaking head of Scarl and Jarolom looking back from the edge of his tent. Markem lowered his sword and sheathed it as he silently motioned them to enter.

The ferret and fox sat in the tent as Markem busily began packing parts of his bags. The otter youngsters had done a good job keeping his tent tidy and clean, and was pleased to find the easily bored slaves had organized his small collections of vittles and tools. The ferret spoke up first as Markem hurriedly bagged.

"I see ya heard the news."

"Aye."

"Abandoning, eh? Risky thing to do."

Markem sneered "Aye. I'll die either way, an' I know it. Learned that lesson a long time ago, and I ain't goin to repeat it."

Jarolom spoke up "Guess ya were right."

"About?"

"Last night."

"Don't beat yerself up over it, an' don't whine to me. Ya two leavin I assume?"

Scarl and Jarolom nodded. Markem was happy the two had the sense to see as he did, with Scarl speaking up a bit on the whole thing. "I heard em talkin about it as they left back to their hut on the hill, eh. They be plannin a full assault on the fort. Walls and barricade be a bit too high, an' likely the garrison will empty to fight the horde on the field. Pelg is preparin to engage them near the forest's edge."

"Too bad it won't work. Ya know what they be thinkin to make em' so bold. Besides the usual bout of madness?"

Scarl nodded, not much to Markem's surprise. The ferret seemed to know more than most. "Yer captain, Gorb, was plannin a big' ol surprise. He'll lead a flankin maneuver to the left field and smash with spearbeasts into the flank or around. They hope a quick rout will end the Long Patrol an' force em back into the fort where they will lay siege to."

Markem stopped for a moment, thinking to himself as Jarolom spoke up further "So much for easy vittles, lads. We could easily escape out of the western part of the camp. I know there be walls, but the sentries there are few. We could desert an-"

"Scarl. Ya said Gorb is leadin a flank, right?" Markem interrupted

"Aye?"

Markem lowered his gear and called out to the two otters outside "'Dirt!' 'Mud!' Stop an get in here!" The two otters hadn't gotten far and returned inside. Jarolom looked over them, specifically at 'Dirt' who looked a bit better from his illness, but not enough to be fully well. The fox gave a cruel smile, which wasn't returned by the younger otter.

"I ain't goin. Not yet anyway." Markem announced "Gorb is leadin a flank, sure, but I gotta plan. Listen ya two, an' listen well, cause it's goin to be risky."


It had been early the next morning at Pelg's little camp, when the captains of the hordes began to gather the vermin for war. Spears were held tight as many marched to muster beneath a familiar black banner. Kasg loved the color black, he revealed himself in a great garb of black cloth and charred armor. Pelg was no different than that of his previous master, a well spoken creature to be sure, but he felt more prisoner then he did warlord. The cadre of warriors who surrounded him aroused him from his slumber, traitors all. When Kasg had needed his elite vermin warriors to guard him in the midst of battle, this group had abandoned his cause to chase a treasure that was held by the Hares, and now it was rumored to be held in the northern fortress. They had followed Kasg out of loyalty before, now they followed his ghost to the shiny treasure he had sought in life. Pelg gathered his horde to him, the small rat dressed himself in a ridiculous black and purple garb, his armor overly large and uncomfortable, and held a sabre he barely knew how to use. Pelg planned to simply sit at the back, holding a proverbial whip, as he unleashed the horde on the Hares.

The plan had been simple. He and the army would march and meet the Long Patrol on the open field. 100 Hares against his 400 vermin soldiers. 4 to 1, an easy victory. However, Hares were tricky, they had allies still, and the hearts of free beasts did not go away so silently. His entourage had a plan of their own, Gorb would lead a division of vermin to the back of the Hare's line and smash into them from behind. The vermin warlord had a place where he would do this, at the forest's edge. The Long Patrol knew he was here, and a swift victory would claim his master's prize. The rat almost wished he spared the young Hare's life, the foolish scout screamed in true suffering and exited the world before Pelg could triumph. With this army of fodder at his back, he would defeat his master's enemy once and for all!

Pelg was already at the front of his grand army, ready to march to the beat of a great drum set for his horde. As Pelg was preparing to muster, his captain Gorb swaggered to his side.

"Gorb. I hope your vermin are ready to march!"

"They are my lord, we will be ready to flank at your order."

Pelg patted a blowing horn attached by string which hung from his neck. The comically large instrument was a gift from his master, in which Kasg has used to call his vermin to his side. It was stolen by the black clad entourage who gave it to Pelg to improve his authority and prestige. "When I blow this horn, Gorb, you better for your sake be ready for war! Long Patrol are few, but are good fighters, and you will be crucial for the battle itself."

Gorb bowed "Of course, Pelg! Me vermin will be ready at yer command. We will keep a pace back from the main horde and follow a mile away from yers. Once we engage the Long Patrol, I'll join on in!"

"Ya join on in when I command you to, knave!" Pelg shot back angrily "At the blow of this horn, ya better be there Gorb, or I'll personally skin ya alive."

Gorb gulped. Pelg may not have had the stomach for such cruelty, but his entourage did. They had done so to a disobedient slave, and gleefully hanged his fur from a rafter in their barracks. Pelg began a flurry of shouts and curses, his entourage following closely as Gorb carried a banner to his own section of the horde. The busy feet of vermin warlords rang throughout the camp, slaves were pushed back into a small cage-like pen, and the garrison watched as 400 vermin soldiers left without a word. It had taken half a season for Pelg to gather this dark host to him, and now he unleashed them at his command. The vermin sang war songs, which terrified the free beasts of Mossflower who heard them.

"Spear en' hand, blood on the band

The horde marches to war!

Sword be wroung', sling well loaded

The horde marches to war!

Spill their guts, claim what ya can

The horde marches to war!

Return home, with vittles an' loot in paw

The horde marches to war!"

Markem listened and marched to the beat as he gathered with other vermin with Gorb on a field separate from the main march. The whip cracks of other captains and taskmasters mustered the vermin to battle as he watched the large horde begin to move off. Markem gave no emotion as he shouldered a roundish oak shield to his back, his chainmail covered in a lair of cloth and rags. Markem looked like a beaten down soldier, but of all the hordebeasts surrounding him, he was perhaps the most experienced. Gorb faced his division and began to inform them of what Markem already knew.

"Alright ya lazy, layabouts! We aren't headin with the main army, Pelg has us a special little mission ya see. . ."
_

The division consisted of less than 40 armed vermin which moved lazily through the eastern woods of Mossflower. Gorb led from the front, his cadre of vermin from the back as they shifted uncomfortably about themselves. The crunch of yellow and red leaves, the cold wind, and slight drift of rustling from the trees above made the trip nauseous for Gorb. The rat was worried, and worried deeply. He wasn't a great fighter, let alone a great commander, his best trait was that he was feared by the rank and file. As they moved, he kept a look out across the trees, spotting the larger advance of the horde in the distance. Their movement was obvious as always. Soon they would be at Fort Tussock, and once they routed the Long Patrol, it would all be over.

However, Gorb was nervous. Anxious. The Long Patrol were a bold target for such a horde like this. They promised all these vermin vittles, they brutally conscripted for weeks on end, even fended off against earlier attacks. It felt like Pelg was throwing it all away, for what Gorb had no idea, nor did he really care. Even if the Hares put up a good fight, they would be defeated by such numbers. Not even the infamous Long Patrol could possibly defeat all of them. The rat strode confidently, but the horde soon stopped when two other odd vermin were sitting by the path. They were two odd creatures, a ferret and a fox, looking out at the group as they passed. Gorb thought this was perfect, two fresh conscripts for his army!

"Markem! Gather these lazy layabouts and push them into line! We move at once!"

Markem silently strode over, but was soon joined by the two others in the group. The rat hazed onwards, past the brush and forest depths, over rocks and cresting partial hills. However, as the vermin began to slow from their marching, Gorb stopped as he heard a distant scream. In the distance of the main horde, figures moved like dots. They weren't a complete mile away from the main horde, they could still see past enough trees for the main mass to be barely visible. Gorb froze, for he then heard a pathetic whimper of a horn blow from afar. The Long Patrol would not meet them in battle. They met them in ambush. The screams of battle grew louder.

Gorb unsheathed his blade "Come! We fight to save Pelg and the rest of the horde!" Gorb was ready to join in the ongoing battle, but he heard nothing behind him. He stopped and looked at his unmoving horde, with the horde nervous. They heard the screams from afar, and were frightened to join in. What perhaps held them up was Markem having drawn his sword, stopping one eager beast from charging head first into the fray.

"What are you doing! We go now! Ya heard the horn blow!"

"Aye. We did." Markem spoke up. Gorb knew, his eyes widened with rage and fury. He pointed his sword at Markem "Mutineer! To think ya were even worth me time! Ya lot, kill him and join me!"

"Any of ya touch me, I'll gut ya." Markem called out to the hordebeasts behind him "An' if ya follow this fool, ya will die without even as much as a taste of food in yer mouths. Were leavin Gorb, back to the camp."

The hordebeasts looked between Gorb and Markem, confused as to what to do next. The rat was bold, but Gorb was their master. The fat Gorb hunkered forward with his sabre, threatening to kill him, and was joined in by some eager and greedy creatures who looked jealousy at Markem's gear. Yet as these meager loyalists slinked closer, Scarl and Jarolom drew their own blades and began to chase them off. Gorb angrily raised his sword to strike down Markem, but the rat flowed his blade to parry Gorb. Markem, with terrible speed and precision, sliced into Gorb's sword arm. Before the rat could even calculate what was happening, Markem sliced into his neck. The fat rat slinked to the ground, his last thing he heard was the distant call of the horn.

Markem slowly sheathed his sword and looked to the gathered hordebeasts, even those who had just tried to kill him. They expected death, but Markem simply moved past them and muttered lowly to them. "Ya should return. This battle is far from lost, yer boss an' captains are dead. Return to yer homes, or join me lootin that camp. Yer choice."

All 40 of the vermin hordebeasts followed Markem, unknowingly intriguing a Long Patrol sniper who laid in ambush in a tree above, smirking at the hordebeasts left to loot their own camp. The horn blew ever louder, and was eventually silenced.


The camp was silent for a moment or two, as the garrison awaited for the horde's return. What perhaps did not surprise the few sentries at all was Markem, Scarl, and Jarolom returning to the warlord's camp in solemn mood. The small group began to rummage through the tents and supplies, with some breaking into a full sprint to reach the top of the warlord's hill first. Markem gathered his close friends to him first, and some new comers who stayed close to the curious rat warrior.

"Gather vittles. As much as ya can. Tents, supplies, whatever ya can get yer filthy paws on! The Long Patrol won't just stay there celebrating their victory for long, they will come and burn this camp to the ground and scatter those near it. We have about till nightfall till they utterly destroy this place, and kill us with it. Gather what ya can, ya have till noon."

One of the rats, an older creature then Markem spoke up "Ya got it Boss, where we meetin?"

Boss? Hell no. Markem shook his head "Uhhh, I ain't yer boss, just gather what ya can and be off."

The older hordebeast sighed and nodded, and hurried to find what he could, and steal what he could. Markem seemed almost silent for a moment, and as he moved, others followed in his wake. Jarolom and Scarl were at least good company, and the three agreed to travel together for a time at least. What had been three young soldiers, soon grew to them and 4 others looking for orders.

The camp soon descended into chaos, with Markem returning to his tent and yelling at 'Dirt' and 'Mud' to begin packing. Without question they began to repack the tent and sacks. Markem began to crest the hill along with Jarolom and Scarl, to try to salvage what they could of Pelg's collections. As they did, a member of the black clad entourage tried to keep the group away at spear point. Another red furred rat who seemed intent on keeping the small gathered group of greedy conscripts at bay. As Markem approached, he grabbed the spear and broke its wooden frame, and nearly threw the vermin soldier aside with aid of his allies. Markem entered the small household with a sword in paw.

Pelg had not kept things tidy, the barracks-household acted as a sleeping quarter for Pelg, his captains, and his close knit entourage of Kasg's personal guard. The red furred rat attempted to re-enter and force the vermin out with a knife, but Scarl had hid himself from view and disarmed him, only to embed his own knife in the soldier's eye. Markem began looking for vittles, finding some here and there. He ignored the shiny things other vermin went for. He pillaged the hut for all it was worth, which had not been much, and exited it with a bag full of goodies. His friends made out with newer knives, but when it came to Scarl, his greatest reward was a collection of scrolls and small books. For what purpose, Markem did not know.

The camp began to descend more into chaos. The women and children of the vermin began to pack their things and flee before hand, some tripping and crushing each other as they fled. The slaves from the pens, a few mice and hedgehogs, looked out as the vermin looted and fought each other. The garrison of the camp soon joined in as well, and many smiled and whispered to themselves that the Long Patrol would come and free them.

Markem returned to his tent, it being partially packed up with 'Dirt' nor 'Mud' understanding what was going on. 'Dirt' found the whole thing off, but he wasn't well informed enough what was happening. Markem seemed only half pleased and joined in helping them to pack. Once the tent and Markem's things had been packed up, all three joined in sharing the load with Markem keeping a paw to the sheath of his sword. "Ya two keep close, we are movin out."

'Dirt' saddled a pack of food and tent cloth in the heavy pack on his back, shouldering the burden better than his brother who carried a smaller pack of freshwater and ropes. "Yes, sir" 'Dirt' said with a partial sickness, not from actual sickness, but from his own disgust of having to call the rat a masterful title. Markem and his group quickly gathered outside the southern gate. As Markem gathered, he waited for Jarolom and Scarl to join them, but was shocked to find that following the two were other vermin. These were a mix of young and old creatures, some female, others well armed, and even one in a black clad armor of Kasg's elite guard who had betrayed his loyalties twice. Markem lowered his voice to speak to his two gangsters "Who in the hells is this lot?"

"We couldn't say no to them, they said they wanted to join ya." Jarolom shrugged.

"Join me for what? It was just goin to be us, me slaves, and-"

"Hate to say it, but ya impressed some folk. They are mooks, bringin them along won't harm us, an' they got their own weapons and vittles. Lets keep em' around, Markem."

Markem came forward, seeing a gathering of creatures. Some were vermin who came from bandit clans, others were tribals, some were of Kasg's former horde. He even saw the downtrodden faces of several slaves pulled from the pens, a hedgehog and mouse who were bound by their paws to a hard looking rat. Markem raised his paws to address them. "Name's Markem. Markem Brownnose. I know I ain't a good leader, let alone am a leader at all. Ya heard I killed Gorb. We head for the south of Mossflower, past the river Moss. Once we camp on the river's edge fer a season, an' survive the winter, we will march back north an' into eastern Mossflower again an' into the flatlands. We head fer the northern mountains! Follow close! Follow fast!"

Markem was flanked by both Scarl and Jarolom, with 'Dirt' only temporarily lagging behind as he watched Pelg's camp disappear into the distance. Had he known that the Long Patrol would be there within that very evening to clean out the camp, freeing the slaves from the pens, and eliminating the remaining horde which fled injured and dejected to the camp only to find it looted, he would probably have slowed. Yet, a swift and cruel kick from Jarolom kept up his pace, close to his brother and Markem as they marched southward, the day turning to night.