Chapter Eleven
Lucien blinked silently. He opened his mouth. . . no words came. He spluttered and fumbled, searching for something to say. But when he finally got something, she had run off. He groaned, and ran after, soon loosing her as he twirled his scythe expertly, killing easily. After all, it came naturally to him. It did. He hated it too. . .
"STREEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAMBEEEEEEEEEED!!!" he screamed, his eyes growing a ruby red. Frightened vermin faces turned to meet his face. Bloodlust in his mind, all common sense cast aside, he rushed into their midst. One ferret in particular turned her head, ears perked, with a snarl.
"That blasted sonnova-..." she muttered. "Yew, Ratdeath!" she growled out to a rat. He rushed over, throwing a quick salute. "Charge yer party at that 'un, that otter over there. 'E's slippery, but iffen y'come back t'me with bad news..." The rat had run off before she had finished.
He rushed his party at Lucien, not a lot of vermin, but what they thought was enough to take down one otter. He took them on with laughs and blood. Slash, thwap, crimson and hot liquid splattering his dark fur. Although he was a good warrior, he suffered his own cuts and wounds.
Soon the rat's party was dead, but more were coming. For every foe he felled, two more took his/her place. This would never stop the stubborn otter though. His optics then focused on one ferret. "Silverblood," he growled. She drew her double-handed broadsword, tossing him his own circular blades.
"Been 'oldin' on t'them," she said with a wicked grin. She hefted her weapon while Lucien pawed his own. His eye twitched, insanely smirking. "This is it, otter," Silverblood said. Lucien narrowed his eyes, gripping his favored weapons tightly.
They lunged at each other. Silverblood started with a lunge at Lucien's chest. Predicting this from a previous fight, Lucien sidestepped, catching the blade in between the two circles. Grunting, she wrenched her sword backwards, causing her to stagger slightly.
Lucien advanced upon her, swinging both blades from the right side, aiming for her ribs. She turned her blade horizontally, a clang sounding as either razor edge met. Vibrations ran up both their arms. They both stumbled backwards.
Silverblood took the next move, a crescent moon slash to his left. He crouched low, bending his head to the right as the sword scraped lightly across his cheek, making a short, but deep cut. He growled, launching himself at her, catching her in the stomach. She and Lucien tumbled until she came out on top, sword tip pointed at his neck, but his blade's edges pressed against her skin, both panting.
"Yew've gotten better, y'garbage," she spat.
"And yew've got yer filthy tongue back, I see."
Silverblood snarled, and he took advantage of the pause to kick her in the stomach. Her form shot up into the air, landing with a thump on the ground, dust rising into the air in a cloud. Lucien staggered upwards, and stumbled towards Silverblood. She picked up a handful of sandy-soil and threw it into his eyes. He yelled and covered his eyes with his paws, trying to scrape it out.
Silverblood lunged, and he blocked blindly, sending her blade into his leg. With a scream, he fell to one knee, dropping his weapons and clutching his leg, gasping for breathe. Half-blind, and the pain of an oddly dislocated knee shooting through him, he tore his eyes off the blood from the wound the blade had as well inflicted. He squinted up at Silverblood. She laughed, a low, raspy sound.
"That's right, Streambed, look up and stare straight inter my eyes. . . see yer enemy. . . see yer life's end." Look he did, wheezing, sand encrusting the rims of his eyes, his body blood covered. Behind his back, his paws fumbled for his dropped weapon.
"Not as long as I have strength in my arms, blood in my veins, and a soul in my body!" he shouted, and with a final effort, grasped his weapons and leapt at Silverblood. His movements were swift enough to catch her off- guard. He slashed at her unprotected chest, to quick for her to block, angled perfectly.
She swung angrily at him. He dove to the side, rolled, and came back up, slashing at her leg to even the odds slightly. She screamed, her height shrinking slightly. Lucien jumped towards her, blades in hand, and swung. Lucien felt Silverblood's fear, her death, he felt darkness and light, he knew it was coming. . .
She ducked out of the way just in time, both landing on opposite sides face down in the dirt. He had managed to graze her side: she had merely knocked him a blow to the side with the hilt of her sword. They both assumed the other was not up, and spun 'round to face each other. And, with a final leap they met.
It all happened in the swift movements that follow. Lucien slashed, she ducked, bringing her sword around in an arc to decapitate him. He blocked quickly, swinging her sword around in a circle as he did so. They both stumbled backwards, and jumped at each other.
In mid-air their weapons found each other. A clang burst into the all-but- silent air, of steel upon steel, good upon evil, them and the air around them seemingly vibrating. They both landed back on the ground, naught but a few paces away from one another, and poised to strike. And, with a final run, they came to each other.
Lucien held his blades as though they were wheels, ignoring the pain in his paws as he spun the circular blades and drove them deep into her chest. Her pupils grew thin, her eyes wide open. Her limp form fell backwards.
Lucien's face was twisted in pain from the dislocated leg, the wounds coursing over his body, the purple bruises on his ribs. . . Then the pain hit him. Like a boulder to the head it hit him. He fell to his knees, which was quite painful, and further collapsed into a sitting position, barely conscious.
Everything started to blur, but not before he noticed Silverblood and him had battled away from the war. Good. . . maybe they'd think him dead. Now, the cold and numbness once again blanketed him, almost soothing. He started to fade, fade from the world, a voice calling him. Then, a song began in his ears as his eyelids slowly closed. The days are cold, the nights are long,
The northwinds sings a doleful song,
So hush again upon my chest,
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty love...
Lucien stood at the gates of the Dark Forest, staring into its depths. "It's been a long time. . . son," came a voice: smooth, elegant, melodious. He turned to this familiar voice, though he had not heard it in seasons upon seasons. He saw her honey colored fur, her thin and beautiful frame, and sea blue eyes. He laughed in disbelief, a tear streaming down his cheek.
"Mom!"
He rushed to her, embracing her as she laughed as well. "Yes, my child, it's me," she said, patting him on the back. She held him out slightly, looking him up and down with a smile. "My, my, my, you've grown so much from that stubborn otterkit I raised," she said. He beamed.
"How I've longed t'see you, mom! When you died at Moonshadow's hand, I. . . I couldn't go on. So, I was enslaved, and I killed him-"
"I know, son. I watched over you as your life went on. You suspected too, but it was too crazy for your adolescent mind. Now I've seen you've transformed into a brave warrior. Your mind is warped, but you have found friends and. . . ." she trailed off, grinning and raising an eyebrow.
"Mom!" Lucien said, blushing. She flicked his nose, still grinning, because she knew he knew it was true.
"Son," came another voice. Lucien's smile faded into a face of pure shock. He shook his head, the smile reappearing as he saw him.
"Dad!"
He ran to his sire, gripped in his strong hold. His father was still taller than him, even at full growth. "Yes, 'tis me. You've become a fine young otter, Lucien." More tears sparkled onto Lucien's cheeks.
"Finally, I get to join you two here," Lucien exclaimed joyously. His father's face grew grave. Lucien looked up. "What is it?"
"You can't stay with us," he said quietly. Lucien shook his head.
"What?"
"You can't, it's not your time. She needs you. Now, go!" his father cried, and he and his mother started to drift away. Lucien shook his head, running but not moving.
"No! I need you! I need you! NO!" he shouted as they faded away, and he drifted. . . drifted. . . He caught a single glance of a hare's face over him, but then back into blackness. . . And he drifted. . . and he drifted. . . and drifted further, until the blackness enveloping him almost hurt to stare into with closed eyes.
Lucien's eyelids fluttered open, and he looked up at the great familiar Golden Eagle that was looming above him. He grinned, and wearily reached out the arm that was not spurting blood. "Hey, MacPhearsome. Haven't seen ye in a while, eh? How'd I get up 'ere, mate?" he said weakly.
MacPhearsome eyed him severely. "Yeh have te kape alive, maister Lucien. Yeh must rayjict death, d'yeh hearken?" he said carefully. Lucien grinned.
"Yeah, I hearken, y'great featherbag. Now, help me t'bandage these wounds o' mine. I 'ave a feeling Kys might need me," he said, wincing as he looked down at his arm and leg.
Whilst the others were fighting for their lives, Kyra was alone. She had easily made her way through the mob of fighting creatures. Mavarl had his troops trained well, ready to attack at a moments notice. He still didn't trust her. That was apparent. The troops seemed to know the otter, and also seemed to possess enough common sense in their twisted, wicked brains to steer clear of her.
Even without the sight of Mavarl to trigger her red anger, it started to seep into her mind anyway. Kyra, using all the willpower she could spare, pushed it aside. Later. First, she wanted her bow. Then, Mavarl would die a slow and painful death. She would make sure of that.
Kyra Longfletch was no fool. Any vermin stupid enough to come even remotely close to her soon had their heads dispatched from their bodies. Kyra Longfletch let none live. Kyra continued on her way, at last reaching the great double doors of Fortguard. Effortlessly, she whacked on the rusty old lock with her scythe, breaking it in two before kicking the door open with a foot.
There were many rats inside; the ottermaid had underestimated the number of rats Mavarl had. She didn't care. They were only hordebeasts. She could easily behead any that got in her way. They noticed her, some scrambling to get out of her way, and others scrambling to get in her way and stop her. Their leader would pay for her head on a platter, they knew.
She started to sprint, chopping away with her scythe, all the while trying to keep her mind at bay; trying to keep the Red Mist back. To no avail. Even the mighty Kyra Longfletch could not battle an army. Some innner part of her knew that no mere otter could fight in these odds. Her bloodwrath took over.
Though no mere otter could defeat scores of rats, a beast under the influence of Bloodwrath could. Cregga Roseyes had been known to charge into armies of five hundred vermin or more, though she had gone blind after such a feat. Kyra was luckier. She made it through scathed, though not seriously injured.
She had to get her bow. Her journey to the armory seemed to take mere seconds, though it had really lasted several minutes. As she opened the door, Kyra did not need to search for her bow. She knew where it was; hung on the back of the armory door, as it had been last time. She lifted her hands and tenderly, reverently, took her bow down from the back of the door where Mavarl had placed it.
Kyra knew where she would find Mavarl. She knew where the rat would be lurking. Under normal circumstances, Mavarl would be out fighting, leading his rats from the front. This time, Mavarl had left command to another. He and Kyra both knew, from an inner sense that was buried deep within their souls, that they would have to meet alone, and that no armies would be able to help them once they did.
Mavarl would be waiting for her in the dungeons. The otter didn't exactly know how she knew this, but she knew it none the less. It did not take long for her to reach the dungeon steps. She pressed her hand to the stone wall near the barred wooden door, taking comfort from its cool surface. Then, the ottermaid opened the door to the dungeons.
After thinking a moment, she decided upon something. It was better to be careful than sorry. She pulled two arrows from her quiver and laid them in a large X on the ground in front of the door. If she was unable to come back up herself due to injuries or. . . or death. . . someone would come for her, or else her body.
The dimly lit corridors of the dungeon seemed strange and distorted in the torchlight. The ottermaid came up to one wall, easily tall enough to grab one of the torches from its bracket. A light in such a place as this would be needed. The ottermaid did not realize that, by doing this, she could not draw her bow quickly.
Kyra continued walking, paws hardly making any noise as she glided along the corridors, almost spirit like in her fluid motions. Her heart pounded all the while, blood rushing through her veins. Blood that would soon be spilt, she knew, but hopefully less so than Mavarl's.
Soon, Kyra ended her wanderings, passing door upon door upon barred door, leading into damp, uncleanly prison cells. She herself had been kept in one of them, but that was long ago. Then, at the end of the hall, she saw her destination. The Torture Room.
She could still remember the time long ago when Mavarl had used it on her. "Bare back," he'd said before peeling off her ragged garment from her back, leaving it bare while he gave out the worst whipping she'd ever gotten. She tried not to think about it. The door was closed. She didn't care. She calmly walked up, and knocked.
Meanwhile, outside, things were going rather well. Slowly, the tide was turning. The battle had barely started, but already the goodbeasts were taking charge, forcing their enemy back into the castle. The slaves were free of the compound; the weak ones on their way to the ships, while the stronger ones joined in the fight.
Sky had quickly left the group rescuing the slaves. She had been pulled into the fight, unable to resist the thrill of battle any longer. Slashing, hacking, thrusting, parrying; her saber was everywhere at once, weaving through the vermin as she made her way into the castle. The young Captain was thoroughly enjoying herself, laughing softly under her breath as she made her way through the masses.
Today Fortguard would fall. There was no doubting it this time. The tide had turned, Mavarl and his horde were doomed, it was only a matter of time. . . Time which was passing far to slowly for her liking. The castle was breached easily enough. Once inside, Sky automatically followed the trail of dead and dying vermin, quickly disposing of any who might have escaped Kyra's onslaught.
On and on the trail went, winding through hallways, spilling down corridors, leading exactly where she thought it to: the armory. Kyra. But she already knew the otter wouldn't be there. No, Kyra would be looking for Mavarl, which meant. . . Sky skimmed past the armory without bothering to look in, slicing through a pair of reckless weasels who dared to get in her way.
She continued down the hallway, moving at a quick walk, saber held ready for whatever might await her. Arrows on the ground; Kyra had been here. And not long ago, for that matter. The battle had practically just begun, after all. She turned a corner and there she was.
"Kyra!"
Sky had come just at the wrong moment. A moment that would prove more deadly than the hare could have realized. The door opened, slowly, and Kyra turned just as Sky called her. She saw the hare, her heart pounding. "Sky, you idiot, you scared m-" The otter was cut off as the door swung slowly open. Mavarl had thrown his sword into it, allowing it to open easily.
Calmly, coolly, the rat warlord stepped forwards, his paw drawing a long, deadly scimitar. Kyra had seen it before. "So, Kyra Longfletch," the rat said tauntingly without trace of an accent. "We meet at last. You don't know how long I've waited for this very moment, otter. How many nights I've not slept a wink thinking of the pleasure of killing you. . . slowly and painfully."
Kyra did not bother to turn away from Sky, the haremaid seemed frozen. Kyra had no time to react and push away the red madness that was slowly filling her eyes. . . her head. . . her throat. . . every muscle and fiber of her being was throbbing and aching. Aching for blood. She had no time to stop what was going to happen next.
The ottermaid dropped the torch to the ground, the flame still burning, and did not even notice it as it skittered into the room from whence the rat had come. She still did not turn. Mavarl only saw the ottermaid's shoulders going up and down as the bloodwrath pumped through her blood.
The image of Sky swam in front of her, blurry, unrecognizable as her dearest and oldest friend. Kyra almost sank to her knees because of the painful ferocity in which the bloodwrath clung to her. Her previous experiences were nothing compared with the pain she felt! It burned her from the inside out! Kyra, in only a matter of seconds, had an arrow at the end of her bow.
She must kill Mavarl. . . She must kill Mavarl. . . This strange thing was in her way. . . She must kill Mavarl. . . She must kill Mavarl. . .This thing must be stopped, this thing was evil. She must dispose of it. Mavarl must be killed. . . she let the arrow fly and it hit home. The haremaid staggered back a few paces from the force of the blow, eyes widening with shock, slumped against the wall, her vision clouded.
An accident. It had been an accident. Kyra hadn't meant to hit her. Bloodwrath. . . blood lust- Mavarl had caused this. She couldn't see; vision wavering. Her chest hurt; the arrow had gone deep, she didn't need to look to know. Oh, how she wanted to res- NO! No, she wouldn't die here. She would live! She'd live. . . live. . . life. . . Pulse fading. . . little. . . less. . . nothing. . .
Only then did Kyra turn around, hardly even remembering what she had done. The otter was, for the time being, sweetly oblivious to the fact that she had just shot her best friend with an arrow. . . a deadly shot. At in a sane state of mind, Kyra would have panicked. Now, she wasn't sane. She was under the bloodwrath, completely crazy.
And so it had not been Lucien, Kestral, or Raze that suffered from her madness, though she had warned them. Not Raze, the solemn and faithful ferret. Not Kestral, bright and fresh with youth. Not Lucien. . . well, the one she loved perhaps more than any other. It had been Sky. Sky had always been there for her. Sky was. . . has been. . . her best friend in the world.
Mavarl was frightened. Kyra had shot, of her own accord, Skythistle Morningdew. KYRA had just shot her best friend. Kyra! What the hell was going on with that ottermaid? His panicked brain could come up with only one explanation. She was mad. He had thought Kyra to be sane, but dangerous. This proved otherwise.
Kyra had just shot Skythistle, her best friend and faithful companion! How could she have done such a thing if she were sane? Mavarl gulped. He was not just dealing with a mere ottermaid. He was dealing with a creature possessed! One he had driven insane! But, even so, he remained outwardly calm. "So. . . we meet at last, Kyra Longfletch. I think its time that we had a little chat, as it were."
Kyra nodded, speech somehow still present as she heard the rat's voice as if from afar. Through the red mist, a voice that sounded like her own answered it. "Yes. Let's have a chat. Just to warn you, I can talk very loudly indeed." Kyra pulled back a green shaft and let it fly. The arrow went wide of its mark. She had intended for it to miss.
Kyra, knowing Mavarl would be watching the arrow, used the distraction to duck down and swing her powerful rudder around in a full circle in an attempt to knock Mavarl down. This plan only partially worked. The rudder smacked the rat full in his stomach, winding him, but though he staggered for a brief moment, he did not fall. The arrow, however, had hit another target.
It had struck the torch Kyra had so carelessly thrown near the doorway to the Torture Room earlier. That was a great misfortune on Kyra's part. Sparks ran along the arrow and sprayed into the air, several dropping onto the fur of both opponents. Kyra, under the influence of the bloodwrath, ignored the sparks. She was concentrated on the rat in front of her. Mavarl was strong, and soon got over the thump Kyra had given him. Neither noticed the fire that licked along the wooden parts of the torture devices nearby.
Kyra's eyes were red, her vision was blurred, but still she put up an amazing fight. Tearing an arrowpoint from one of her shafts, the otter twirled it skillfully in one paw and threw it as she would a throwing dagger. The small point succeeded in tearing off the unlucky rat's right ear. The warlord shrieked in pain, grabbing his head and dropping his scimitar.
And so Kyra charged inward, bow in paw, though an arrow wasn't notched to its thick, well woven string. Mavarl had started off the fight very badly, but he was soon to gain the upper hand. Though Kyra was his equal in strength and equal to him in size and determination, and probably even more agile than he, her head was befuddled. Creatures possessed with Bloodwrath could not reason as those without it.
Kyra could only see Mavarl, the red mist swirling around her like a fog. . . all she saw was the form of the rat and all she knew was that her arrows wanted to taste his blood. She had not the inventiveness of mind in her present situation to think. Her body was acting on instinct. The muscle patterns she had embedded in her brain as a kit were saving her life.
Somehow, Kyra had thrown her bow aside, and had not allowed Mavarl to pick up his cutlass. It was a hand to hand combat now. But then, something happened that interfered with everything. Fire, hot and bright, flickered from the inside of the room as a large wooden table inside the torture rack fell to the floor, shooting flames everywhere.
Suddenly, Kyra felt a searing pain in her flesh. Pain like she had never imagined was possible running along her back, searing her skin, baking her flesh. Kyra could only manage to pick up the arrow. . . her golden arrow and bow, from the ground. With the firm wood in her paw, she turned away, trying to see through the blanket of black smog and red anger and flames.
She saw Mavarl coughing and sputtering, trying to escape the flames. "Oh no you don't," she said with the last of her oxygen. "Oh no you don't, rat!" She aimed her arrow, and let the golden shaft fly. . .