Vengeance Quest Chapter 9: In the Horde

The squirrel has finally stopped following us.

Nightdeath Longclaws is dismissive of this news, unconcerned as always about the lone squirrel that has been a thorn in the side of the Nighthunt for so long. He says she is but one beast, that the stragglers she picks off were weak and inattentive anyway and that nobeast should mourn the loss. Kill her on sight, we're ordered, but we're not to go out of our way to hunt the goldentailed treejumper.

I respect the Longclaws. He's the best leader I've served under. Even so, I think his judgment is too hasty or too blind when it comes to Goldentail… after all, she saw her father slain at his paws, and if her harrying of our forces is any indication of her hate, then she is dangerous. Creatures that live for revenge don't give up and don't care for their own lives.

She will return. My hope is that she returns alone.

Kiern set his quill pen back in its holder, reading over the elegant lettering with pinched brows. A nod, a quick shake of drying powder over the wet ink, and he was done. He leaned back in his chair to stretch and survey the inside of the tent.

It was a bit crowded for a soldier in a horde on the march, even somewhat crowded for a captain like Kiern. One trunk's metal lid yawned open to reveal a stack of meticulously rolled scrolls. Another trunk held inks and blank scrolls; a third contained a few rare, valued books and a host of maps. A narrow cot lay shadowed against the tent wall, blankets tucked flawlessly neat over the canvas. A plank of wood set upon two trunks served as a desk, uncluttered and organized.

"Captain?"

A timid voice at the tent flap drew the stoat's gaze to the entrance. He sighed and straightened, brushing a fleck of dust from his immaculate black uniform. "Come in, Skyfire."

The flap swung open and a second stoat ducked into the tent. A stray thread of her tunic caught on the flap, pulling the stoat to a halt. She fumbled with the opening, trying to separate cloth from canvas. Kiern watched her clumsy struggle for a moment before rising, biting back another sigh, and pulling a knife from one polished black boot. One slice parted the thread in two.

"Trouble, Skyfire?"

The stoat fem looked to the ground, shamefaced. "Srory…" She fingered the loose thread nervously, tugging at it without realizing what she was doing.

Kiern pulled her paw from the offending thread, cut the strand off close to the black tunic, then slipped the knife back into his boot. "You'll need to mend that."

"Aye, I suppose." The ginger red paw strayed towards the thread again. Skyfire bit her lip at Kiern's pointed glance and pulled her paw to the hilt of her finely crafted rapier instead, fiddling with the burnished silver.

Kiern waited while the stoat fidgeted, stared about the impeccably clean tent, fidgeted some more. "Did you need something, subcaptain?" he asked, mild impatience touching his otherwise even tone.

"Oh!" Skyfire started and tugged at the message canister on her belt. She handed it to Kiern with haste, ducking her head in apology. "From the Longclaws."

"Really… I wonder what he wants." The stoat upended the canister, caught the message that slid out. He scanned it quickly, expression growing grim. "Wonderful," he muttered, then looked up at his waiting subcaptain. "Tell the Nightclaws to form up for escort duty. Make sure they are presentable, and you need to get presentable too." The light brown gaze raked across Skyfire's uniform and the dust from blade practice that obscured the white claw insignia on the front of the black tunic.

Shame caused the stoat fem's ears to droop and she nodded. "Yessir."

"Dismissed."

Kiern turned back to his desk and read the missive again, more carefully this time. "Just wonderful…"

Captain Kiern of the Nightclaws:

I have sent messages to the other captains to assemble the Nighthunt for executions. Some of the offenders being punished were popular with members of the horde. I shall need my personal guard about me for this event—form up your Nightclaws in formal uniform and wait for me outside my tent.

-Nightdeath Longclaws

Who is it this time, I wonder?

The last execution had been only a week ago. Disgruntled hordebeasts, tired of a meager season with too little plunder, started resentful muttering rippling through the Nighthunt. Nightdeath dealt with it expertly, mercilessly, executing the two ringleaders and immediately leading the horde south to the warm rich lands there. The prospect of plunder and ease silenced the dissention… so what could the reason for execution be now?

Kiern shook his head, mentally calling his meandering thoughts to order. He tossed the missive in the fire and brushed imaginary ash from his uniform. Skyfire should have the Nightclaws ready by now…

He gave his uniform one last look over, rubbed his paws free of ink with a rag, and stepped into the sunlight.

There was his command, standing in crisp lines of four before his tent. They came to attention as he passed, critical eye inspecting every uniform, every bit of fur. Good… they are learning. Each hordebeast was clean, their uniforms unwrinkled, any visible metal polished to a high gleam. Of all the Nighthunt, the Nightclaws had to look as good as they fought. Their black cloaks, fluid in the brisk wind, marked them as the Longclaws' personal guard, elite fighters and every one of them loyal to the wolverine and their captain.

Kiern stopped before the newest member of the Nightclaws, a wiry ferret with a set of wicked throwing knives slung across his chest. "You. Swiftblade, is it?" A nod from the recruit. "Your knife harness—it is not part of the uniform."

"Aye sir, that I ken." Like many of the creatures in the wolverine's horde, the ferret spoke with a northland accent. "Ah dinnae be used tae drawin' mae knives from mae belt, an' Ah sez tae maeself, 'Ye canna be as good a guard if ye must think tae draw steel,' an' so Ah wore th' harness, saer."

The stoat nodded. This Swiftblade had a good head on his shoulders—after a bit more time in the Nightclaws there was a good chance he'd make subcaptain. "Report to Subcaptain Skyfire after the executions for a more…decorous harness." He eyed the battered leather askance—it did not go well with the black and white uniform.

"Aye, saer."

The stoat captain turned, striding to the front of the unit. "There will be more executions today," he said, voice carrying to every ear without rising to a shout. "We will be guarding the Longclaws closely. It will be the Nighthunt that you must beware of today, not the woodlanders." His sharp gaze raked across the ranks. "Move out."

They reached the Longclaws' tent, marked as different from the other tents by a black banner and nothing else. It was the same as any other tent in the horde's campground, no bigger or better. This refusal to allow himself anything better than his horde earned the wolverine respect and loyalty, a far stronger tie than fear.

At the call of "halt!" the Longclaws stepped from his tent to survey his gathered guard. He was, if anything, more immaculate than Kiern, his thick black fur marred only by the occasional battlescar, wickedly long claws polished to a high gleam. He commanded respect merely by being, muscular dark form towering head and soldiers above most of the hordebeasts, red-black gaze piercing and riveting.

Nightdeath Longclaws was a born leader. The Nightclaws would willingly give their lies for him. The Nighthunt, on the other claw, took a little more convincing… They needed plunder to buy their tenuous loyalty. And where loyalty was uncertain, force and fear were necessary to cement it.

"Fall in," Kiern barked in the drawn out commands that sounded like gibberish to the untrained ear. "Escort formation!"

The NIghtclaws formed up behind and around the wolverine, a living cloak with Kiern at the Longclaws' right shoulder and Skyfire to the left. They followed grimfaced as their chief strode to the open area that served as temporary parade grounds.

Kiern's gaze flicked to the cart already set up as a stand for the executions. Confusion stirred when he saw that nobeast was chained to its sides, ready for the sword. Odd… what is the chief up to?

Movement form the Longclaws caught his wandering eye and he stopped at the raised paw. "All halt!" he sang out, focusing on his leader.

Silence fell over the assembly, conversation and the rustle of idle motion fading to nothing under the piercing stare of the wolverine. "You've been called here today because of traitors in your midst," Nightdeath said, voice chill and flat. "Hordebeasts plotting to kill me and take my command. Hordebeasts in high positions, no less…"

Oh… Kiern nodded, slight and knowing. No real surprise, this. Nightdeath periodically eliminated one or two captains or subcaptains, often those who were getting too ambitious. It kept his captains in line and the turnover meant that nobeast had time to grow secure enough to plot assassination. Kiern alone had held his position as captaincy for several seasons; he was the only one the Longclaws trusted, if any. He wasn't at all expendable, and he intended to keep it that way.

The nervous rustling of motion at the Longclaws' words subsided under the wolverine's ebony glare and he continued. "I do not tolerate dissention! You swore to serve me when you joined the Nighthunt—every one of you! Any who wishes to take back his oath may do so if they do so before me—and then they must leave the horde with no more than they joined with. Any who breaks his oath, and plots treachery, however…" That cold gaze seemed to pierce every stare it met, past the body to the innermost dark secrets of the soul. "…they can only leave the horde through hellgates. "

The wolverine's unnerving stare traveled across the four divisions, settled on a fox with the white bars of a captain. "Captain Longbrush of the Nightblood."

The wiry tod stepped forward, features inscrutable though his flat amber eyes held the merest hint of fear. "Aye sir?"

"What are the properties of belladona?"

The score of hordebeasts behind Longbrush, his entire command and all trained assassins, stiffened at the name of the plant. The fox licked his lips nervously, eyes darting side to side as if for a way out. "A poison," he said at last, one paw wandering to his stomach and the hint of nausea crossing his angular features, "sore painful an' deadly."

"And how does it kill, captain?" The Longclaws's voice was dangerously soft.

By now the assassins' captain was shaking uncontrollably as he spoke. "First... dizziness. Dry mouth... heat... nausea - hellsteeth, ye didna!"

"Continue, captain." Commanding. Cold.

Longbrush gripped his stomach with both hands, his face twisted with the effort to hold back nausea. "...vomiting next. Blurred sight..." and his eyes became unfocused as he recited the litany of symptoms, panic creeping into his tone, "...faster heartbeat, agitation, raving... then weakness, sleepiness, shortness of breath... death... " He doubled over, convulsing in the throes of retching.

"Does it have a cure, my friend?" The words were an almost verbal caress, the stroke of coils before the adder's bite.

Past chattering teeth and heaving stomach the fox managed to choke out a weak "n-nay..."

White fangs showed in a parody of a grin. "Not a very good thing to give to somebeast, is it, captain? A pity I learned of your plot before you carried it out. And a pity you were so eager for breakfast this morning - you consumed the very poison you planned for me. How... ironic."

"Tekhyl! Tekhyl of the Nightfangs!" The fox's eyes rolled wildly and he pointed a quivering claw at a ferret in captain's uniform. "He told me to do it! Said ye was a fool, a deceiver and would ne'er let any of us live more'n a season're two.... hellsteeth, Longclaws, ye poisoner! Someday ye'll trip up! Somebeast'll kill ye! Ye'll die, an' ye'll rot wi'out bein' buried an' everybeast'll be celebratin'!"

His ranting deteriorated into nonsense, more and more ridiculous accusations alternating with desperate pleading until it all dwindled into silence, the shaking and retching slowed to trembling and he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. Sinking lower and lower to the earth, curling into a miserable ball, eyes blinking shut and open, open and shut until they closed, drifting to unconsciousness to lifelessness.

Nightdeath turned away from the body, ebon eyes turned hard as steel and just as cold. His gaze traveled across the ranks, settled on the ferret that Longbrush had accused.

"Captain Tekhyl of the Nightfangs."

The name was a death knell, tolling a second time in the same day, and the ferret's face was grim as he stepped forward. He and his command were a rough, seedy lot, each covered in scars, many missing ears or eyes or claws. The Nightfangs were the toughest of the Nighthunt, the first to attack in battle and the last to leave.

Nightdeath's eyes narrowed. "You encouraged Longbrush. You plotted with him to kill me. It was you who gave the assassin the idea of poisoning me in the first place. Perhaps I ought to have slipped you poison as well."

Anger flared in the sable brown ferret's eyes. "Mebbe I'd get te yew afore it kicked in' an' I'd kill ye, mebbe that why you ain't poisoned me, yew bloody mangeclaws! Too scared te fight, poisoner?"

The taunts drew a spark of fury to the wolverine's cold gaze, but outwardly he remained unmoved. "Do you wish to try your blade on mine, captain?"

"If yer fool enough, aye!"

Nightdeath nodded, an almost imperceptible movement. "To the death, then."

A savage grin split the ferret's scarred face. "Wouldn't 'ave it any other way, tarface!" He stepped away from the ranks of hordebeasts and drew his cutlass, the polished curving blade gleaming silver in the southland sun. "Been waitin' a long time fer this…"

The wolverine joined him in the open ground between his guard and the Nighthunt but he didn't yet unsheathe the longsword slung across his back. Tekhyl sneered and pointed to the longsword with his cutlass. "Draw it, chief."

A sardonic smile ghosted across the Longclaws' face. "I do not need it to defeat the likes of you."

"Yew mock me?" The ferret snarled and dropped to a fighting crouch. "Yew'll be too easy te kill!"

The wolverine let the tips of his fangs show in mocking challenge. "Kill me then, ferret—if you can."

"He's mad!"

Kiern turned at the shocked whisper, raising an eyebrow at Skyfire's wide eyes. "Mad, subcaptain?"

She gulped at the mild reproof in his tone but explained nonetheless. "Tekhyl's not captain for nothing, sir. He's an expert fighter. I've watched him. He keeps in practice but I've never seen the chief fight except in battle…"

"Is Tekhyl a better fighter than I?"

Surprise flickered across the stoat fem's face, settling into thoughtfulness. "No, he's not as good as you…"

"I have never been able to defeat the Longclaws in a duel," he said, "and I do not believe he has ever used all his skill in our sparring sessions."

Skyfire's eyes widened even further and she turned back to the two combatants. "This should be good then…"

The ferret slashed down with his cutlass for the wolverine's shoulder. There was a flicker of movement, impossibly fast and casually executed, and Tekhyl stumbled forward as his blade cut only air. Nightdeath had stepped just far enough to the side for the cutlass to pass by unrewarded by blood.

"Oh my," the Longclaws said with mock startlement and false concern, "did you trip? You really must watch out for those pesky rocks…"

A ripple of half-stifled laughter from the ranks provoked a snarl from the ferret captain. He slashed to the side, angling up for the wolverine's ribs at the last moment. Long white claws flicked out, deflected the curved blade aside.

"Ah, sorry, captain… it is not quite time for my manicure yet."

Rage choked words in Tekhyl's throat. He charged once more, feinted, feinted again, then kicked out with his footpaw when the wolverine parried and dodged both feints. He growled satisfaction as it connected with Nightdeath's gut. Wind forced from his lungs, the wolverine was distracted for a split second and that was all that the ferret needed. His blade whistled in, Nightdeath's claws came up to parry, and a slight miscalculation brought forth a line of blood along the wolverine's ribs.

First blood.

Pain mingled with fury hissed from the Longclaws' throat. His claws lashed out, drew blood from Tekhyl's shoulder. The ferret retaliated but Nightdeath was ready. He dodged and slashed an identical wound on the captain's other shoulder, smiling infuriatingly though his eyes held all the rage of a firestorm. For every failed attack on Tekhyl's part, the wolverine gave the ferret another deep claw wound.

The captain was flagging visibly after only a short period of time, face contorted in pain, slashing weakly at the wolverine. Nightdeath stepped forward and grasped Tekhyl's sword paw, turned it till the cutlass lay against the ferret's throat.

"Don't embarrass yourself any further," the wolverine said with a wicked gleam of fangs. "Just lean forward and you end this yourself."

The hate in Tekhyl's blood-soaked face was chilling to see. "I'll wait for yew in hellgates!" he spat, and jerked forward against the blade, jaws snapping shut a hair's breadth from Nightdeath's throat.

The wolverine stepped back, disgust clear on his dark features. He let go of his dead captain and the corpse fell to earth like a broken marionette. Turning his back on the bloody mess, he pointed a red-stained claw at a ferret the color of old blood.

"Subcaptain Deathcry of the Nightarms."

The ferret's eyes widened in stunned shock and she froze for a long moment before stepping forward. "Sssir?" she said, wariness sounding strange in her hissing voice.

"Where does your loyalty lie?"

Another surprised silence. "With ye, sssir…"

Nightdeath nodded slightly. "You are now the captain of the Nightarms. Kill your previous captain in any way you wish."

"Sssir?" Deathcry stared at him, disbelieving.

"You heard me, captain. Do it."

A gleam came into the flat ebon eyes as the reality of the situation dawned on the lean ferret. She turned to the now-demoted captain, a seedy-looking weasel with dawning fear written in every tensed muscle. He backed away before Deathcry's wicked grin, staring wildly about.

"Chief, nay, don't do this, ye know what she'll do tae me…!"

"You are a spy, Chalgore," the Longclaws said coldly, "and whatever Captain Deathcry does to you is only what you deserve."

He turned away as the new captain caught Chalgore and bound his paws tight behind his back. "Subcaptain Astarte Darkmoon of the Nightfangs, you will replace Tekhyl as captain. Subcaptain Veneno of the Nightblood, you will replace Longbrush as captain. Be sure that you do not make the same mistakes they did."

The stoat fem and the tod fox nodded but could scarcely repress triumphant grins. Nightdeath's gaze raked across the ranks. "Astarte, have some of your command clean up this mess. Stormsong, to my tent. Dismissed."

He turned and headed for his tent as the Nightclaws fell in around him.

Kiern halted the Nightclaws just outside the Longclaws' tent, waited while Nightdeath and the captain of the Nighteyes, Stormsong, entered. The stoat turned to Skyfire. "Choose twobeasts to guard the tent," he said, "and dismiss the rest."

"But—"

He held up a paw to forestall the barrage of questions clear in her eyes. "I'll tell you what I can after I talk with the chief."

The stoat fem started to say something, bit back the words, nodded. "Yessir."

With a nod in return, Kiern turned away and slipped into the Longclaws' tent.

The wolverine was sitting on his cot, paw pressed tight to his side, glaring at the patient Stormsong. "Just put a bandage on it tae stop th' bleedin'," he growled, dropping the cultured accentless diction he used around the horde.

Despite the fact that Nightdeath could and would kill him in one pawstroke, the cloud-gray weasel stood firm. "I sighted thine wound when it happened, sir," he said in his soft, musical voice. "'Tis deeper than thee pretends, an' if it be not cleansed, stitched, an' bound, thee shalt not live out the season."

Nightdeath snarled his opinion of the healer-captain's words in none-too-gentle terms but complied, shrugging off his cloak with a wince. He glanced over to the entrance as he did so, and at the silent flame-red figure waiting there. "Aye, an' ye can come in, cap'n. I s'pose ye 'ave yer share o' questions."

Kiern nodded acknowledgement of Stormsong and saluted to the Longclaws, eliciting another growl. "Naught o' that, stoat. We be alone save f'r th' healer-bard here. Hurry it up, weasel…"

"Thee must needs remove thy jerkin, sir," Stormsong said mildly.

A silent show of fangs and the wolverine complied, stripping off the garment to reveal a mess of scars and a deep gash along his rib cage. Stormsong tsked, dipping clothes in a bowl of heated water and pressing them to the wound.

Nightdeath glared at Kiern. "Don't look so disapprovin', stoat," he said, voice harsh. "Couldna show weakness afore th' horde, ye ken that."

The stoat's face was a study in impassivity. "Yes, I know. I do not like it, but I understand."

"Good." He hissed as Stormsong spread a yellowish paste on the wound and transferred his glare to the healer. "Ach, bard! Be ye tryin' tae heal me or murder me?"

"This shalt prevent infection," the weasel said, still calm. "May I continue or must needs thee growl a mite longer?"

The Longclaws' teeth bared in a feral grin. "Careful, cap'n… ye walk a deadly path."

Stormsong didn't reply to that caution and Nightdeath turned back to Kiern, one eyebrow raised in query. "Well, scribe? What be ye wantin' tae ask?"

"Why kill three captains in a day?" Blunt, direct—Nightdeath did not like dancing about a subject like duelists testing each other for weaknesses.

"Why indeed…" One flat ebony eye fixed Kiern with a scrutinizing stare. "Treachery on th' part o' Longbrush an' Tekhyl, like I said."

"And Chalgore?"

A shrug, followed by a wince as the movement shifted the gash in his side. "Things were comin' tae a head between Chalgore an' Deathcry. If I'd nae stepped in we'd lose one're t'other anyhow—thought I'd choose which tae die, ye ken?"

Kiern grimaced. "But Deathcry? " Revulsion was clear in his expression and tone. "She's…"

"…a sadist, an' useful." Nightdeath shook his head slowly. "Ye need tae learn th' use o' creatures, e'en when they be repulsive. Her love o' pain controls her, an' I c'n control her through it. She's a good interrogator. An' I just earned another notch o' loyalty by givin' her Chalgore."

The distaste didn't leave the stoat's eyes. "Chalgore was a good captain. He was no sadist, and yet he was still loyal to you…"

"Ye think tae high o' Chalgore, cap'n," Nightdeath said with a dry chuckle. "I took Deathcry from a hordechief's harem, didna that ye ken? An' Chalgore abused his position, commanded her tae do more'n fight. She hates him fer it, an' that's why she be so eager to kill him slow."

The disgust Kiern felt must have shown because Nightdeath laughed. "Ye be tae soft, Kiern. Tae honorable. These things happen in a horde; naught tae do fer it. Next question?"

The stoat scowled, brief and dissatisfied, but the Longclaws had closed the subject firmly. "Your choice of replacements," he said. "A fox who thinks he's death and a…" He stopped, groping for a word to describe Astarte Darkmoon.

"whore?" Another dry laugh. "Dinnae look so shocked. 'Tis what she be. She also be a faine leader, good fighter, an'…" He grinned, fangs bared in mischief, "…popular with her troops."

Kiern snorted, letting out the expected snicker. "Good reasoning, but what of Veneno?"

"Aye, th' poisoner. He's mad. He'll drive his command tae th' brink o' mutiny within th' season."

"Ah…" Puzzlement overtook the stoat's expression. "Would not that be reason enough to keep him from captaincy?"

"Nay, nay." The wolverine grinned at his captain's confusion. "When I replace him his command will be grateful an' for more loyal tae me. 'Tis most important tae have assassins like th' Nightblood with ye. Tae dangerous tae have them against ye!"

"Thine herbs, chief. They shalt dull the pain of the needle."

Nightdeath glared down at the slight gray weasel. "Th' cream's numbin' enow, bard," he growled. "I'll not be drinkin' who-ken-what herbs just tae lighten some pain!"

Stormsong bowed his head in assent and drew a long needle from the fire. "Thee must needs remain still, chief."

"Er… sir?" Kiern glanced from the needle to the tent flap, unease mingling poorly with his breakfast.

"Aye, aye, dismissed."

The stoat saluted and hurried out of the tent as fast as dignity would allow, Nightdeath's dry laugh following him out.

"Kiern, there you are!"

The stoat froze at the sing-song call, the sultry voice. "Should not you be with your command, Darkmoon?"

"They're celebratin' the leadership change—any cause for a party, you know. Nobeast can really relax 'round The Captain, so I thought I'd go lookin' fer somethin'…else to do."

Kiern sighed, exasperation heavy in the exhalation, and turned. The ginger-red stoat fem smiled enticingly, one slim paw on a curvaceous hip. She was attractive and knew it, sought constantly to use it to gain power and rank. She'd even tailored her uniform to fit snugly about her lithe form. Yet she wore the saber at her side with practiced ease, and an occasional scar showed her experience in battle. A dangerous enemy, Astarte, but also an uneasy ally.

"What do you want?" Kiern asked, voice chill and dispassionate.

The hint of a pout formed on the fem's unmarred face. "You're always so cold, captain."

"At least I am no adder." He turned to go, and most creatures would have accepted the blatant dismissal.

Not Astarte. She strode smoothly to match his pace, watching him from the corners of half-closed eyes. "Rude, aren't you? Thought you were a gentlebeast."

The muscles in Kiern's jaw twitched. "You have reached the highest rank you can, captain. There is no reason to bother me any longer."

"Oh, but there is…" She sidled up to him, far closer than Kiern found comfortable. "Job security. You have it, as much as anybeast could—the chief trusts you. He doesn't trust anyone else."

A growl rumbled from the stoat's throat. "What makes you think I can do anything about it?"

She blinked. "You could put in a good word fer me."

"And the Longclaws would know you had some form of influence with me, and he would lose trust in me, perhaps replace me. No, I would not do that."

"Ah…" The hint of knowing triumph touched Astarte's face in the form of a small smile. "So the loyal captain of the guard has self-interest after all." She chuckled, low and rich. "I'll ask you again when I find an option advantageous to us both, hm? 'Till then, Kiern."

The stoat's lip curled in distaste as Astarte sauntered off. "I will never understand the Longclaws' decisions…"

Kiern sank into his chair with a long, tension-dispelling sigh, pressing the sides of his aching head with his paws. The orderliness of his tent was a welcome respite from the chaos outside, and he could feel the stress melting from his bones.

Somebeast rapped upon the tentpole. The stoat stifled a groan and straightened in his seat, adjusted his uniform, smoothed his fur. Cannot show weakness before the horde. Nightdeath's maxim, drilled into Kiern from the moment the wolverine had taken him in as a youngling. It was true, he knew it was true, but sometimes he wished he cold just tell the world to leave him alone rather than being the ever-ready captain of the guard…

"Enter," he said, command and strength evident in his voice—no hint of the exhaustion he felt.

Skyfire ducked into the tent, eyeing the flap warily, then moving to stand before the makeshift desk that dominated the spotless tent. "Sir—you said you'd explain…"

"Yes." He nodded to another chair. "Sit."

The stoat fem obeyed, watching him curiously. "So. Why did the chief do… what he did today?"

With an inward sigh, Kiern leaned forward over the desk and explained most of what he knew. He left out the parts he knew would weaken her loyalty to the Longclaws—always the conscientious captain, I am… I not only guard his person, I guard his reputation also.

His explanations dwindled to silence and he sat back in his chair, watching Skyfire take the information in. She frowned, mulling it all over. "So… Deathcry's loyal to the chief because he took her from a hordechief's harem. Why do you follow him, then?"

A flicker of surprise blinked across Kiern's face, then settled into the far-off stare of memory's grasp. "I was the son of a scribe before woodlanders overran the fortress my parents worked at, killed the king and scattered the rest of us. We—my sister and I, our parents had been separated from us in the battle—we were found by slavers. We were fairly young… no use as allies but quite useful as slaves."

The stoat stopped, shook his head and came forcibly back to the present, gaze clearing to sharp obsidian. "Nightdeath killed the slavers and took me in, taught me how to fight, eventually made me the captain of the Nightclaws."

He looked at last to the stoat fem and could too easily make out the pity in her dark eyes. His jaw tightened and he turned away, staring hard at the lines of elegant script on an open scroll until they blurred into incomprehensity.

"What about your sister?" Soft, compassionate, and it was that very compassion that curled Kiern's paw into a tight fist, that pressed sharp claws into callused pad.

"She was sold before Nightdeath freed me," he said, harsher than he'd intended, not looking up from the table.

Cloth rustled, Skyfire shifting position behind him, and her voice was a shocked and pitying whisper when she spoke at last. "Oh, Kiern…"

A bite of pain reached his mind from his paw. He lifted it before him and stared in unthinking fascination at the drops of blood forming rubies on his clawtips, staining the punctured pad. Do not need anybeast's pity…

Skyfire seemed ignorant of the tension raging within her captain. She took a step forward, curiosity battling uncertainty. "Do you… do you know what happened to her?"

A droplet of blood fell from one curving claw, traced a line of dark red down his arm. "Why would I care?" and his voice was cold, hard. "She was only my sister."

Breath hissed sharply behind him—Skyfire, shocked at her captain's indifference. "Sir…?"

"I have answered enough of your questions, subcaptain." Still as chill as the northland snows. "You are dismissed."

She hesitated. His voice rang out again, sharp and commanding. "Dismissed, subcaptain!"

"Yessir!"

Quick pawsteps, the rustle of a tent flap. He stood silent for a long moment, paws once more tensed into fists. Then he turned, collapsed into his chair with a groan and let his head fall into finally opened paws. Ensnared in the clutches of memory, he scarcely noticed and scarcely cared as his own blood dripped down to ruin the painstakingly crafted parchment.