LEGACY OF SHADOWS
Disclaimer: See Chapter One. Kayla Silvercat and Ferahgo the Assassin, this chapter is for you two. And for The lunatic who cares… I do indeed know exactly what you mean!
CHAPTER TWO: IT CONTINUES
It was dawn on the eastern fringes of Mossflower Wood. A light mist hung in the air, turned golden by the rising sun; the grass was wet with dew, and birds began to call softly in the trees. The air was tranquil and peaceful. In the distance a sound shattered the stillness, a drumming of paws; a large number of beasts was headed through the area at speed.
A robin perched on a branch with his feathers fluffed out was waiting for the sun to warm the air. Looking down, he saw a column of vermin running past and blinked in confusion as they sped by below him. Panting, the assorted vermin shouldered one another as they ran, desperately striving to keep up, as Lisk had made it clear that anyone who couldn't keep the pace would be left behind to the tender mercy of the first woodlander to find them.
Lisk's band now numbered over a hundred, all fighting vermin; no families and youngsters held him back now. The wildcat's search had led him to Mossflower, where so many of his family had come to grief: Ungatt Trunn, Verdauga, Tsarmina, all had met their deaths in this area. Lisk wasn't stupid and had no intention of lingering in such a place; he had given orders that they moved as fast as possible and did not stop until they were clear of the woodlands. He led them at a flat out run, silent save for the thudding of their paws and their panting breath as they moved swiftly.
Vermin struggling to match the wildcat's pace began to discard anything that might slow them down, forgotten belongings littering the wide trail of pawprints as they ran, each striving to keep their positions in the column. There were legends about the warriors of this area, and every vermin knew the names of those who had come to grief trying to fight them, names such as Cluny the Scourge and other war leaders. None of them wanted to join the ranks of the dead any time soon. So without a word of complaint, they followed Lisk, knowing their lives were at stake.
A lot had happened in the several years Lisk had been wandering with his band. He had encountered a female wildcat, a mountain creature with a vicious temper to match his own, and she had born him a son. Lisk had killed his mate in the end, for she had been too ambitious, and a female stoat had been given the kitten to guard and feed. Lisk had all but forgotten the brat and cared nothing for his son. Barely a season old, the little beast rode in a sling over the stoat's shoulders, but his nurse was one of the older members of the horde and was finding the pace a struggle. Terrified of being left behind, she callously ripped the sling free and tossed it aside; free of the burden, she managed a brief spurt of speed and held her place for a gruelling mile more before being knocked down and trampled by other desperate vermin.
The kitten meanwhile rolled clear of the sling and stood on the grass beside the trail for a while, recovering his breath. By some strange twist this spot was eerily similar to the spot where another warlord's son, born in similar circumstances, had been thrown aside by his vermin nurse; only then it had been a ferretbabe with six claws on his left forepaw, and not a striped wildcat kitten with a medallion looped around his neck bearing the mark of the Thousand Eyes, a family heirloom of sorts.
A little older than that long-ago babe, the wildcat could walk, if barely. Stumbling into the trees, the small kitten began an uncertain journey into Mossflower, moving slowly on all four paws and focused entirely on not falling over. Later he would realise he was hungry and attempt to feed, with little success; he would wander for several days before his fate was decided.
On a misty evening some days later a hermit sat huddled close to a small fire where a blackened iron pot stood filled with some sort of soup; a vixen wrapped snugly in a dark green barkcloth cloak, idly stirring the bubbling liquid with a long dagger. There were several lone vermin eking out an existence on the edges of the woodland; years before they had been the beginnings of Lisk's band, loners he had uprooted and forced along with him. This vixen was just one among many, no different from any other lone fox, save for one thing – her brush was tipped with black.
Black Tip had given up trying to follow the horde's movements. Almost a year before, she had come to this spot at the edge of the woodland and made her camp, and there was no reason to move yet. Eventually she would learn where Lisk had made his base; until then she had food and water in plentiful supply and a relatively peaceful existence here. Now she licked the dagger blade clean at a distant noise in the woodlands and grasped the hilt firmly in her paw, moving to a crouch and glancing in the direction the noise came from, tense.
After such a display of caution, she was amused when the source of the noise revealed itself to be a tiny wildcat kitten, barely able to stand on four paws. Completely unafraid, it looked at her with the wide blue eyes of an infant, utterly innocent and strangely bold. Still alert, she scanned the surrounding area for any sign of its family – she had no desire to tangle with wildcats again! – but heard and saw nothing. Puzzled, she studied the kitten and noted its emaciated state and matted fur; clearly the littlebeast had been abandoned.
Crouching, she held out a paw to the kitten, which sniffed it carefully before looking up at her and mewing pitifully. Reminded forcibly of her own dead brood, the vixen felt sorry for the youngster and scooped some of the soup from the pan into a carved wooden bowl. The kitten ate eagerly, ignoring the heat of the liquid, and when it was finished he allowed himself to be picked up and examined.
When she saw the medal about his neck, Black Tip stiffened and carefully took the metal circle from him. Turning it over, she traced the emblem of the Greeneyes family since Verdauga's time, the Thousand Eyes. This, then, must be Lisk's son.
Drawing her dagger, she placed the point beneath the kitten's chin, coldly preparing to slit its throat. Calmly the youngster looked up, wide blue eyes looking into yellow-green, and meowed inquisitively. Her paw trembled as she held the knife and steeled herself to make the thrust; he was younger than her cubs had been when they had been killed, and so innocent and helpless. Still looking at her, the striped kitten's eyes closed briefly in a long yawn, and she took the blade away. Vermin she might be, but she could not bring herself to kill an infant.
Searching her meagre belongings, she found a small blanket, a little ragged at the edges but perfectly suitable all the same. Lifting the kitten, she settled the cloth around him and the small wildcat dozed off in her lap as the vixen watched the firelight reflecting in the carved eyes on the medallion. Finally she whispered softly to the night:
"Lisk, one day your own son will kill you. I will raise him and care for him and I will train him against the day that father and son meet. You will die at the paws of this son you abandoned, and your blood will avenge the memories of my mate and cubs."
Looking down at the kitten, she laid a paw upon the striped head and named him. "Kayto of the Thousand Eyes. Kayto Greeneyes."
END OF CHAPTER TWO
Oh, the drama…