Taheen Killer here. This story is a prequel to my earlier work, Eight Words. I would suggest you read the first few chapters of that before delving into this. But, if not, enjoy the show!
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Princess Mercia was scared. No, strike that, terrified. At the moment, the heir of the kingdom of Southsward was about as terrified as it goes.
The band of five rats stood around her, their leering grins and jeers causing the poor squirrel to begin to tremble all over again. Cold sweat poured from every pore.
Riptooth, the leader, drew out his rusty skinner's knife and took a step towards her. "Well, lads, we got her alright, now what do we do with 'er?"
She stuttered and stammered out of pure terror. "Y-you can't kill m-m-me, y-you n-n-need the ransom!"
The sneering laughs began all over again at Mercia's nervous tremble. "Aww, ain't she cute, boys!" came one cry.
Riptooth smiled at her benignly. "Oh, yes, the ransom. But we only need you alive for that. Why shouldn't we…have a bit of fun first?"
With one swift movement of his dirk, Riptooth severed the strap of Mercia's dress, causing it to slip off her bound form. She burned with shame and disgust as they all laughed, suggesting what to do after what came next.
"Let's string 'er up 'till she's blue in the face!"
"Let's beat 'er with 'er own sandals!"
"Let's not and say we did," came a husky, icy voice behind them all.
Riptooth whirled around to see the impudent. What he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life, short though that would be.
Standing there was a ferret. But somehow more than a ferret.
He was tall, for one thing. No, more than that, lanky. His fur was a mottled black and white, which in the flickering firelight seemed to be the white of bones, and the black of death. His face was hidden beneath the hood of the flowing black cloak that seemed even older than he. His paws were stained with what looked like a gallon of blood. Slung over his back was a magnificently lethal-looking battleaxe that had been used a fair amount, judging by the nicks and scratches along its powerful form.
In short, the newcomer looked like death incarnate to Riptooth.
"I take it you're Riptooth, then. Apparently, King Alain's offering three chests of gold for your head, dead or alive."
A bounty hunter, then. Riptooth eased himself. All bounty hunters were wannabe scum. No big deal.
"Yeah, well you won't be taking it. Crew, get 'im!"
As the four other rats charged the ferret in the hood, one of the red paws strayed to the mighty haft of the axe in the shoulder-sling. As it was pulled out of the holster, it hummed, its sharpened edge cleaving the air as the monstrous weapon was steadied in those crimson paws.
The blade moved faster than the eye could follow. There would be a clang as metal struck metal, and a splut as metal cleaved flesh.
Hell's teeth! Riptooth thought. No one can move that fast! No one!
Less than half a minute later, all four rats lay on the ground, some in more than one piece, the color of their blood on the ground matching the color of the hunter's paws.
The hunter turned towards Riptooth, and as he did, the firelight caught his eyes from beneath his hood. For an instant, Rip was looking at eyes of cold blue. The eyes of death.
That voice, like icy steel, came to Rip softly, as if it were on the wind. "Bad form, Rip. They didn't need to die. The price is on your head alone."
Rip fell on his knees in desperation. "Please, I'll come with you, just let me live!"
"It won't do, I'm afraid," grated the hunter. "Like I said, the price is on your head alone."
Rip's eyes widened in fear, the last look his face would express before it was cleaved from his shoulders.
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Mercia's first thoughts were not Oh, thank the seasons, I'm saved. They were, in fact, more along the lines of They were bad, he's worse. As he drew closer to her, she almost screamed. The axe flashed upward –
Only to sever the ropes binding her. She almost sobbed in relief.
He passed her a roughened tunic. "Cover yourself. I'm not going to hurt you, Princess Mercia."
"Why?" was here only reply.
"A lot of things," came the response from beneath the hood. "Perhaps I'll tell you, once we've packed up."
"Packed up?"
"Yeah, I need to get a head," the ferret quipped mirthlessly. "Just so that your father knows that Riptooth is dead."
He pushed back his hood, revealing a remarkably handsome face somewhat despoiled by the eyes which had been tempered by the horrors they had lived through. The lanky ferret was about sixteen seasons old, yet his hard, steely eyes of blue seemed to make him seem older by far.
And yet those eyes seemed capable of affability, or laughter, or love.
Mercia looked at him, amazed. "Who are you?"
He smiled, a gesture which brightened his entire face. "Call me Veil."
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R&R is always nice if you have the time.
-TK