Author's Note: Reviewers, please do not mention anything about the timeframe. 1 season is 1 year.
I have already written the entire story, and I will post it over five day period starting today. On Friday you will get the next installment.
Rating: violence, disturbing images, whispers of suicide
All characters (c) Kayla Silvercat, the Rewallish Concept (c) Brian Jacques
Chapter 1
He could smell the fear on them.
It permeated the very air at the coastal village the army had halted at for supplies. And with every breath he felt more of the thick miasma settle in his stomach until he was close to vomiting. Just one look at the collection of fearful expressions caused him to break out in a cold sweat. He wondered at just how the other soldiers managed to maintain their cool indifference. Or at what scheme lay behind that maniacal smile on Warlord Sardan's face.
The ginger-furred wildcat was nearly jumping with his contained excitement, like a cat freshly crowned at his coming-of-age rather than one in the full prime of his life. His scarlet cloak swished elegantly despite his erratic and restless strides. The shoulder pads and mail complimented the cloak with a delicate clinking tune that was in deadly contrast with the atmosphere.
"Puh-please! Take all the food you want, but leave us in peace! We mean you no harm," a graying red squirrel said, kneeling in front of the pacing lord with his paws held together as if in prayer.
Lord Sardan stopped, gazed at the squirrel, and threw back his head to release laughter sharper than a new sword. "Leave you alone? But what of the attack you instigated? Such an offense cannot go unpunished," the wildcat said. The glint in his eyes told even the youngest that Sardan would've dealt with them anyway.
The squirrel struggled for a sufficient retort when a young mouse stepped from the assembled villagers and said, "If we hadn't attacked you, you would've attacked us anyway. Vermin are scum on this earth, and someone needs to clean your rabble up!"
Sardan's smile vanished at the blatant condescension and he moved forward slowly on the tip of his paws. "So, you think you know the mind of every creature in this army, do you? I suggest staying out of matters you will never understand." Quick as a flash the wildcat backhanded the mouse with such strength he fell to the ground. The mouse spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground and his anger was immediately replaced by fear. Courage failing him, he stepped back into the crowd with a paw to his cheek.
The wildcat watched him with a hard expression then turned to his army and commanded, "Captains Faulk and Byron, I want your two squads to lock up the villagers in the townhouse. Captain Malak"—and here the pine marten jerked his head from the villagers to his Lord, who favored him with a barely noticeable smile—"I want your squad and Skartan's to gather brush for a fire."
Remor Malak saluted with a half-smile and stepped towards the forest. The moment his back was turned the expression fell with the weight of a rock off a cliff, and he clenched his paws in an attempt to control his reaction. He did not like the direction Sardan was taking the villager's "punishment." The hatred he had for himself further intensified as he found himself unable to rally his courage to fight.
He clenched the hilt of his sword for reassurance as he felt with a certain dread that he was only digging his grave with each step he took in those peaceful trees. Remor stopped abruptly when he saw a clump of dried grass growing at the base of a tree, and then scooped it up with great reluctance.
"Wot do yer think the Lord's got in mind for them villagers?" Skartan, an oily black rat with a mind that did not match his nimbleness, said.
Remor halted for a moment and stared at the rat, who only blinked back in honest innocence. It had been stunningly clear when Sardan had appointed Skartan that he hadn't been impressed with his mind as much as his footwork. Remor had to admit it was something to behold. Though it was a trait that had surfaced to a greater extent in every appointment save his own.
Just as Sardan had been impressed with Skartan, he was also awed by the pine marten's sharp intelligence. His appointment created a greater stir in the army than Remor thought possible, when he knew how cowed they were by the malevolent wildcat. He would admit that it shocked him as much as the other creatures were outraged.
It was several seasons back when he could hardly pick up a weapon without fumbling it. His own squad captain had grown exasperated with him, and passed him off as a likely victim in the first few seconds of battle. Despite the captain's thoughts Remor lived time after time, slowly increasing his skill with the sword. It was when that captain met an unfortunate end during a raid that Remor's potential struck Sardan during the contests.
He never so much as fought his opponents as wore them down, when they constantly chased him around the arena, while he side-stepped and ducked wildly erratic blows. As they wore themselves out trying to impress Sardan with complex movements of their weapons, Remor simply stayed out of the way and sought the weaknesses in their form, and then exploited them ruthlessly.
Sardan's sharp green eyes caught this and eventually started calling him to his tent to have discussions concerning strategy. Remor advised him about the Long Patrol's affinity toward short weapons, and had sent spear-bearing soldiers to keep the hares at bay. He helped skillfully maneuver on the shore, through valleys, and across the grassland. He also gave the wildcat the idea of village-hopping to throw the Long Patrol off their tracks.
"My Lord Sardan, you must keep them guessing. If they cannot predict where you will attack then they will have to scatter their forces—a fatal mistake—or collect at Salamandastron," Remor had said with barely concealed smugness.
"The place I never intend to visit," Sardan said. He nodded as he followed the movements of Remor's paw across the map. A grin alighted on Sardan's face and stretched into a knowing leer that froze the pine marten's heart. He did not gain his position through stupidity.
Or heart, Remor thought glumly, looking back on that encounter and ignoring Skartan.
It was a fatal thing to have, a heart. Sardan had been sure his was squashed before he committed his heinous crimes, or it would haunt his mind. As it was haunting Remor. The systematic slaughter in steadily grislier ways had burrowed under the thick skin he had constructed. And with each idea Sardan used that the pine marten had spouted before his appointment the closer the worm got to his heart. Remor hoped that he would be far away from Sardan on the day his heart was exposed.
He sighed as he took the armful of brush and sticks he'd collected and put them in a growing pile. Sardan watched him carefully and then said, "We have enough firestarter, Malak. All we have to do is wait."
Hitching a solemn, but emotionless expression Remor saluted, "Yes, sir." With that, he turned to watch the progress of the army, and fought his greatest not to wince.
A performing troupe would not be impressed with his acting skills, but Remor was just relieved that they were passable by Sardan's standards. They had improved greatly in any case after the third raid when each captain was expected to tear each village leader limb from limb, while creatures looked on in horror. Remor had hid his own horror in an amateur fashion behind a handkerchief, pretending he had a contagious cough. Looking back on that he wasn't so sure how he fooled Sardan if he had at all.
Another hint his indifferent guise was working was the favorable attention Sardan was giving him. It was apparent he held Remor above any other captain. His charges rumored that Sardan would promote him to the position of commander, which had remained vacant for the last five seasons. He understood—if detested—Sardan's favor.
Looking at the townhouse he could see captains carefully placing grass around the outside and sticking it into the shallow nooks and crannies they found. To any outsider looking it would appear that Sardan and Remor had the only status in the army of five hundred. Unless they were in battle the other captains couldn't stand away from the average soldier. They were impervious to teaching. He was one of the few if the only—
"Malak, what are you thinking about?" The voice was raw and gruff from shouting commands and was never meant to be spoken so quietly. Remor turned to meet the eyes of the wildcat.
"The building is well-designed and the wood is smooth. I would suggest throwing cloth on it so the fire will catch," the pine marten said, even as the words twisted his gut and made him want to curl up.
Sardan laughed. "Yes, yes, good eye, captain. But it's already taken care of." He pointed a grieved arm at the roof to show that some soldiers were pouring a thick, syrupy liquid.
Remor's breath caught. Oil. They were pouring vegetable oil, garnered from pantries, all over the roof. He was nearly seized in panic at the deathly pounding of hammers nailing splintered boards across the door and windows.
Suddenly shrill screams erupted from the building as the villagers understood the fate that awaited them. A steady banging could be heard as they desperately slapped their paws against the walls screaming for help. "Help us! Please, somebeast save us! Oh, please! We will do anything, just don't kill us!"
Remor suppressed a shudder of horror as his slightly over bright, brown eyes took in the whole scene. He could do nothing for them. The only choice open to him was to walk away and be done with it.
He began turning when Sardan halted him by the arm. "Would you care to do the honors?" The pressure of the cat's claws digging into his arm told the pine marten he could throw the torch or die too.
Too; that was the keyword. Sacrificing himself would in no way change their fate. He thought perhaps that some other creature in his position would die if only to have a free conscience. But blood had already been spilt on his paws, by sword and ideas. He had no question that if he died for his heart he would still be condemned to Hellgates.
And he was not ready.
It was a ridiculous thought since he doubted the villagers were ready, but when he tried to tip to martyrdom—or as close as he could get—he felt his soul hit a wall seemingly placed there by his mind. Yet he had no reasons to justify it. Wait…wait, his mental voice told him.
Turning back to Sardan he nodded and said, "I'll do it." Without pleasure, but I will. Sardan grinned and handed him a long stick that already had one end wrapped with an oil soaked rag.
Skartan suddenly appeared by his side with flint and stone, and began striking for a spark. With the fresh oil, it did not even take two before the cloth was engulfed in bright orange flames.
Remor stepped closer.
Even though the windows were barred the screaming soared in volume and seemed to surround the pine marten and echo through the dim corridors of his mind. That stench filled his nostrils once more, and it bore a claw that tore at his heart and lungs, causing his chest to tighten. He hesitated, coughed, and then threw the torch like a spear.
For one moment it seemed to lie on the smooth, wooden roof with only the torch burning, but then all at once it spread with the fluidity of water trying to find its way down a mountainside. Soon ugly, black smoke was curling up from the building. The screams reached another shrieking pitch and amidst the flames of smoke he thought he saw arms reaching through the cracks of the boarded windows, desperately seeking for help. Help that would never come.
Sardan's massive paw clapped his shoulder and he said, "Good, Malak. The Long Patrol has now been deterred further. Our plans can proceed." He turned to all gathered behind and shouted, "Move out!"
All feeling had left Remor as he stared at the burning, shrieking mass. The fur on his face curled at the proximity of the heat as he stood there, unable to move. His chest had hitched and he could barely find breath enough to keep from fainting. He reluctantly wrenched himself out of the shock to stumble away.
While he distantly ordered his troops into ranks, detailing a sextet of sweepers to cover their tracks, the worm of grief and guilt metamorphosed into a monster. A monster with its fangs bared, ready to tear into his heart and mind. Feeling it grow in his chest foretold Remor he would be in for an arduous battle against it. Yet, when he would be in the lowest echelons of the depression, contemplating suicide in his tent with a knife in paw, he would meet resistance.
When he sat on his knees with the knife pointed at his heart, sweating and shaking and trying to drive it in his body, his paws betrayed him. And he heard those words echo in his head. The ones just before the fire; wait…wait.
