Kin of Klavis

-3-

At the Starting Line to War

Myna bustled about with a metal tin of bilberry scones, engraved decoratively with the figures of full-boughed pine trees. After the container came open with a sharp pop, she set the tin down on the center of the table and hustled back to the larder for pitchers of honey and meadowcream.

"Ooh, bring out some chilled apple cider too!" Bluedrop grinned as he sat nearby; the only work he seemed willing to do was holding and rocking the tiny harebabe. Though when he spoke, he quickly lost focus and forgot to rock.

"No, Myna, just the mint tea will be fine," Gemma shot a look at her husband. "And Blue, the baby."

"Oh…Oh!" He began to rock the little one gently again, quieting the mumbling fusses she had been starting to make.

"Do you see Dochunn hedgehog yet, or any of his mates?" Gemma addressed Myna again as she stepped over Bluedrop's large feet. The younger hare carried the hot pot of tea and a basket of little carven wood cups and plates over to the round oak table for her as the old one peered out the parlor window.

"Nay, I reckon it'd take them a while, ya know 'ow 'ogs are…Wait, I see 'em, great hulkin' spikedogs. They're a-comin' down the path from the woodland side, look right tired out too. Wonder wot's got such a fire under 'em…"

"I hate to say, but it may be bad news." Miss Witherfield shook her head and moved to the threshold, "I'll let th' hogs in, but pray both of you be civil with that lot. They're warriors so they're manners ain't up to my breeding's level, but we owe them our town's safety."

She flitted into the kitchens and slipped out the main door onto the front porch, standing by the steps with a paw up and waving the small band of burly creatures in. Faintly, Myna could hear her warning them about the patch of slippery slush just near the stairs, but only on one side. No doubt her warnings saved the soaking of many pairs of forester's boots.

"I don't think that tin'll be enough…" Myna grimaced, heading to the larder door again, "I'm goin' ta fetch a couple jars o' preserved berries an' some nutloafs. Master Bluedrop, do not let 'em touch anythin' that ain't on the table there." With a huff she ducked into the dark cool recess.

Blue was left alone with his little babe Blythe for only a few seconds. The baby animal whimpered unhappily as the front door flew open and five huge hedgehogs clumped their way in. They were obviously fighters, four big males and a particularly muscular female, clad in tough woolen tunics that clinked suspiciously, as if they had chainmail underneath. At their belts or strapped across their backs were a variety of typical hedgehog arms: short, straight-edged swords, single-headed axes, slings, and a single bow and full quiver on the largest of the males. It was this male who led the party, his headfur grizzled and silver-black, a thin plaited beard hanging from his scarred chin.

"We've got a meeting place ready, here in the parlor," Gemma practically shooed the five huge creatures in. The space was high-ceilinged enough, as the old house had been built for large lanky hares, but the general space suddenly became quite crowded as the hedgehog warriors clumped and shuffled to find their seats. The old one, Dochunn, remained standing, leaning against one of the support beams to the side of the table.

"Thank ye, Missus, we're glad y' could be so accommodating on such a blasted wet day." He grunted fiercely at one of his fighters who had been about to prop his slush-crusted boots up on the table, "There's some trouble afoot this mornin'. I've called on old Nemria and Torby Pawhold t' come over too. They'll want to hear this."

"That'll make half the town here." Gemma chuckled as she brushed her distracted husband aside and served scones and tea to the five of them, "I take it 'tis bad news for all if y' want to get all the Chieftains involved."

"Aye." Dochunn accepted a cup of tea, but politely waved away the scone, "We've got a vermin problem again."

"Again?" Bluedrop whirled his head up, startling little Blythe and starting her up on a thin wail, "I thought Witherfield has never been attacked by vermin rogues before!"

"It hasn't, not in yore lifetime, that is." Dochunn corrected him, "In the days before ye were born an' I was a liddle hog babe of four seasons there was a horrible war between two vermin tribes nearby. It was near enough that one side o' th' wicked beasts decided ta sack Witherfield f'r supplies. They didn't bring enough beasts, though, an' th' woodlanders routed 'em good. Now it seems some vermin creatures from one of those old tribes are back in th' area, an' slinkin' around in a lot of places…"

"They haven't bothered anyone yet?" Gemma seemed thoughtful, placing a paw on her chin and setting her scone down.

"Nay, not unless ye count the terrorized 'uns who spotted 'em first. 'Twas one o' Nemria's squirrels, out gatherin' kindling. Pore thing was scared nearly t' death at th' sight of a big, tough weasel with a sword stalking around her woodcutting patch."

"Just one?"

"There've been more sightin's since then. All this mornin'."

Nemria arrived with Torby Pawhold, entering without knocking and with grave expressions on their serious faces. Nemria's ginger and white tailbrush bristled as she strode in with the thin woodmouse trailing after her. Torby bowed slightly at the sight of Gemma, but talk continued as if they hadn't been late.

"Aye, so it's fairly serious, y'see. I think I've counted up five different vermin creatures for sure roaming around the town, possibly more, but these were seen from further off, couldn't tell 'em apart from th' others. There is definitely a big weasel, an' 'e's armed up well."

"Any way to tell what they're planning?" Torby asked in his timid songbird voice.

"You never can tell with vermin." The age-old and somewhat cliched answer was given by Myna as she stumped back into the parlor, arms laden with goods. Nemria the squirrel nodded.

"I always tell my young 'uns that, and it's a damned good hard lesson," she scowled. "I've never met a vermin I cared for more than a midnight trip in a rainstorm..!"

"Easy, Nem." Torby smiled but his eyes widened as he sidled out of arm's reach of the squirrel, "I'm sure nobeast's going to be caring for vermin anytime soon. Well, caring about them, caring about what they're up to I mean. That's what I meant." He tittered, muffling his snout into his tunic sleeve.

"I think we should start assigning day an' night watches, in light of this," Gemma said with a resolute cross of her arms. "That is if your beasts are willing."

"My 'ogwarriors are always ready to serve an' protect." Dochunn wrinkled his spiky brows forward in a hedgehog salute. Nemria followed up with a tail-themed salute of a similar nature.

"My squirrel archers can watch from the two large sycamores on either end of town. And from the ground I will post two more every three hours to defend with javelin and blade."

"I can get the word out to all the families that they're not to wander outside of town unless it's urgent," the mouse chimed in, wringing his paws with an apologetic frown. "I'm sorry, I don't have many warriors, only farmers and craftbeasts. But we'll make sure your battlers are well-armed and fed. I'll send my daughter Meelain to inform all the crafters and cooks that they'll be needed at once."

"Good effort, we'll be needin' food delivered to th' watches and smithy's services to make sure all weapons stay in fightin' shape." Gemma smiled and patted the thin mouse on the shoulder, "Send for your daughter. Somethin' tells me action now will save a lot of grief later…"

Dankwood wasted no time that morning gathering support from those who had been cheering him during the competition the day before. Only a few of Mogja's tribe were willing to go with him and do his bidding at first, but some prodding and a renewal of the threats he'd used against the four guard ferrets soon had a round score creeping after him in the sun-flecked frost of the middle-morning.

Two older weasels, both females, lay dead inside their tent, hidden to the early risers. They had been stubborn, otherwise known as loyal. As the traitorous weasel looked back down upon the camp from his far perch in a beech on a hillock he grinned savagely as he heard a piercing yell. They had discovered one or two of the bodies then.

"West, hurry west!" He ordered, slipping from the tree fast as a fur-covered viper, "I want to get underway. We should reach the little woodlander town in two hours if we run hard."

"Why do we attack this woodlander hovel? Is it not dishonorable to fight when no injury has been—"

The stoat that was speaking was smacked out of finishing his sentence with the back of Dankwood's paw. He leveled his sword's deadly point at the unfortunate speaker's face as he steadied himself.

"No injury, you say?" The weasel's eyes gleamed with a murderous smile as he chuckled, "Faraf, you are a fool if there ever was one. No injury!" He swept the sword aside, burying half the blade length in the bark of the very beech he'd just climbed and left it there a moment to rave, "Think back, stoat, what injury have ye lived with since the very first breath ye took?"

The stoat paused, his lips pursed. Dankwood continued for him.

"Thou art stoat." The weasel parted his arms wide, as if begging something of the woodlands, "It is a curse to be stoat in this wood! Think! What have ye heard, seen, witnessed, smelt—evil that you've felt because you were stoat? Have not the woodlander creatures always treated us as little more than brigands, simply because some Corsairs and we share species? Is that not injury enough to take some retribution from their… soft, comfortable dwellings?"

The stoat blinked rapidly, then turned away. Several of the other mustelids were now carrying the weights of anger and grief on their brows; some spoke the causes of their personal strifes:

"Aye, mine father did not return home from fishing for grayling one summer—he was found full of otter javelins!"

"My daughter and I cannot walk the path or streamsides without eye-curses being throw our way by voles and shrews."

"Last season—that insolent mousebabe thought he could get away with slinging stones at my tail—just because I am a ferret!"

"Yea, I've been slung at more'n once."

"Then why is this dishonorable?" The weasel knew he had them, rage uniting the once reluctant creatures. Now that he had demonized the woodlanders, he had the twenty of them like fish in a net constructed of old pain, "It may well be the very otters that slew your father, or the shrews that give you looks of evil, or the very mousebabe dwells in the town they call Witherfield! Have we not the Right of Vengeance in this case?"

"We do—those woodlanders will pay!"

"Kill the otters! Kill the shrews!"

"I'm goin' t' bundle every mousebabe I see into a sack and toss 'em off a brink, so 'elp me!"

Dankwood forced a sly giggle down, replacing it with a triumphant roar, just as angry-sounding as his riled-up mob.

"Well, why do we wait?! We attack the woodlander town! We will burn it into ash ans scatter it as a bad memory!"

His claim was met by hellish roars of bloodthirsty approval. The mob charged off, ignoring the similarly enraged noise echoing from the tribal camp behind them in the hollow…

"Chief!"

Mogja was woken from his thundery war-dreams by frantic shouts and the sound of his tent flap being pulled open regardless of secure ties. He whipped his still-powerful body upright in one movement and snagged the long-handled axe he always kept hanging over his bed of skins. Blinking the bloody visions from his eyes, he stared down a visibly terrified Uark with the axe held level with the weasel's neck.

"What?"

"Chief Mogja sir, the dishonored Dankwood has escaped in the night. Taken a big crowd of our hunters with him, killed two of the elders—they must've been tryin' to stop him from leaving—"

"Where's Fayron?" The silvery beast slung the axe over his shoulder and made for the open flap with alarming speed. Uark was forced to grab hold of his bead-bedecked wrists and be dragged a few paces in order to stop him.

"Chief, Fayron, he—" the weasel gulped hard as the large ferret glared down at him, "He's been badly wounded. That weasel took a blade all the way across 'im. The healers aren't sure if he'll live or not, he's so old and feeble already—"

"My Seer is not feeble!" Mogja stormed away, following the sound of the commotion by the healer's tents, "He will not die! If he does, I shall kill him!"

Uark watched the stormy Chieftain stalk off, shoving and bodily forcing his way through the throng of hysterical tribebeasts. The cool confidence that had made this tribe's spirit what is was had deteriorated in the wake of the unexpected tragedy. Wordlessly, the weasel ran a paw through his tawny locks and turned instead towards his friend Klavis's tent, very near to the Chief's.

"Klavis, wake up," He rapped on the tent flap, not surprised in the least when it flopped ajar. Klavis was, to his credit, "confident". So confident he left his door untied at night, his sleeping area and prizes unprotected.

The big ferret was lounged, still quite soundly asleep, in a pile of variegated rabbit's furs, straw and leaves beneath to cushion them. His keen knife lay close to paw, but lying on the ground beside the bed. Uark didn't waste his time with a disapproving shake of the head; he'd done it too many times already to the Chief's son's face for this one to count.

"Come on, lazypelt, wake up!"

"Duaaa…Bring more wine..! Ah, erm, good morning, friend." The ferret stretched sleepily, unaware of the weasel's strained features.

"'Tis an ill morning, Klavis, friend. You're needed immediately by your father—Dankwood's gotten out of his cage and coerced a score to join him."

"What?"

The weasel stood back a bit in caution. It was remarkable how similar Klavis and his father sounded when angry.

"Aye, just what I said—he's killed two elders and sorely wounded Seer Fayron in escaping. Follow me. I'm sure your dad'll want you in the war party after those scum…"

Klavis gritted his teeth tightly, slamming his beautiful knife resolutely into its sheath on his waist. Donning an eelskin jerkin with cured and toughened leather shoulderguards, he strapped on the nearest quiver and slung an unstrung bow across his shoulders.

"I must have… words… with yon weasel scum, Father's permission or not!"

Uark shivered as he held the tent door open for his mighty friend. It was clear this was Mogja the Lethal's offspring, though the weasel was frightened to see him so… ferocious.

Predatory. Vicious. Verminous.