-5-

Bleeding and Smoking

Dankwood paused in his circle around the smoldering ruin of a cottage, his neck stiffening as he recognized the Greenstone squirrel battlecry. He darted back into the smoke after fleeting, purposeful shapes, catching the attention of stoats and ferrets with hollers and slaps on the backs of their arms.

"That's enough! Their fighters come—they are charging in. Quickly now, follow my lead."

The weasel sheathed his sword for a moment to avoid its bright blade giving away his location. Crouching lower, he scuttled through the dancing shadows cast by firelight, making his way towards the eastern edge of the town and circling north with a train of a dozen of his followers behind him.

Faraf, the stoat, was not far in line behind the weasel traitor. Once Dankwood had slowed up and began pressing himself to an undamaged cottage's far wall to peer ahead for signs of the woodlanders about, the stoat crept up close enough to murmur in his ear.

"What is the meaning of breaking off? We could avoid a charge of woodlanders easily enough in that smoke and pick them off—"

"Too risky, with our numbers. Besides," the weasel's deep gray eyes hardened as he stared straight ahead up the muddy lane. The stoat followed his gaze and noticed one of the grander structures of Withersfield—the lord's house, a far more impressive stone and wood structure of multiple stories and a high-slanted, slate-tiled roof. Currently wreathed in only a few wafts of the rank smoke, the building's fine crystal windowpanes glinted gold and orange in the distant fires. Dankwood pointed a claw right at the grand house, "Yonder is the place we'll find the beasts with the most stained pasts—who most deserve what we're bringing them!"

Faraf nodded, squinting with a look of understanding crossing his face.

"Ah, yea, that's the hare place," his sharp eyes flicked about, searching for movement from within the house's windows or at its doors. "Yonder hare Lord, or his family I think. But what if they've left already?"

"They'll never run from mere vermin," Dankwood both snarled and gave a derisive laugh, drawing his sword back out, "Come, all of us together, get to that doorframe and keep your heads down. Still could be archers about."

Klavis had slung his bow over his back, knowing it to be useless in the smoke as it thickened. Not only for the obvious reason, but for the fact that once he had staggered past the initial wall of chaos and infernos, there had been a sudden absence of shadowy forms running or ducking past. Now the smoke was such that he could barely see the light of day, only the ruddy hue cast by gusting belches of flame erupting from a tall granary near the town's center. He put a paw forward and felt his way around a rustic fence that had somehow evaded being set alight, his other paw straying down to the knife at his belt in case he suddenly stumbled into the foebeast.

He jolted back as a deep gray form pelted forward with a yell. Klavis squinted, dodging and half-stepping even as he tried to gauge what sort of beast was charging him. It was far too long-limbed to be a weasel, stoat, or even a ferret, and was somewhat smaller than him and kept up its pursuit with a dogged intensity and blistering speed. The ferret's blade-paw jutted upwards and forwards as the beast rounded the next fencepost, catching the fire-hardened javelin just below its point and launching forward into a grapple. Once he had pinned it on the churned, icy loam he could make out it was a squirrel, wearing layered tartan and with green daubs of paint below his eyes. His foe snapped up with vicious long rodent incisors, struggling to reach the ferret's throat. Klavis had no desire to kill him—though the feeling was clearly not mutual, and instead flowed up to his feet and snatched the javelin with him. Whack! The butt of it struck across the squirrel's jaw, and the creature's head rocked back, limp and unconscious.

Distant war-cries echoed to him in the chaos. His snout swiveled towards their source, which he was forced to guess must be the unburnt part of the township. Martial voices were bellowing closer—in a matter of seconds, far more than a poorly-kitted squirrel would be on him. With no further plan, Klavis grabbed the squirrel and heaved him over his sinewy shoulder, blazing for what he hoped was a smoke-free place. The defeated attacker's tailbrush fluttered back and forth, assisting the motion of his hunched, exhausted run and the choking clouds to obscure what he was. It seemed to do the trick; two hedgehogs in thick, padded armor and wielding heavy clubs barreled past him with no second look.

Faraf hung back as the six traitors of the tribe clustered forward, Dankwood urging them in impatient hisses. The stoat had his doubts. The stoat had a plan. Sorghum's son had such rages of late, and being a fugitive from his own kin, if the warrior weasel caught on he would surely rush over and strike down the double-agent. Painting on an expression of brutal hatred, Faraf sucked in a deep breath and broke the stealth he was meant to be keeping.

"Hare scum!" he howled, squaring his footpaws and holding up his dagger in a challenge towards the second story, "Meet us in a real fight, eh? The son of the Slayer is coming for thee!" His paws stamped down, their claws fully extended and his tail puffing into a bottlebrush, in a serious version of the playful competitive dance of the Tatufola.

Dankwood's head whipped around, at first too stunned to order Faraf back into quiet. The stoat bared his teeth, a nervous grin, emboldened. Up in one of the crystal paned windows he saw forms moving; his warning was heard. For a half-second his thoughts wandered to the sorts of beasts living there—mothers, perhaps, and babes, perhaps. Old or infirm creatures with no chance of escape against the burly weasel's warpath. In his mind's eye was a flash of the stoat cubs of his own clan, little cousins and niblings, wrestling in the autumn leaves last evening. He felt right.

"Come on, you longears! Show us your faces!" Faraf snarled, "We shall burn you out if ye don't shift, vermin! Wakey-wakey!"

"Shuttup, you damned fool!" the weasel finally snapped, taking one step out from the manor-house's entry eaves. The high window squeaked wide open, and he paused in time to see and hear the dull black-and-orange whumm! of the projectile being flung. His eyes widened as he watched Faraf's body crumple to the wet ground, the still-hot iron fire poker jutting from his chest.

"Our surprise is spoiled," the weasel growled as he rounded back on the shocked mustelids. The ferret Marmoss was not only an archer but a tinkerer, and he had frozen with a hooked piece of metal and a greased rag halfway through popping the door free of its lock. "Never mind all that—the lot of you, cut and bash at those hinges! Quick—force it open!"

Gemma Withersfield had bolted downstairs just before the din of axeblades against the planking of the door struck up, displaying agility nearly like that of a fighting hare. Bracing her back against a wall-cupboard, she heaved and sent the bulky contrivance crashing aside in front of the entryway just as the first splinters of wood shot out from the invaders breaking through.

"Myna!" her voice grated, hoarse yet still bright and commanding, "Get chairs—get anything! They're bashin' their way in!"

Stumbling to the stairwell, Myna huffed with effort but somehow coaxed her aching bones into swift action; she passed a heavy bench down to the manor's lady and called down.

"I put paid t' one of those rotters—screamin' its head off 'n doin' that savage shuffle-dance thing. D'you 'ave any idea how many more there are?"

"Enough to break this door," Gemma ground her teeth, wedging the bench in place in the barricade, "Bluedrop—" she slumped against the disrupted parlor furnishings, as if knocked down by the sudden understanding, "Myna—where is little Blythe?"

Upstairs, Bluedrop had tucked the season-old babe into a backsling. Somehow, the tiny hare remained curled up and amidst a fitful dream as her father dug frantically in a dresser, throwing undergarments and socks aside.

"Corks—I was sure I still 'ad that old blade stashed hereabouts."

"Don't go lookin' for arms. There is none," Myna broke in, grabbing up an end-table from the main bed chamber, "Look f'r a way out—take th' little leveret and get out!"

"Wh—" Bluedrop froze, his watery brown eyes fixed in the essence of disbelief, and dropped a wad of folded nightshirts to the floor, "What—me, run an' leave my Gemmy?"

"Didn't y' hear them vermin—" Myna grabbed the much taller hare by one sleeve, shaking him as tears popped into her eyes, "They're gonna burn this place—get out with y' little Blythe, now. Now!"

The two recoiled by instinct at a wrenching and crashing from downstairs. Blythe woke, whimpering and fussing with only her white-furred ears poking over the babe-sling.

Dankwood had landed a final kick against the door's timbers, overextending and catching himself on the doorframe as he half-collapsed to the ground. Marmoss and his mate Yewja stepped out from each side, bowstrings drawn and arrows trained on the interior before reflexively letting fly. The mother hare was fortunate she had been holding up a wooden kitchen chair in front of her; the two shafts quivered, stuck into the seat the full length of their barbed iron heads.

"I know your eyes," Yewja bared her fangs as she dropped a pace back, "Daughter of that old, slovenly lump of a hare. You will die!"

Marmoss half-uttered the yelp of alarm before the chair was sent rocketing out the door; it crashed into the female archer and knocked her back into the slush, her mate diving to get her back to her feet. Dankwood pulled himself back upright, paw on his sword hilt.

"Kogaaaad! Kill that hare!"

Four weasels charged through the door, the first paw-vaulting over the pile of busted furniture and landing on Gemma, while the others shoved and hacked at the remaining barricade. Grabbing up both of her opponent's claws at the wrist in a vicegrip, she tumbled and rolled until she managed to brace back against the far wall. The weasel's right paw shook as he tried to force the bone dagger's point towards Gemma's neck, and with a final burst of energy she whacked him with a solid headbutt.

Two more of the weasels, flanking Dankwood, filed in with the barrier fully broken down. As she kicked the stunned creature aside, the leader pointed his long blade and opened his mouth to gloat.

"Eulaliaaa!"

A round, furry blur in a blue and grey striped gown came rocketing down the stairs, cannoning into the largest of the mustelids in a two-legged kick-tackle. The wind whooshed from Dankwood's lungs as he sprawled against the mish-mash of splintering tables and chairs; Myna flopped to a halt with a wheeze, also entangled in the rubbish.

"Quick-like," a weasel growled, hefting a two-handed axe, "Kill d' hare!"

Gemma's paws skittered against the shattered top of a toolchest; she felt one slide around a handle of some sort as she rushed to rise and aid her nurse, and as she flung herself towards the melee she found she now wielded a short-handle garden spade. The broad iron shovel intercepted the axehead's steel with a jarring clang, and the hare bared her teeth and pushed the weasel back with all her might. Behind her, Myna rose and swung wildly with both knotty, gnarled fists, driving the other weasel to dodge up to the third stairstep and landing a wild right hook on the forehead of a stoat which was leaping in to join the attack. Practically spitting with ire, Dankwood rebounded with sword raised.

"You—old one!" He barked, and as she dizzily turned his way his jaw split in an angry grin, "You are mine!"

"Just g'on an' try me, y' blaggard," Myna huffed, readying her boxing stance. He obliged, and it became clear even among Tatufola fighters he was not son of the Slayer for nothing. Dankwood feinted right, and side-stepped the barnstorming swipe aimed at his jaw until he drew up right alongside the hare. His sword whirled in one paw flick, sweeping at hip height and laying her low with a sharp gasp, then flipping the hilt in-paw on the follow-through for a thrust. With a shout of effort and triumph, the weasel yanked the bloodied edge back from the carcass, echoed soon after by Gemma's howl of anguish.

Spade raised, she barreled towards Myna's murderer, staggering as a sharp pain shot through her shoulder and slowing enough that she was hemmed in on three sides by Dankwood's followers. The big weasel turned, flicking loose blood from his blade and watching on as the Withersfield hare twirled and spun, trying to fend off the overwhelming odds, a yellow-feathered shaft jutting from her upper arm.

The weasel on the stairwell suddenly lunged back down, stone spearhead jabbing into her leg and breaking off. With a desperate roar, she swung out with the shovel and flattened him against the nearest wall, leaving a reddish stain as he slid down into a heap. Marmoss appeared in the doorway perched on the overturned cupboard, a purple-flighted arrow drawn all the way to his cheek.

Fllitt!

The spade clattered to the floor; Gemma followed, crawling a few paces on paws and knees before giving out at Dankwood's feet, eyes wide and glassy. The weasel stuck swordpoint down on the floor, leaning over and appraising the two lying slain with a sneer creeping out under his whiskers.

"So much for harish blood," he remarked, "Natural born warriors, is it said? Tsk, an old nursemaid and some liege-lord's lackey!"

"Kye arr—d'ya hear dat?" A stoat peered towards the stairwell, whiskers stiffening and raising his spear into a fighting stance, "Dere be another up 'ere."

"The harelady's husband, I suspect!" Dankwood wheeled up his sword with a skillful flourish, "Storm the upper level—leave none of these woodlander leeches alive!"

Bluedrop had dashed to the far end of the second story, gathering up the nerve to swing an intact footstool into the one window which overlooked a slanted eave, where he hoped he could more gently slide to the ground and spare his precious cargo a fall. He nearly dropped the stool at the pounding of footpaws up behind him and the ragged shouts of ferrets and weasels.

"St-Stop right there!" He strained, gripping the footstool in both paws with white-knuckle conviction, eyes widened like a beast maddened, "Another step an' I'll—I'll—I'll break your thick skulls in!"

The Bloodmark tribe—traitors or no—were not easily threatened once their hackles were up. The stoat pointed his spear straight-on and took point position in a dash—forcing the hare to make good on his claim. Coming back up with only a chair leg in each paw, Bluedrop's head met the whirling bolas the weasel next in line had thrown, battering his face with weighted ends of iron castings so a trickle of blood clogged one eye and his ears were twisted and pinned about his neck. Staggering back, he suddenly remembered the babe on his back, and threw out his arms on both sides to stop his careening towards the window.

Having no reason to stop, Dankwood pushed past his followers to the front of the line, stabbing forward with a single bark of a laugh. The force knocked the hare's elbows against the crystal panes, and cracks appeared.

"Die!" Dankwood retracted the swordpoint, and while Bluedrop's breath was still caught with the pain in his abdomen, the big weasel wound up and threw out a brutal kick to the chest. The window pane crashed open. Bluedrop bit his lip until blood ran as he tumbled out onto the slanted portion of eavetop roofing, twisting mid-fall against the agony of his wound and the force of his flight to land on his side—and not his back.

Dankwood drew back, grinning in such a way that every tooth was bared, and prodded Yewja forward.

"Finish him off."

The ferret nodded, drawing back her bow. As she released the arrow into the hare's unprotected chest, there was a different, distant whistling. She jumped in alarm as another arrow—shorter and flighted with sections of oakleaf—slammed into the windowsill and quivered mere inches from them.

"Hell's whiskers," Dankwood dropped down, dragging Marmoss with him. "The squirrels. Must have heard that idiot Faraf getting himself slain!"

"Quick—outta th' windows on the back side," a weasel suggested, "Let 'em think we be still in 'ere. There's a decent one in that pantry."

"Is there fire in the hearth?" Dankwood's eyes narrowed.

"Eh?"

"Either way—help the wounded out that window. We shall regroup in the north fringe of the wood." The big weasel shouldered the stoat that had been bludgeoned over the head, "The greatest work is already done!"

Nemria cursed aloud as she scrabbled along the intact rooftops with ten squirrels, doubling back towards the Withersfield House the moment the unfamiliar cries began to echo from the north end. Curls of smoke were issuing now from a broken window, and aside from a dead stoat lying in the footpath outside she could not spy a hair of the ones responsible. Dochunn and ten hogwarriors, together with a score more of the squirrels, followed close behind the elevated party. Nemria was sure—if she'd been close enough—that the grizzled hedgehog would be cursing as well.

Ahead, well past the manor-house, her keen eye was drawn suddenly to the screen of sycamore trees and juniper brush marking out the border between township and glade. The figure—tall, sinewy, and silvery-furred—stepped out with a long-handled axe in paw. Movement behind the creature, and then suddenly the fringe was alive with bristling spears, bows, swords, and more axes—all wielded by long-bodied figures, which all seemed to watch in silent concentration as the silver-furred leader surveilled the home going up in tongues of orange flames.

Nemria seethed, nearly missing her landing onto the rooftop of the nearest storehouse. Dochunn skidded to a halt just below her, stringing his bow up once more.

"Do ye see them?" The veteran called up to her, scarred face stamped with a mix of horror and bewilderment. Her tailbrush flashed as she nodded, baring her incisors and raising a paw.

"Aye—vermin!" Her squirrel archers slipped arrows from their quivers, hastening to be ready for a command, "Scores of 'em."

"They're burnin' it," Dochunn's chin shook, "Did ye see Lady Gemma—anybeast?"

There was a furious murmuring, but none of the hedgehogs or squirrels could say. Lady Nemria drew back her bow as tight as the snarl twisting her face, centering the fire-hardened arrow on the large, silver figure standing out against the evergreens.

"Death t' th' vermin!" She let fly, "Hoyaaah!"

A flurry of wooden arrows buzzed across the open space like a swarm of angry wasps—Lady Nemria's at the lead.

Mogja the Lethal had watched for several silent seconds, orange light glinting off his broad, bearded axe's blade before he realized it, knowing right away the identity of the arsonist. The Greenstone Drey battlecry would drive the dishonored ones northward to escape their fury, this he knew. He had circled his warband around the western side of the woodlanders' town as soon as he'd heard it—hoping to intercept the weasel and the score of traitors as they fled. He rushed aside the niggling worry of where his son was in the burning fray—if fortune was with him, he was unnoticed and safe from both vermin-kind and goodbeast warrior alike.

"Tualam, Dubbhru," his coarse whisper summoned the two small, but highly athletic weasels to his side. Cousins of Uark, and the most skilled fighters of that clan, they clenched their jaws grimly and awaited instruction, "Ready theyselves. Tualam, arrange those with lade and cudgel. Should the traitors flee this way, prepare for them a reception. And Dubbhru—ye direct the archers and slings. Do not let us be surprised!"

The weasel in question yelped and drew back as a solid whakk! sounded from her Chieftain. Mogja himself stumbled backwards, adrenaline at the blow masking all pain, and glanced down at his chest.

Embedded a short ways into the hardened hide cuirass which the Chief of Tatufola wore was a stout, leaf-flighted arrow. As his free paw ventured up to confirm its existence, sensation returned to his chest and he felt the faint prickling and trickle of blood beneath the armor.

"It seems I hath misspoke," he shot Dubbhru a swift, rueful glance as he effortlessly snapped off the shaft. Turning back to the span of cottages and the flurry of arrows landing short or amidst the junipers, he bared his fangs, "It seems we are surprised. Brace thyselves!"

Cries rang out from the township's narrow pathways—and flooding towards them the war party spotted hedgehogs and squirrels armed to the teeth with swords, clubs, and javelins. Though not the foe they were awaiting, the Tatufola were all the ready to meet an assault on even terms. Tualam gestured with a sharp motion of his battleaxe, and a score of ferrets, stoats, and weasels bearing round shields shuffled to the front of the verges, raising wood and iron in time to meet the second volley the rooftop squirrels had sent at them. Aside from nicks to paws and ears, there were no casualties, yet.

"Ready bowbeasts!" Dubbhru cried out in a piercing voice, lifting one of her heavily gauntleted claws, "Fire!" As she chopped down, a dozen archers let loose their long, feathered arrows, which skimmed low along the open swale and cut into the frontmost beasts charging to their position. The weasel swung up her other paw, urging those with slings to step to the rank just behind the shields.

Before she could give any further commands, Mogja gave utterance to a truly wild roar. The cause became clear; slinking from the back wall of the Withersfield House, the hunched figure of Dankwood along with a dozen others jolted stark upright on hearing the battle commands.

"Chief!" Tualam pushed aside the closest beasts, clasping a paw on the large ferret's elbow, "What are your orders?"

His grip straining on the sleek wooden axe haft, Mogja offered no words, only the audible bruxism and flecks of foam on his chin as he focused his red-tinted glare on the silhouette of the weasel who had wronged his tribe. But the warriors could guess well enough his desires as he raised the battlecry and threw himself forward, axe raised:

"Kogaaaad! Kill, kill, kiiiill!"