-6-
In the Ashes
Chaos reigned in the north end. When the Tatufola warband pelted forward, Dankwood and his fugitive band took a second of panicked indecision before the weasel made a bolt back eastward and across town. His hope had been to lead his creatures to the twining pathways to duck and weave, disappearing to his pursuers and able to make a new break for the woods. But as the weasel and two frontrunners came around the smoldering side of the Withersfield House they came face-to-face with the town guard's charge.
"Out of my way!" Dankwood was chilled to the bone with dread, but was as courageous and war-like as any true-hearted Bloodmark. His red-stained sword whipped in a figure eight before him, scattering aside three javelineer squirrels and slashing a hedgehog across the headspikes, forcing the hefty beast to drop back, clutching his face to staunch the bleeding. With a wild yell, half-desperate and half-bloodthirsty, Dankwood's supporters streamed out from the house's walls knowing fully that their only hope was to break through the woodlanders and leave them to clash against Mogja's warriors—held up by the third side in the battle, the violent confusion covering their escape. The ferret archers stayed a pace behind the big weasel, back-to-back and sending shot after shot into the rooftops, forcing the squirrels' heads down. Stoats and weasels swung axes and slashed out with spears; squirrels staggered back, surprised and wounded, with a hogwarrior tripping backwards over another squirrel's body. Dankwood wormed his way forward into the cleared space with his guard around him in a wedge, his whistling blade cutting through opposition. He aimed for the back of a nearby cottage, its east wall opening into a tempting narrow alleyway—easy to slip through, easy to rearguard.
Mogja bounded across the swale, at least ten paces ahead of his tribe. With an upswing of his axe, he blocked the flight of a wooden javelin and sent its two halves ricocheting off into the grass tussocks. He screamed his frustration as the front ranks turned to assail Dankwood's rearguard, closing between he and his quarry. In a paw-pounding flurry the Tatufola and the Withersfield creatures crashed upon each other like a wave to shore:
All was riot—scraping wood and metal—grunts and snarls—the wind off lashing weaponry—blood scent and battlenoise.
The semblance of defensive ranks and clear goals scattered. Squirrels, hedgehogs, and a smattering of rudimentary-armed mice and voles fought only seeking to stop the momentum of vermin creatures towards the town, while tribal warriors sought after the circle of traitors, hacking and pushing wherever they were blocked or harried. Dankwood and his creatures were fighting in circles—trapped between and amongst woodlanders, fending them away while trying to bunch together, but being split and split again into groupings of only three or four. Soon enough, all beasts tearing and thrashing for survival were mixed up amongst each other, and the entire battling mass being pushed into one side of the town's borders in the north, backed onto the old storehouses with a dozen squirrels still firing down into the fray just as soon as they could pick out ferret or stoat targets.
Dochunn gave a mighty heave against the upturned, broken wheelbarrow left in the field against a storehouse wall—sending it flipping twice over and into a pair of spear-wielding ferrets trying to fight their way past a trio of Nemria's squirrels.
"This is a mess," the hedgehog wheezed, eyes roving to each side, on the lookout for any of the mustelids making breaks for the buildings. The huge female hogwarrior nodded in agreement before jutting out a boot and tripping up one of a group of wild-eyed weasels trying to sidle past.
"There's vermin pockets all through 'ere now," she grunted, and squared off as the second of the weasels turned towards them both, a bolas whirring over his head and ready to throw or swing. Dochunn swung around to cover her back as a ferret charged from the north with a round, painted shield held forward. The lead hog gave a deep bellow and let his grip on his bow slacken until he was only holding one end of its length, then swept it low at the ferret's legs. He hopped to the side, rounding on Dochunnn with dark eyes scowling as if he'd just noticed the veteran combatant, and half-circled him with both dirk and shield brandished.
"Kye arr!" The ferret hesitated, his fangs bared, and Dochunn heard a resounding thwakk and muffled groan from behind him. The hedgehog parried the dirk thrust wordlessly, then tensed to steel as something crashed hard against the back of his head and tight sinew cords wrapped over his ears, snout, and headspikes. The blow cushioned by his spines, he only blundered forward, right into the paint-streaked ferret and staggering the both of them. As the ferret pushed free and crawled off to retrieve his dirk, the hedgehog scrabbled to his knees and twisted around to meet the surprise attacker; the weasel, minus his bolas, was standing atop the other hedgehog's unconscious body, now armed with one of the squirrel javelins raised to throw. Dochunn struggled to lift his shortsword, half-blinded by the bolas-cords entangled over his face.
A great shadow fell over him from the north. An axeblade slashed crossways, severing the sharpened tip of the javelin. Bounding over him, a huge ferret, nearly the heft of a river otter, came down with a furious elbow strike on the weasel's skull, instantly knocking the beast's lights out forever.
Dochunn had to make himself blink. The vermin had just attacked the other vermin? This one was clearly a chieftain of some kind—or was it "warlord" for such beasts?—with deep silvery fur except for a bit of white around the snout and ears, even that hard to discern due to the bright purple and deep scarlet warpaints. The bearded axe in his paws whirled and shifted with the deftness of a fencer maneuvering their rapier. The hedgehog pushed up to his feet.
The imposing mustelid paid him no mind, striding deeper into the fray and throwing out the flat of his axe—slapping aside the sword-thrust of a stoat and bowling him over.
"What's th' meanin' of this, polecat?" Dochunn took a step forward now that the gap was free of all other foebeasts. Now the great silvery battler peered sharply over his hide-armored shoulder, bright amber eyes studying the hedgehog for a moment of clarity—though red-tinted from the back of the piercing eyes.
"Stay clear of me, spikedog," the chieftain flashed massive yellowed canines, and then spun back about with his berserk gaze scanning over the carnage, becoming fixated on one segment where a crowd was trying in vain to swarm a gathering of a dozen vermin warriors. The hogwarrior leader could not possibly miss the sharp inhale and widening eyes locking onto the biggest and most muscular figure in the small pack working its way forward—a weasel with a mighty build, expertly whipping a sword about.
"Dankwood!" The silver ferret's tone was like the utterance of a curse, "You dishonor your father and your clan! You dishonor me!" With his axe rising, the beast muscled past a squirrel without even bothering to strike out, "Dankwood, I am coming for your head! Kogaaaaad!"
Speechless for a moment, the brawny hog watched the ferret's progress until a clear thought snapped into his mind:
"Stand fast! Stand back!" He hurtled backwards of the charge of the town defenders, grabbing and barking orders to anybeast who was free to listen. Slowly, a small contingent of squirrels, mice, and his hogs formed in an arc following him—and he, following the ferret on the warpath who had so compelled him. But clearly, not at war with the woodlanders.
A cacophony of noise and smoke seemed to follow Klavis. The fire had spread—and as he, bearing the defeated squirrel over a shoulder, staggered from the main bank of black smog into the lane between center-town and the manor-house, he tripped to the mud and gasped for breath. His lungs burned, and the first clear air seemed to knock him down with realization that he had scarcely made it through. The ferret slung the unconscious squirrel down from his shoulder and laid him on his back in a patch of grass, and then blinked his eyes clear before gazing up.
A flurry of yellow flames guttered from the Withersfield House's kitchen windows, long shattered by the heat. The frame of its east wall began to creak, and with the light from the building inferno Klavis glanced down at the slush leading up to the entry way. Weasel tracks, large ones of a size on-par with a polecat, printed as clear as if for a cubs' tracking lesson. The Chieftain's son levered himself to his paws, then up into a ferocious hunch, glaring and snarling ahead into the glowing, growing deathtrap. His long knife cleared the sling scabbard on his crossbelt, poised in the strong right paw as he dashed forward, ready to meet any—even all—of the traitorous prey he sought.
The interior of the ruined parlor was lit bloody crimson, all sound muffled by the dull roar of the fire devouring through the kitchen's timbers. Klavis had to blink furiously against the stinging trickles of sweat as the fluming heat washed over him. The ferret's head was on a swivel—peering from room to room, through cracked arches, but spying neither hide nor hair of Dankwood. Striding forward towards the staircase, Klavis nearly tripped over something soft and caught himself only by stabbing his blade deep into the stairwell's railing. With a gasp, the young mustelid jumped back and left his knife quaking in the wood: Slumped against the broken, upturned chairs were the bodies of two hares, one an old nursemaid, the other young and athletic and dressed in relative finery—now largely ruined by fresh stains of blood. Once over his shock, Klavis scowled and eyed the wounds marring the unfortunate oldster. Dankwood had surely been here.
He wasted no more time following the claw rip traces up the stairs, tearing his weapon free as he went. Rolling over a singed rent in the upper landing rug, the ferret readied himself to plunge his blade into a foebeast, but found none in sight. Putting a paw about his rag-shrouded whiskers and coughing against the rising plumes of smoke, he turned to stalk the hallway and check the row of rooms for any of the traitorous beasts. Emptiness greeted him until he reached the busted-open window at the end, and he glanced down to the grim sight: Another dead hare, crumpled over the shingled peak of the low eaves. Klavis felt compelled to lean further over the victim, and not only for the brief pulls of fresh air he could take from outside of the confines of the blazing manor. This one had almost made it.
A muffled, pitiable mewl drifted up and pricked the ferret's ears. He froze. A rough, soot-smeared claw reached down, just registering the strap over the dead hare's shoulder securing the soft barkcloth babe-carrier, and flipped the body over. Tucked into the pouched sling was a small, downy bundle—mostly white paws and curled, long ears, all framing a pair of tearful, wide blue eyes.
"Great Vulpuz…" Klavis's paws shook, but no longer with the craving for revenge. Forgetting all else, he stepped out onto the rooftop and fumbled to unbuckle the sling and lift up the swaddled infant.
Suddenly conscious of noise and danger, the ferret tucked the tiny creature close to his chest, intensely aware of the little paws gripping against his leather jerkin. His blade he clenched between his teeth, and he held back a fit of coughs as he hooked his claws into the gaps in the wall timbers—achingly, slowly, climbing down until he slumped into a panting crouch against the dirt. He could hear yells, clanging. A pawpad of his softly closed over the harebabe's ears, muffling. Guarding. His lungs were sore from the fire—there was no telling how ill this little creature was from its own exposure—there was doubly so no rejoining the chase for Dankwood in his state, and with such a tag-along.
"Aye, little anklebiter…" he tried to make his rasping voice gentle as he crawled and felt his way along the house's back wall, keeping low and setting his sights on the bronze-leaved thickets dotting the nearby sward at the edges of Western Mossflower, "don't ye fret… We'll get thee somewhere safe… won't we now? Hush, no crying now—we'll get somewhere quiet soon. Very soon!"
Mogja the Lethal rammed aside a large squirrel who had dared step into his beeline towards the fleeing traitor band, and the hefty rodent crashed into a pair of mice swinging their pitchforks and tree-pruners as makeshift polearms such that all three were waylaid. His yellow eyes gleamed with battle-fury as he sprinted forward, the way to Dankwood almost clear. Alongside him flitted Dubbhru, Tualam, and several hefty ferrets and stoats, forming a lane of formidable creatures to stop any other woodlanders from further delaying the Tatufola's Rite of Vengeance.
Dankwood, with Yewja and Marmoss right behind him, had made their bolt for the storehouse alley. A deep ruddy blur dropped down before him, and he drew up and held his long blade to deflect as the small female squirrel stood and jabbed with the javelin. Unlike much of the Greenstone Drey armaments, this javelin had a cast bronze spearhead, small holes bored in its blade for lightness making a whistling sound as she directed it in effortless flickers, seeking the large weasel's blood. This was no ordinary treewhiffler, or nut-harvester given a war-weapon in desperation; by her thick black-and-gold tartan mantle and especially ornate black spiral tattoos beneath her eyes, Dankwood knew right away this was a leader.
"Yore run ends here, weasel," Lady Nemria feinted twice more with her chief's javelin, grinning with eyes reddening and teeth baring as he was forced back a step, "Look above ye!"
Marmoss and Yewja flinched, training their nocked arrows up to the roofs of the pair of storehouses, but found there too many targets to possibly pick off with only two arrows—before the score of stout, leaf-flighted return volley slew the two of them where they stood. Dankwood's tail lashed against the packed earth. Suddenly he made a break left, to try and skirt the other wall of the storehouse.
"Naw, naw ye don't," Dubbhru, backed by a half-dozen stoats and ferrets pointing a fence of barbed hunting spears inwards, dashed into the space against the edifice. Dankwood's grey eyes narrowed, recognizing his clanbeast, and fled the other way. In an arc, Tualam had already barred this exit with his own two-handed spiked axe and a compliment of mustelid swordsbeasts and archers.
"Can't run forever, eh?" The smaller weasel smirked. Dankwood growled and raised his sword, paw shaking. Whatever insult he may have been ready to spit was interrupted by a harsh, bellowing voice from behind.
"Dankwood!"
The route back the way Dankwood's followers had come was now well-blocked: A bristling wall of weasel, ferret, and stoat shields, spears, blades and slings had formed, gaps on either side tentatively filled by the town's defenders alert to the lull in battle and waiting to see what was to come of the vermin-on-vermin conflict brewing before them. Behind all was a loose ring of hedgehogs and squirrels—being eased by a large hogwarrior with a drawn bow, muttering to them to hold fire, stand patient—wait and see.
But in front of the tribesbeasts stood their war-like leader. Chief Mogja's brilliant warpaint was lit ever brighter as the reflection of the sun on his whirling axehead flashed across it—grim-expressioned but satisfied as no more opposition stood in his way.
"You run far for one who claims to be brave," the silver ferret smiled, outstretching his axe in paw, pointing to the weasel, "And you slay many oldbeasts and unarmed village creatures for one who claims to be a warrior. Add this blaze to thy list of wrongs, and 'tis clear! If Fayron could hath been here, he'd hath denounced ye!"
"That dim-sighted Seer," Dankwood snarled, sword jittering between stances, "What should I care about what he'd say? Bound for Hellgates anyhow!"
"You are Tatufola no longer," Mogja paced into the circle, his glare scattering the ferret archers and other unscrupulous mustelids aside without even a hint of fear for their commanding weasel. "And so I hath no need to give thee this respect, even. But I think it matters not your tribe—regardless, you will face me! You hath done wrong to me and many others, and now ye must face the Rite of Vengeance!"
No longer trying to run, Dankwood darted forward with a roar, and a downward chop of his sword. With speed belying his great bulk, the ferret chieftain side-stepped and kicked out. The weasel twisted away but did not avoid the thud of the blow or the raking footclaws entirely. The duel was on—a ring of hushed beasts watching in either stunned silence or tight-lipped vigilance.
Mogja thundered after his quarry, stomping and slashing down with his massive axe at the slippery weasel who contorted and dodged up to his feet in a one-pawed handspring. Retaliating with a cleaving swipe, the weasel grunted in a disappointment as only a tuft of fur from one of Mogja's short plaits drifted to the ground. Dankwood was the weaker, but speedier—and even so, not by much—and with the more versatile weapon. Then again, a single grazing strike from Mogja's bearded axe or icepick eyeteeth would be immediately crippling. As the combatants circled, eyeing each other for slip-up or weakness, not a soul dared interrupt. Not Lady Nemria, not Dochunn, and certainly not Dubbhru or Tualam.
Shattering the tension, Mogja lunged—his axeblade flying towards Dankwood's face. Only by thrusting upwards could the weasel buy enough time to duck under, and his reply was a three-pawed spring towards the ferret's unguarded flank. The silver-furred ferret howled with rage and pain as weasel fangs sunk into his hide at a chink between his cuirass and staghide kilt, and he spun on his heels to throw the latched-on attacker away. Dankwood landed in a crouch—snout and whiskers smeared with blood. The weasel stood and made a tremendous two-handed stab towards the ferret. Mogja's long body contorted to evade the swordpoint, and still staggering backwards brought a wild swing down. Axe chopped at sword, jarring Dankwood from the force rattling through his grip, and the sharp tip stabbed into the earth. The ferret grinned in triumph while the weasel struggled to rip the blade back out, and before he could do much about it Dankwood sprawled to the far side of the ring of combat from the heavy slug that had slammed into his jaw.
"Kye arr! Kiiill!" With a roar of victory and foam flecking his lips the chieftain bounded over with furious speed, a paw outstretched for balance as he raised up his axe single-pawed over his head. There was a concerted gasp of shock—Dankwood flipped himself about, a swift kick buckling one of Mogja's knees before the ferret caught himself on the ground with the outstretched left paw.
There was a whine of steel on the wind as the weasel sliced out at the prone ferret. A fountain of blood sprayed back upon the rogue's face and chest from the severed stump of Mogja's left wrist; he flinched a second, but rose slowly as the piercing wail of horror and agony escaped his larger opponent. He'd dropped the great bearded axe, and the weasel kicked it aside as he advanced with blade held up like an old schoolmaster's rod.
"Conceit, eh, my old chieftain?" he sneered, padding with methodical steps as Mogja's instincts kicked in and he scuttled back, remaining paw clenched tight over the bleeding wound. "Big braggart. Always relying on your bulk, on your force and screaming madness. One victory over some rag-tag land-pirates as Juska, and suddenly yon ferret 'tis the greatest in all Mossflower Country. And what hast ye done with such powers? Took to task the otter-crews who hunt the broadstream and waterways every four seasons to brutalize and harry any vermin-marked beast they see? Put a fear of Hellgates into the stream shrews who harass our hunters? Perhaps pick off a few of those military hares—who patrol our lands and claim the country all theirs? No? Not even taking a hack at slaying that lone owl—the foolhardy brute who hunts only our kind, and relishes in the spilling of vermin blood? Hah!" The weasel made a short dash to close the gap between them, kicking out and knocking Mogja unexpectedly onto his side. "Not even one thing that wouldst cut out the harshness from our pitiful place here! You are the most useless of Chieftains, and it will remain so. Your reign ends here, and your big brat is next!"
Dankwood leered down across his blade as he drew it back for a downward thrust. The siler-furred chieftain could only gape up at certain death.
Suddenly there was a sharp twang, a whistle, and a thwokk! of flesh being punished. Dankwood choked and a dribble of thick, dark blood flowed down over his chin. Peering down, he noticed the thick alder-wood shaft flighted with molted blackbird feathers protruding halfway from his bare chest. With a short gagging noise, the rogue weasel's face crunched up into an expression of cheated outrage before collapsing backwards in a heap. His long sword clattered aside, red-stained and dented from use.
The ferret, wincing with pain and effort, dragged himself into a sitting position and looked over his shoulder to where the arrow had flown from. Standing a step into the ring from a cluster of the town creatures was Dochunn, a paw still up alongside his ear and bowstring still vibrating. The two met eyes, all other beasts silent:
"Thou hast killed the rogue we came to find," Mogja grated between his fangs, "though he was mine to slay."
Dochunn unstrung his bow, and nodded, "Aye, I did. I don't pretend t' know yore tribe's codes an' ways all that well," his heavy brows slanted down a fraction, headspikes bristling, "But from what I gathered, I 'ad as much right t' slay th' blaggard, considerin' what all he'd done t' my home."
The ferret made a slow nod before attempting to stagger upright, being caught before he swayed and crashed by Dubbhru and a nearby stoat spearbeast. Mogja muttered something to Tualam, who had also run close enough to hear the croaking whisper. The hogwarrior stood tense in the utter pall of deathly silence that had fallen over the battlefield—all eyes on the two commanders yards from each other.
"Our quarrel is done with," the weasel said, gesturing towards the cowering dozen of Dankwood's supporters at the fringes of the dueling ring. As he spoke, ferrets began disarming the stoats, weasels binding the paws of Yewja and Marmoss behind their backs and confiscating both bow and quiver. "We shall take th' others of this rogue band, and have no further fightin' here. Allow our tribe t' leave in peace. We'll deal with th' rest of these arsonists an' murderers, since they were our own."
"Those're acceptable terms." The hedgehog frowned as he glanced down to the ferret chieftain's bloody stump, "Though fer th' love of nature—y' might want t' tend to yourself before anythin' else."
With a hiss, Mogja, the Lethal, the Tatufola Chief who had struck down the raiding Juskarel band, allowed a muscular stoat to support him as he began to hobble northward. A lankier ferret female scuttled alongside, fishing pouches of staunching powders from her kilt pocket and making a few hurried ministrations. Once out of earshot of the hog, he turned slightly to Dubbhru.
"Have somebeast bring my paw!"
"Chief Mogja," she licked sweat from her nose, "Zaban has yore axe already, I saw 'er pick it up. Keep that arm still, ye ken?"
The ferret groaned, stumbling and needing to lean heavily upon his stoat aide. Blood loss had slowed his thoughts; he hated feeling the weakness of the mind. But one new, urgent thought came to him as he led his creatures away to lick their wounds:
"Hath… anybeast seen… Klavis? Look for him… find my son!"