-7-

Winter's Beginning

Behind the warband had come a smaller tracking party to lead a number of elders and crafting beasts of the tribe to where they may be needed in the aftermath of a skirmish, and at their head stroke Uark and his aunt the wise Elder Moonbine. Moonbine was smaller still than Uark, but had insisted on coming at the lead—as both her grown youngsters were alongside Mogja on his mission.

She was cloaked in a short mantle dyed dull blue and bright green, woolen to keep out the chill along with the similar dark leg wraps. Around her eyes were a streak of blue and green ceremony paints—signifying her status as a healer to any she came across who had lost power of speech from their injuries. As she hurried along, Uark whimpered in her wake, clutching a pack of her curatives and supplies as well as a quarterstaff he was ill-suited to using. Behind them were a score of fellow Bloodmarks—no warriors, mostly healers and a handful of hunters—panting to keep up and peering about for any sign they were close to meeting any of their kin.

It was as the party crested a low swale very close to the drifting smoke of Withersfield Town that Moonbine held up a paw to halt. With a grunt of confusion, Uark followed his aunt as she scrabbled down amid some gnarled climbing roses and crack willow brushes, poking underneath to a hollow dry patch on the earth.

"What's th' matter? Who is that?" Uark fidgeted at the thorn-bedecked entrance. The elder crawled further; before her, curled into a tight ball against the winter air, was a large ferret. His pale dun and white-fur was distinctly smoky and soot-stained, and when she raised up her posture on her heels she could tell right away this was Klavis, son of their chief. She laid a paw on his throat to find a pulse, but gave a soft bark of alarm as she found something else: With a sharp whine, a small creature tucked within the protective confines of the ferret's throatfur came awake, a twitch of its ears brushing up on Moonbine's paw.

"Great Woad—'tis Klavis," the weasel elder got over her surprise quickly, and reached more slowly to stroke the swaddled babe's ear, "and wit a little company too. He's been busy!"

Uark blinked, puzzlement and worry twisting his large-eyed face.

"He… auntie, he hasn't got a mate or nuthin', how would—ow!"

"I don't mean that, ye nitwit," Moonbine clicked her pinching claws together again, "Quick-like—any of ours beasts be nursin' at present? This little one's been through Hell and high waters—it needs something by now."

A few more of the elders and ordinary tribesbeasts shuffled up to the rose briars, noses forward and twitching—but reluctant by nature to try and reach for a babe being clutched by another creature. Moonbine tugged at the strap holding the barkcloth wrapping against Klavis's shoulder but jolted back as the ferret suddenly came to. Snarling and baring ivory canines, the young chief's son rounded on the intrusion with arms tightening about his bundle—eyes flashing deep red amid the sclera in a way that reminded the weasel of the might Mogja's flashes of Bloodwrath. The next moment he slumped, overwhelmed and tired, as he recognized those of his tribe.

"Elder Moonbine, Uark—" he coughed, the bundle at his chest giving a fitful squirm, "how came you here?"

"We'd come ta look after our warriors, naturally," Uark knelt down and studied the ferret's pale gums and watery eyes, "Includin' you—hell's teeth, were you in yonder fire? You look 'alf dead!"

"See to this one," Klais brushed aside his friend's further prodding and instead held out the babe in the barkcloth sling, "Gently now. The cub was by the big house when it went ablaze—is it alright?"

"Hrmm," Elder Moonbine's hazel eyes widened a moment as she cradled the infant leveret, instantly knowing its species, instantly knowing from where the baby creature had come. "Wrapped up wit this 'twas quite protected. I not see any burns—eyes bright and not scratched or red—lungs be soundin' clear too. But Klavis—dis is a little hare, maybe just one season, an' you find her at th' big house?"

"Dankwood had got to them," Klavis sucked air through his teeth, letting himself be dragged to a seat outside the thorn-riddled thicket, "Every last hare in that place was slain. When I found yon babe, it was still on the back of what I think was the father. But he did not quite make it away."

"Scum musta missed th' poor little thing was even there," Uark shook his head as he slathered a dockleaf and boneset gel over the light burns scattered all over the ferret's pawpads before bandaging them with tough strips of flaxen cloth. "Lucky it was you saw it! But then, what to do with a little hare? If it has no livin' kin, where's it going to go to?"

"I will take her," Klavis said, weak but with a sure tone.

"First—she needs ta nurse!" Moonbine flicked up a swift gesture with her wrist and began making rapid commands of her band, "Glengath—will you take dis mite a few moments? Poor thing's dried out—prolly hungry too by dis point. If ye run out, pass her over to Rednettle, and you two can follow along slow wit Klavis an' me nephew. Th' rest of you—come along post haste! We be needed ahead—go towards th' north end there where that noise is loudest. Come, Bloodmarks, come!"

Uark and Klavis travelled slowly, with the irrepressible weasel supporting the ferret almost double his weight with no complaint. Though, Klais would hardly have noticed. He kept peering over to the fellow ferret—normally slim, spotted-white Glengath, coming into milk in anticipation of her own youngster due any week now. Still, she trotted along at the smoke-tinged ferret's pace; the little hares's eyes were shut and her nose twitched as she nursed, heedless of the bounce of Glengath's gait or the worried eyes on her. Klavis smiled before pausing to cough.

"Ayeh—there's some of 'em," Rednettle, a stoat currently in patchy white-and-chestnut fur, pointed ahead mid-bound as she cleared a rotting pine log. Where the stoat had gestured the others could make out the crowding mustelid warriors amid the treetrunks and high grasses. Clustered in rings of five to ten, each group was being attended by one of the healer's band—all but one, a round dozen who were seated in a row, paws bound and being watched either side by a hefty warrior with either spear or sword. Scattered amid the leafless cherry and plum plantings of this low hill north of town, Rednettle's teeth chattered as she was the first to notice amongst the prisoners bunching up and the largest circle of crouching warband members a row of nearly a score of deadbeasts, with mismatched cloaks and blankets and rough fabric pieces covering the faces and chests at the minimum, "Vulpuz help us—those all are ours?"

"Look among the living first, friend," Glengath advised the increasingly fretful stoat, "See there—my Buisekka! What a relief. I don't think your Miogaza was among the warband."

"But my mate's brother was," the stoat chittered, brush fuzzing, "I'll be back in a moment. I'm going to try an' find 'im!"

Klavis began to pull forward, taking the lead from Glengath and letting his weight off of poor Uark. He walked slowly, but with recovering strength on sight of Elder Moonbine crouched, facing his father. As Mogja's son approached, the ferret's eyes cast up, surprising the younger by their bone-weary, morose expression.

"Father!" the reason why became clear as Klavis glanced down and spied the work of Moonbine; she had expertly closed the slashed hide and a pad of pink flesh around the knot of remaining wrist bones, but was still in the process of cleansing the reddened fur and wrapping an herb-treated flaxen bandage about the stump. The younger ferret dropped into a knees-down hunch, "Are you alright?"

"Dost this look like I'm alright?" The ferret's heavy brows twitched and he turned his face aside in shame. Moonbine clicked her tongue sharply.

"All due respect, Chieftain—naw naw, none o' dat grim sort o' talk!" She tweaked the final knot of the bandages into position, glaring straight on and meeting the massive beast's gaze, "That ye live is astoundin'! It could have not been so, ye ken? What is one paw, next t' dat?"

Mogja fell silent. Klavis stared on, bewildered. Finally, his voice came back to him:

"What happened?"

"A battle—a bloodbath," Mogja muttered; his intact paw reached out and accepted the aid of the tall warrior stoat Zaban in securing his great axe in the sheath at his back. "When the large manor house of the Lord hare went up in flames, our band circled it to intercept the traitors. The woodlander fighters saw also—and ran to pursue. When they saw us, they charged, and all was fraught."

"I see you have captured a number of yon traitors," Klavis cast the prisoner row a sidelong glance, "so what of Dankwood?"

"Dead," the silver ferret sounded mildly energetic again at this, "I caught up to the fool. He took my paw. But before else one of the woodlanders shot and killed him on the spot. It is done, all done."

"And what now?" Klavis wearily pulled himself back to his feet, "We have many wounded. It may yet be night before we can make it back to our summer village."

"Aye, and winter is on," Glengath added, flicking a few whiskers to indicate the bare branches and low sun. "It isn't long before our tribe must pack it up an' make for th' winter burrows off east…"

"It can be done," Mogja growled, "There is nothing wrong with mine legs—we hath many creatures and much strength." He half-hooded his eyes, "though—we must spare some strong beasts solely to move the worst of our casualties. Fayron will need several to carry him."

Moonbine bowed, "Indeed he will. That cut were serious—I don't expect dat'n to walk of him own power f'r a season. Maybe 'alf a season. Depends on th' winter."

Now relieved by the news his Seer was surviving and mending, Mogja's gaze had slid from the elder and his son and landed on the now-sleeping bundle resting against Glengath's shoulder. Klavis noted his father's stunned expression, and stepped over with his paws out to take back over the care of the little one. The strap slipped over his shoulder, and he cradled the dozing leveret in both claws as he faced Mogja to explain.

"There'll be another of ours who shall need carrying the whole way," he said, brushing aside a loose flap of the barkcloth to show the wounded chief the tranquil face of the little one. Still downy-white with only the first-coat very like a ferret or weasel of similar tender age, Mogja's jaw dropped at the recognition of the proportionally huge ears, the arched snout and pouched cheeks, the tips of padless, hairy-bottomed paws.

"A harebabe?" The silvery ferret stare past the leveret, meeting his son's eyes. The expression Klavis wore was determined despite its softness—slightly tinted with a dark guilt.

"Orphaned," the harebabe was tucked away once more, ears barely twitching with brief, infantile dreaming.

"Dankwood's doing," the one-pawed ferret looked away, at his bandages, "What 'tis your plan for it?"

"I must adopt her."

"Truly? You art ready to care for such a little creature? You are sure?"

"I must," the young ferret's eyes beaded with water, "There's nobeast in yon town to leave her to—no kin and no caretaker. It was one of our tribe who took her family. So I must make up for that." He smiled slightly, "I will take her as mine own. She will be Tatufola!"

Moonbine's severe expression darted between the two ferrets, awaiting some response from their leader. Mogja's amber eyes glittered with thought; he glanced once more over the stump of his left paw, and with a slow, stiffened motion straightened up and puffed his chest in a look of authority.

"Yes, she shall." But he nodded sharply at his son, "On one condition. Look you well at the state of me. I am crippled now, and I will be weak and healing for some time hence, kye arr… But you art young, strong. You will have much help in the coming season—she shall be Tatufola and you her father. And you shall succeed me as Chieftain, over all Bloodmarks."

At that moment a keening wail rose up from the side of the hill, where the dead were laid. Rednettle had found Faraf's fate, and was being pulled aside by another stoat where she turned and buried her face into his chest fur to muffle her sobs. Uneasy now, many of the tribal warriors wounded and not began to stand and look towards Mogja and Elder Moonbine for some direction. Zaban took the old Chief onto her shoulder as he stood, and as he moved to direct some of the more experienced beasts Klavis leaned close and set a paw upon his father's other shoulder.

"Much needs be done now—but later, later I will do this," he whispered, "When the dead's rites are done and before the move to winter burrow, I will take up the Chieftaincy."

"There's a good ferret!" Mogja gave a soft barked laugh before hobbling off towards where Tualam and three others were organizing a small mob of still able-bodied creatures by the deceased. While Mogja began ordering the removal of the bodies to the camp's burial site, Elder Moonbine padded over and nudged Klavis.

"Father and Chieftain in one day," she sighed, "Lackaday—not unheard of, but what a thing!"

"I can do it," Klavis's jaw clenched and eyes widened, staring down at his tiny burden's flopping ears, "I think."

"Naw, not be worried," Moonbine smiled, patting the ferret's back, "Much help will be for you. I can arrange nursebeasts for ye easy enough, and I be an old mother twice—me advice is always free ye ken." She winked, "To you, O Chief."

"Kah! Don't make me nervous," Klavis chuckled, steadying himself on his feet, "Come, we shouldst help with the trek back. Mayhap with some practice giving orders shall seem less…"

"Daunting?" she suggested. Klavis nodded and had Glengath walk with him towards a group of the tribe's warriors and healers. Such began his authority—commanding the spearbeasts and archers to stand the prisoners up and round them up to be driven back to the village.

The south end was now in ruins. While Nemria's squirrels were able to form fire-chains up the nearby trees to throw buckets of melted slush and well-water down and kill the blazes, the main part of the damage was already done. Small plumes of steam and smoke still curled up from a swathe of cottage homes, charred and with roofs destroyed—currant plantings scorched and belongings burnt to ashes. Facing the still-toiling score of squirrels, a huddle of displaced hedgehogs, voles, mice and a small family of moles stood trembling and clutching each other.

Further away, more of the town creatures were organizing themselves: Dochunn bellowed out orders to his hogwarriors—calling out names and taking stock of who had escaped the violence of the weasel's raid. Already it was becoming clear from the clash with the less antagonistic band of vermin that there had been casualties. Six of his own warriors were slain as well as fifteen of Nemria's squirrels—and well over two score were mending, wrapping, or resting up in a makeshift canvas shelter from varying injuries. Several of the peaceable mice and voles were also confirmed to have perished of the noxious smoke alone, and nobeast had seen the family of Lady Gemma Withersfield since prior to the attack.

Dochunn sunk down to one knee in utter exhaustion as he finished crawling out from between two blackened wall supports and a warped piece of slate roofing, a sack of as many of the home's salvageable possessions and supplies as he could find over one broad shoulder.

"Oh, good heavens," the fieldvole head of the house scrabbled to scoop up the bag and unburden the brawny hedgehog, eyes budding with tears as he studied the contents, "Is this really all 'twas left? Not that we ain't grateful o' course, sir Dochunn. C'mon, c'mon, lean on me ould shoulder. Ye needs rest."

"I'll rest when I'm not needed no more," the hedgehog wheezed, spikes giving a stoic bristle though he accepted the assist over towards the medic shelter. Once there, he spotted Nemria leaning on her bronze-headed javelin and chattering fiercely amidst a squad of much huskier squirrels. "Now you just make sure all yore family's about ye, Birroh, an' we'll see to it y've got warm shelter fer th' night. Looks like Greenstone Chief's got somethin' t' say."

As the hedgehog staggered over, Lady Nemria's tailbrush gave a furious flicker, bidding her creatures be silent. Slumping to the ground, Dochunn gasped and cut right to the chase:

"Any new happenin's?"

"Aye," she tamped the butt of her weapon down, a scowl on her delicate features, "Ain't nothin' good, though. We've found some more slain by that weasel's gang. A buncha pore farmers an' youngbeasts—six mice, two voles, and a whole family o' hedgehogs. They were killed sometime early in th' fire—ash 'ad covered 'em so they weren't easy t' find."

"Erf," Dochunn placed a paw over his eyes, "What about th' Withersfield House?"

The squirrel chief and her warriors seemed to look everywhere except for the hogwarrior's eyes after the question. One gave a soft snuffle, shifting his weight, before the awful awkwardness was broken by the arrival of the woodmouse guildmaster:

"Oh my dear friends, so glad you're in one piece!" Torby Pawhold said with an even more pronounced jitter to his reedy voice. He scampered up to the hefty hog bearing a flask of fresh water and pushed the vessel into Dochunn's paws with an insistence of a mother hen, "Here now, only water but by the fur you need some after climbing through them wreckaged houses. Hey—ho—what's with the long faces?"

"I asked of news of the Lady," Dochunn rasped before he tugged the stopper free with his teeth and drank deeply. The woodmouse flinched, ears pinning back a moment as a morose look of panic crossed his face.

"I—I—Well, I haven't seen them yet. I should think they wouldn't be in the old manor still, given the kitchen's burnt out." Torby frowned, catching on to the paleness of Lady Nemria's countenance, "Hey—H-hey now—if there's something you've found, you must tell us! Please!"

"I'm sorry," Lady Nemria sucked in a breath, eyes hardening as she stiffened her backbone for this delivery, "We found 'em. Gemma, Myna, an' Bluedrop as well. Those vermin… they'd slaughtered 'em, then lit up their house with their own hearth fire."

Dochunn's broad, powerful paws clenched around the now-empty tin flask with such force that two deep dents formed in its middle. Torby blanched, with his paws flying up to his snout.

"I… I had no idea… Oh, dear Lady Gemma, oh Bluedrop—and poor old Myna—who will look after our Dibbuns now in the square? Oh no… oh heavens…"

"Vermin," the hedgehog flung the flask away, where it bounced off of a charred brick wall and came to a rest amid some withered bilberry shrubs. He bared his needle-like teeth, "I'm such a fool! I let them leave! If I'd 'ave known any o' those 'orrible savages 'ad done that, I'd not 'ave let that big ferret just skip out with that band!"

"Oh—oh Nemria," Torby's wide eyes suddenly sharpened and grew clear, his paws lowering a fraction, "You didn't mention little Blythe. You didn't find the mite slain, did you? Please say you found her safe!"

Nemria shook her head, claws clenching against the oaken haft of her javelin.

"Nay—we didn't find th' babe." She shuddered, "Alive or dead. An' I hate t' think of what that might mean!"

"Oh…" the mouse shook, eyes darting, "You're not suggesting..?"

"Those vermin," Dochunn snarled and surged to his feet once more as if with a second wind, placing a paw on the grip of the bow on his back, "Those monsters must've stole th' babe. We'd 'ave found 'er somewhere otherwise!"

"Steady on," Torby raised a paw and stepped into the hedgehog's way, "You're in no shape to combat an army of vermin savages—never mind the rest of us!" His paw turned outwards, pointing out Birroh's family huddled by the wall alongside countless other voles, mice, and woodlanders shivering and hugging in the cold aftermath. "We're all suffering, Dochunn, and there's no sense in you running off and gettin' slain when there's so much to be done here. We still haven't accounted for everybeast yet!"

Dochunn stood rigid; he certainly could have, if he so wished, shoved the thin mouse aside and trampled off. As he softened his stance he shook his head, ashen pieces falling from his quills. Nemria nodded sagely towards him:

"Not to worry," she said, flashing her rodent incisors in a sneer, "I've already got plans t' start th' hunt after th' vermin who stole Blythe away. But this is gonna take some extra paws—expertise, an' numbers. In time we can run down those brutes—but f'r now I'm bound t' help this town before winter finishes off these pore beasts."

"So justice shall wait," Dochunn put his bow away and bowed towards Torby, surprising the smaller beast, "Forgive me fer almost flyin' off th' handle like that." He began to pace amongst the survivors, appraising stocks of blankets and food being passed out to those who'd lost their homes. The guildmaster followed closely, scanning faces, "I can only 'ope those vermin won't bring any 'arm to that little one before we can put together some kind o' rescue party."

"Gracious, yes," Torby muttered, teeth gnawing on a few of his clawtips. "Though it still boggles my mind why any vermin of any type might take a little Dibbun and not mean harm. What on earth could they want with her?"

"Who knows," Dochunn shrugged, "If they were Corsairs or Sea Raiders, I'd say fer ransoming, but these're a tribe of 'em. I know some tribes o' vermin beasts in Mossflower still hunt fellow woodland creatures along with th' birds an' fishes. Weasels 'n' th' like are natural flesh-eaters, after all."

"Th-th-they're cannibals?" the woodmouse jolted as if shocked by his own hyperbolic and erroneous description, and shook his head, "Heavens, no—you don't think they mean to eat the little harebabe?"

"Likely not," the hedgehog tried to assure the panicking mouse, "They'd 'ave just slain 'er if so. I ain't sure this tribe even is cannibal vermin, either. But perhaps they took 'er fer some other ill reason. They might be slavers or somthin'—an' a live 'are they might particularly want as a slave, fer reasons o' outright cruelty."

"At the very least, if that's the case," Torby gave a strained smile; he sorted out a haversack with wheat bread, jars of berry preserves, and hard winter apples before handing it off to a pair of older moles, "We can arrange some sort of rescue—and before the poor thing comes to any real harm."

Dochunn nodded and had turned to assist another pair of mice hustling over towards him before he froze. Recognition dawned on him that the two were bearing a stretcher, and he instantly recognized the face of the still figure lying on it, even under the ash and soot. Before he could say anything, Torby peered up and dropped the foodpack he was holding to sprint over.

"Meelain—my Meelain, there you are at last, I—"

When he got within armsreach of the cold body of his daughter, he was immobilized with the understanding, and went silent. Only his paws gripping on the nearest side of the stretcher kept him from collapsing to the ground. The hogwarrior raised a paw, about to steady him by the shoulder, but was shocked back a pace by the feral, wailing roar that tore out of the small mouse's throat. Torby went silent again, tears streaking down over his whiskers and chin as he lowered his head.

"Torby…"

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Really, I'm fine," the guildmaster stepped back from the slain Meelain as if retracting from a burn, sucking in breaths and snuffing as if to siphon the pain back in. "I'm fine. I-I-I need to grieve later, I-I'm still needed around. Later, later!"

"I'm sorry, Torby," Dochunn grasped the mouse's shoulder and helped him to turn away, "We 'ad no idea. I'm sorry y' 'ad to find out like this."

"It's fine—I'm fine," Torby clapped the hogwarrior high on the arm, smiling fiercely past the already red and puffy rims of his eyes, "Mark my words, though, I'm going with you after those vermin. When the time comes, I'm going to make those filthy, evil animals pay for taking my Meelain!"