10. Lives Lost, Lives Kept.

A rat screamed and fell backwards into the courtyard transfixed by two arrows at once. As grapnel hooks screeched on stone and more arrows whistled overhead, Luggun realized that he and his remaining beasts are going to die. That was unfair! Marroch's plan had worked! They seized the gates, swiftly dispatching the sleepy guards. The battle at the tower looked like a total victory too. So why, why this huge horde of beasts, all of the remaining Kunas' army, as far as Luggun could see in the moonlight – that treacherous moon which was hiding in the clouds until a minute ago, so that the enemies were far too close, when he finally heard heavy pawsteps of the throng – had to appear out of nowhere, charging up the road that led to the castle gates?! Luggun commanded only five beasts, now reduced to two. Although shooting up at opponents largely covered by the battlement was difficult, several dozens of archers and slingers below pinned his small group down in no time, not letting them to send arrows back or even leave their cover for long enough to cut ropes, attached to the grapnel hooks that now were thrown by attackers. Very soon they will scale the wall, and then…

Just at that moment help finally arrived. A large group of vermin soldiers, led by Marroch, then Ilmo and his otters, thundered up the steps leading to the walltop.

"Cut the ropes! Don't let them on the wall!" The ferret warlord grasped the situation instantly. Losing no time he rushed to the nearest embrasure, where a long iron grapnel hook lodged itself in the stone, and, leaning out, sliced the thick rope attached to it in a single sword slash. Kethra, running right behind him, followed her brother's example. Arrows from archers below, who waited for anybeast to step out of cover, flew thick like angry bees but fortune – and, more importantly, chainmails – saved the ferret siblings from serious harm. Other, not so well protected beasts were less lucky – wails of pain rent the air. But Ilmo Wavedog and his otters were already on the wall.

"Aim at the archers, me buckoes! Let 'em taste rocks!" And so the Starscatter otters did. Slingstones and javelins rained down, and now it was the foes' time to scream and bleed – although archers and slingers below still far outnumbered the small otter group and a few surviving Marroch's bowbeasts, the defenders' vantage point was simply too good. The tide of beasts receded, those with shields trying to cover themselves and others as they backed away from the gates.

Marroch watched the enemy retreat. Now that he had a moment to think, the young warlord couldn't believe the timing of the enemy. He fully expected that the Kunas' army will march on the Seacrag Castle to retake it, as soon as it learns about the King's death – strife between his heirs apparent was unlikely to flare until either the castle, the seat and symbol of power over Ergaph, is retaken, or an initial attempt to do so is repulsed decisively. But this soon! Was it an accident? Was it a treachery? Or was that white Seer truly a Seer?

The dark ferret turned away from the gateway road now littered by quite a few bodies, and tore out an arrow, which got stuck in his chainmail barely pricking the hide beneath. He was tired and full of uneasy thoughts, which made him oblivious to his surroundings for a moment – nearly cost him his life. Of course, Marroch's eyes registered an otter right next to him – Torbit, wasn't that his name, the brawny, feeble-minded youngster, Ilmo's nephew, or something – hunched over a body of another otter, whose neck was transfixed by a long, grey-feathered arrow. But Marroch's mind didn't. So when Torbit suddenly leapt at him like an unwinding spring, this took the ferret by absolute surprise. Slammed straight into the nearest stone crenellation, dazed, the breath knocked out of him, sword dropped, and with the strong paw pressing against his throat, Marroch was unable to defend himself or say anything.

"Ye scab! Vermin! Traitor! Ye've planned this, don't ye?!" In any case, Torbit was too mad with rage to listen to anything Marroch could say.

Kethra, who turned to see what was happening, was not inclined to stand and listen either. Marroch could see from the corner of his eye that she rushed towards him, her sword raised to strike. What he couldn't see – but could guess was happening – were otters and vermin along the entire wall suddenly backing away from each other, weapons at the ready, not quite understanding what is happening yet, but instantly remembering all the suspicions both sides held towards each other. The second Kethra cuts down this witless madbeast, the whole wall will erupt in a bloody battle!

However, Marroch was not only one who realized that.

"Enough, ye addle-brain!" Torbit was big and tough, but Ilmo tore him away from Marroch and threw down on the walltop stones as easy as an unruly cub. "Are ye outta yer mind?!"

Kethra just reached them, but now Ilmo barred her way, and she was not quite enraged enough yet to go through him. "Let me pass, thicktail! If he wants a fight, I'll…"

"Curses, let me…" Torbit was back on his paws in an instant.

"Stop it!" Ilmo's ear-blasting shout cut off them both. For a moment everyone on the walltop was silent.

Then Marroch spoke hoarsely. "This brute assaulted me, without provocation. Beasts have died for less." However, the ferret wasn't in haste to draw his sword, and even stopped Kethra, outstretching the right paw before her, when she tried to step forward.

"Damn ye to the darkest abyss!" Now Torbit's voice was a low, menacing growl. Marroch suddenly noticed that his hate-twisted face was wet with tears. "Blackpebble died because of ye. I'll never…"

"And how many of us nearly died because of ye?" Ilmo interrupted him again. "Begone! Out of my sight, before I send ye flyin' off the wall!"

For a moment, it seemed like Torbit will draw his dagger or dive for his spear to attack the old chieftain. Ilmo Wavedog didn't budge. And instead of doing something this foolish the younger otter ran, pushing a couple of his kinbeasts out of the way.

"Selvathy, take a beast or two, gather the dead and the maimed, while we can." Said Ilmo, staring after him, then turned to Marroch.

"My nephew and poor Blackpebble wanted to tie the knot, ye know…" The big otter sighed heavily. "He's just too young. Can ye accept this as ransom for yer injury?"

And with these words he held out to Marroch a battleaxe, one that belonged to King Kunas himself, and was taken by Ilmo as his rightful trophy. It was a precious weapon with the long haft of rare dark hardwood and the curving blade forged from the best iron on Ergaph, still keeping its edge after being used to cut through shields and bodies less than half an hour ago.

Marroch did not answer right away. Of course, he had no intention to refuse – otters on the wall outnumbered vermin, and even if his beasts were to overwhelm their reluctant allies, the horde beyond the wall would be the only true victor. But being too hasty in forgiving something as grievous as an attempt to strangle him could create an impression of weakness he could scarcely afford.

"I can." Marroch finally said, when the pause became tense, and accepted the weapon from Ilmo's paw. "Now, let's forget about this – the foe will be back soon, and we've wasted enough time already."

"Methinks, we should hold the castle." The otter chieftain looked at the bodies down below. "A good place to kill that scum. But can we hold it?"

Marroch weighted the options in his mind. Bowing out before the foes arrive and letting the otters to withstand the inevitable siege was off the table now, things were happening too fast… But he wouldn't be worthy the name of warlord without the ability to think on his paws. Winning some time was in order, thinking about how to turn the whole situation to his advantage could be done later. "It's possible. The first thing that should be done is sending some beasts back to your boats. They should raid the bay, hole or burn every boat there, before these cretins below figure out how we entered the castle and remember about them. All slaves whom we can round up should be put to work, barricading the gates, so that they can't be breached by a battering ram, and gathering everything heavy enough to drop on the foes, if they will dare the narrow paths along the eastern and western walls, to encircle the castle. I believe you and your beasts are… better suited for these tasks. Leave me half a score of slingers and I'll be able to fight them off here, as long as the gates hold. If all goes well, we'll have the best position on the island and a retreat path."

Ilmo nodded. "Ye talk sense, I say. I'll leave Selvathy in charge of my kinbeasts here."

"Fine. Make haste then!"

And so Ilmo did, swiftly moving along the wall, picking otters that will go with him and those that will be left to fight here.

Marroch, held the axe that now was his in the air, weighting it. There was still a bit of blood, drying on the haft... and the weapon was clearly too unwieldy for him. Made for such a large and powerfully muscled beast as King Kunas, it was about as heavy as a woodchopper axe and there was no way Marroch could swing it fast enough in battle.

"Take it. I don't think it is meant for me." Maroch said to his sister, who still stood besides him, eyeing suspiciously any otter who walked too close.

Kethra looked incredulous for a second then snatched the deadly weapon with enthusiasm of a babe, who saw a new colorful toy before her. "Oh, brother! Be assured, this axe will serve you well in my paws!"

"I believe so," answered Marroch icily and quietly. "Just try to think when you swing it. Or at least ask me what to do, if thinking is too hard, before you make the otters turn on us."

"Such harsh words." Suran, who hurried to Marroch when the fight was about to break out and still stood not far away, overheard his words. "Hah, do you even understand, what a treasure to you dear Kethra is?"

"Shut. Up." It was Kethra, who answered. "Make yourself scarce, fox."

"With all due haste!" Suran's voice was mocking, but he indeed walked away. Marroch turned his head to Kethra.

"What, brother, do you want me to be nice with him too?" The warriormaid was defensive. "He's just trying to sow discord between us!"

"I don't think the thought process of this dog is so complicated." Marroch was silent for a few seconds. Then a convenient distraction freed him from the need to say anything else. "We'll talk about that later. See, they are moving to storm the wall again already."

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Rowanbloom set up her infirmary in a small barrack that apparently already served as an infirmary to the previous owners. Seers usually were doubling as healers among vermin, but Kunas' Seer was so terrifying that an average solider would have preferred to chew off a wounded paw with his own teeth, rather than to be subjected to his ministrations. So those of Kunas' vermin who thought that they know a bit about treating wounds had to take up the duty of saving their injured fellows. Judging by sparse medical supplies, if they could even be called such, found by Rowanbloom, any cases of recovery owed more to luck and sheer persistence of patients than to efforts of healers.

Thankfully, there weren't that many wounded in her care now, when those with mere scratches and gashes were still fighting. Not many for whom her help mattered, anyway. The first thing she learned as a healer after ending up in Marroch's band was sorting out those wounded beasts who could actually be saved by timely help from those, who still drew breath, but needed a near-miracle to live, and first helping the former, instead of those who had the most horrible injuries. Miracles weren't coming for two otters and a weasel tonight… And any of Kunas' soldiers who were still breathing by the time the fight ended never even got a chance at one. Rowanbloom knew, of course, that almost everybeast in their small force had bloody revenge on their minds and no quarter would be given, but knowing something on intellectual level and seeing the massacre with her own eyes were two different things. She only kept her cool only thanks to the professional detachment of a battlefield surgeon, the ability to be unmoved by gore and grisly details, to empathize with others' suffering without being truly touched by it, the ability that was needed for keeping a level mind when sorting out beasts who were too unlikely to survive.

But now she had no time to think about anything besides for her last patient at the moment, Spikepelt. The squirrelmaid sighed. This ferret owed his given name to his shaggy hide, and how it probably had to change. If he could make it with the burns, to which she could do little besides cleaning and bandaging, and hoping for the better. But Spikepelt was an able-bodied beast with a strong will to live. Now he was breathing heavily, after spitting out the piece of wood he bit on to not scream while Rowanbloom worked on his burned back. The squirrel wondered whether her efforts will make him treat her better or despise even more, but the thought lasted only a moment, as she reached for a bowl of water to give the exhausted ferret something to drink. Judging by din and noise from the direction of the gates, which started to grow as Spikepelt lapped the water, she was going to have more patients soon enough. And a couple of minutes ago, an otter appeared in the doors to tell that they are finally getting to freeing the slaves from their barracks, and will be sending her any who needed urgent help. It was going to be a long night…

Was that why her heart began sinking in her chest? Was that why she suddenly felt the most terrible anxiety? Was her body suddenly covered in cold sweat just because of this? The squirrel's paws lost all their strength and precision at once, shaking, the last drops of the water spilling from her bowl. Spikepelt raised his head and was shocked by the sudden change in the previously imperturbable healer. The squirrel's eyes were unfocused, staring blindly into space.

Without thinking, the ferret grabbed her wrist. "Wassup with ye?!"

And in a single blink of an eye Rowanbloom was back to normal. She looked at the ferret's paw, holding her own, but Spikepelt, grimacing from pain, caused by his own abrupt movement, didn't let her go immediately. "What in the Hellgates bit ye?"

"Too long to explain. Now, can you walk?"

"I'm short on fur, not paws." Now the ferret unclenched his claws.

"Good." Now Rowanbloom stood straight, looking at the handful of beasts left in her care. Not all were as lucky as Spikepelt.

"We have to get away from here. Immediately!"

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Ewalt the Ghost was among the defenders of the gate. He felt too groggy to go with Ilmo and his otters – blows to the head he suffered might have caused worse damage than first seemed. Not bad enough to misjudge on what side of the wall the enemies are, when throwing spears and javelins at them, at least. Now the warrior mouse tried to catch a bit of rest, his back against the cold stone, before the attackers, who now approached cautiously, protecting themselves from missiles with a wall of shields, will be close enough.

And speaking of the attackers... thinking of them Ewalt realized that something here did not connect. Why they were back again so soon? Surely they had not enough time to find a good battering ram – and as far as Ewalt could see, they weren't carrying one. Surely they were not stupid enough to try scaling the wall again. Groaning, the mouse rose to his paws. Luckily, Marroch was just walking past him.

"Hold it for a second!" Ewalt caught the ferret warlord's shoulder. "Need to talk."

"What now?" Marroch brushed his paw away. "Speak quickly."

"You sure there are just two entrances to the castle? No secret escape tunnels, no nothing?"

"I would appreciate if you finally stop deeming me an absolute fool." The ferret's flat voice somehow held more contempt than any obvious sarcasm. "Had I ever heard of anything like that, I'd acted to block that entrance already. Besides, this castle stands on solid rock. Not even moles can tunnel through it. Though..." Marroch remembered something. "Go check the tower's dungeon, just in case one or two of the guards hid there. Move – this is an order."

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Marroch couldn't go back on his words within minutes of speaking them, even in a moment of crisis, and so Marda was left under guard on the first floor of the central tower, instead of being unceremoniously disposed of. But then again, she was not a very big burden – Marroch had to leave only one beast to watch her, a small, thin stoat, clearly young and underfed, as she could now see. That was the very beast who stabbed Kunas's footpaw in the battle, bringing him down, which Marda didn't know, of course – even among those who were in the thick of things hardly anybeast noticed that, and no one bothered to recognize the deed. But then again, even if she knew, she wouldn't care. Stoat's lack of expression as he watched her and the leaf-headed spear constantly pointed at her, bothered the pine marten far more. Marda was not big for her species, but she still stood almost head and neck above the smaller mustelid and was much wider in shoulders. Weapons of dead guards were scattered here and there, forgotten when everybeast rushed to the wall. Had she been even a little bit a warrior, the stoat should have been the one to be afraid. But she wasn't, so she huddled herself up in the corner, as far from dead bodies and puddles of blood that no one bothered to clean up yet, as possible.

"Oh, stop shivering," suddenly said the stoat. "Chieftain didn't lie about torture being no fun for him, so it won't be anything much worse than falling asleep."

When Marda trembled visibly at these words, the stoat chuckled. "I'm joking, I'm joking. But my, you don't want to die pretty hard, aren't you? Was the queen's life that good and fat?"

He picked up a torch left to him, and held it closer to take a good look, still holding his spear at the ready, in case the pine marten was to suddenly lunge at him. "Maybe not. Wore manacles much? That shows on your pretty wrists. Pffft, I guess you were just born with a preybeast's heart – a proper mustelid should have pride to die, rather that surrender and be a slave, isn't that what they all say?"

However little spine Marda had left, silently enduring mockery of this little wretch, of all beasts, was just too much to bear. "Of what use that pride will be to me in my grave? Make me less tasty to worms? A living beast always can hope for the better."

The stoat placed the torch back into the iron ring on the wall. "I think Marroch said a couple of times that the one thing you should never take from your slaves completely is hope – hope is what makes them good and obedient, hope to see things changing for the better one day."

Seeing Marda's expression, he chuckled again, without much mirth. "Oh, don't make faces at me. I'm not mocking you. Well, I am, but I think you're right. What's the point of dying just to prove your bloody valor? To yourself, as nobeast else would care. If even great Ewalt the Ghost had to run and live in shame for seasons to avenge his kin tonight, who can blame you?"

Marda was puzzled, not sure if this stoat is simply messing with her. But as he was talking, she remembered that good disposition of even the most insignificant minion is important in her situation. "Not often I've seen such wells-spoken beasts on this island. Yours are not manners of a savage. Can I ask your name?"

"Whose, mine? I'm called Smalltooth." The stoat smiled, an unsettling sight for Marda, showing a lot of his teeth, which indeed were small, but white and sharp.

Then he suddenly tensed.

"Wait a second… Be quiet, if you still want to keep your hide. Please." Listening to something, he slowly walked away from the pine marten to the middle of the blood-soaked hall, still keeping one eye on her, and listening intently. And then wood creaked loudly enough for even Marda to hear, and a shape glinting with metal appeared on top of the stairway leading down to the dungeon.

And when Marda saw who it was, she though that Smalltooth too couldn't be blamed for being true to what he just said, and running as fast as if Vulpuz himself was chasing him.