24. The First Day of Winter – Northlands.
Come morning it was immediately obvious, that the hapless travellers aren't going to resume their journey any time soon. Ewalt, Kethra, Trugg and Smalltooth woke up in high fever, incapable of anything beyond curling up and shivering, their noses dry, bodies fearfully hot, scents sour. Everybeast else, even Selvathy, caught various lesser degrees of cold. With freshly fallen, still soft snow, covering the ground to mouse shoulder height down in the hollows, and waist height in high places, so even getting out of the door demanded a serious effort, it was clear, that leaving Dornal's house is impossible for now.
"I don't think our hospitality would be a thing to brag about, if we kick ill beasts out in winter," asserted Wincey.
"Aye," answered Dornal, "and if we all die before spring due to feeding nine more mouths, who will be there to brag?"
"Oh, don't worry," Rowanbloom, who hustled about the sick creatures, was quick to answer, "I'll bring them to their paws in no time, a few days at most, and then we'll leave."
Upon turning back to Smalltooth, whose body was visibly shaking, she had to admit to herself, that her words were wishful thinking. The stoat started shedding his fur very belatedly, and now it fell out in clumps. Rowanbloom was very much surprised, that the forming winter coat under it was pure white, marking Smalltooth as an ermine stoat, a pretty rare beast outside of the half-mythical Land of Ice and Snow. But the ermine's chances of living long enough to turn fully white seemed low, his condition being the worst of all.
Besides gravity of Smalltooth's personal situation, Rowanbloom had another excuse for not realizing that the situation in general was tense again. During the time she spent in the Marroch's band, they had no opportunities for their normal business, because they were too busy escaping Kunas' troops, so she did not wholly comprehend just what Suran or Spikepelt may do to a woodlander family for much less, than food, necessary for winter travel. Dornal saw the potential threat much better, and his rough face grew grimmer with every look at the three relatively healthy vermin, and only one fighter, a young otter, remaining on her paws among his guests.
Suran, busy cleaning and polishing his wargear, that started to rust from seawater, still did not miss his suspicious glances. But generous fare and rest on the firm ground put the fox in a good, relaxed mood and made him remember that he has goals, not only urges:
"See, the pretty lass said you to not worry, you old hermit. So don't. I bet, nobeast here wants to make our fair Warlady look like an oathbreaker, right matey?"
Spikepelt, who made a mistake of sitting close enough to Suran, cringed, as the fox clapped him on his furless back that mostly healed by now, but was still sensitive.
"Right, right, of course, cough, cough," the ferret hissed, glaring at the fox hatefully, before bending in a coughing fit. Suran continued, as Spikepelt inched away:
"Besides, a beast who gives you shelter in winter should be like a brother to you. Or so my ma used to say, you know. So if it looks we're about to eat your out of your house, we can bloody fish or hunt for birds – don't tell me that the Northlands got short on those since my youth!"
"You're from the Northlands?" Rowanbloom couldn't help, but look at him, surprised.
"Don't sound like a highlander?" The fox chuckled. "I've been born up in the mountains, my pretty. I was young, you know, almost a kit, when I bedded a right vixen, and cut off a right stoat' footpaw, so the two biggest clans there joined to get a piece of me. Didn't want to see how they were gonna divide my hide, ran, never regretted leaving for better lands on a searat ship, I tell you."
"Are the Northlands really such a bad place?" the squirrel asked, as she returned to making poultices.
Suran shrugged. Even his shoulder finally felt better now, and pain no longer shot through it from such simple movements. "Hey, our new friend should know that better than me."
Dornal, of course, heard the whole conversation. He looked as if he wanted to spit. "Sure thing, fox. Now, Rowanbloom, why do you think I live alone with Wincey and little ones, hidden from everybeast?"
"Ver… raiders?"
The mouse sighed deeply, looking at the floor, and Rowanbloom suddenly realized that he's far younger than he looks. For a moment, there was another thought in her head, some nebulous association that disappeared before fully forming, when Dornal answered:
"If only. You sure haven't been up north, miss, if you think all woodlanders must be all friendly and nice to each other."
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In spite of his youth and temper, Torbit proved to be a good skipper. He held the Wavecrest a safe distance from the land until the weather calmed down, and then swiftly guided her to the cove, where the main settlement of the High North Coast otters was supposed to lie, just before ice shackled the waves firmly.
The Axehound clan hailed from sea otters, yet there were no real ships in the cove, merely a bunch of boats – for a good number of generations since settling in this place, their interests were directed towards shores and, further inland, mountains of Northlands. At least they had a sound wooden berth, adequate for a small schooner.
The Wavecrest's approach did not go unnoticed, of course. But the little schooner bore a green flag, the traditional color of sea otters, and, much more importantly, was clearly too small for a corsair raider. Still, it could take almost a half-hundred of beasts on a sea voyage, if they were willing to accept crammed quarters and all sort of discomforts, as the Starscatter otters proved right now, so Torbit was surprised and even a little bit insulted, that their approach caused very little noticeable reaction on the coast. Were those mainland otters so confident in their defenses? The wooden fort, standing on a low hill over the cove, did not look that formidable...
As the schooner approached the berth, cracking still-thin floes under her keel, a welcoming party walked down from the fort. Scrimmo, from his position on the bow, counted just four otters, and a hunched mouse. The otter who walked at the head of this tiny procession stood out even from far away. Not that he was much bigger than the rest, but while others wrapped themselves up in heavy cloaks, to ward off biting cold, this one wore only a kilt, making his thick fur, of the lightest chestnut-brown color known among otters, stand out all the more.
"Who sails our waters in this season?" He demanded to know in a booming voice, the moment he stepped on the berth. "Name themselves, outlanders!"
Now, when the Wavecrest was close enough to the mark and did not need steering anymore, Torbit ran to the bow:
"Otters of Ergaph Island, chased out of our home by vermin, sail your water, seekin' sanctuary and succor! And I'm Torbit, their chieftain and the skipper of this ship!"
"I am Heddin Wintersky, the one who governs this land in the absence of my honored father, High Warchief Willag Axehound. And I am pleased to meet any otter, who is willing to fight for the High Warchief and obey his law!"
Torbit turned to his crew hastily:
"Get the lines over! Prepare the gangway."
In a minute, Heddin Wintersky was standing before Torbit on the deck of the Wavecrest. This male was big, but not the biggest river otter whom Torbit saw in his life, perhaps only a hair's breadth higher than Torbit himself, and neither he was the burliest, although he had a powerful body, stout, but without an ounce of fat. Yet somehow the young Starscatter chieftain felt small, like he was next to Ilmo Wavedog again. Perhaps to hide it, he tried to bow.
"I welcome ye…"
"Oh, please! That was just a couple of ceremonial phrases I had to say, now let's talk like friends." Heddin patted Torbit on the shoulder. "Any good otter is a friend to us, ain't that what father says?"
"Erm… if ye say so, Heddin." Torbit was taken aback by the sudden change of attitude.
"Great! Also, you might call me just Wintersky."
There was something strange here, that Torbit missed so far, because of his uneasiness and bewilderment. But Groundswell, who, like most of the ottercrew, was now on the deck, did:
"But I heard Axehounds are sea otters?" she whispered to Scrimmo, unable to contain her curiosity, and immediately regretted this, as the subject of her curiosity whirled to face her.
"Oh, you're asking how can I be a son of a sea otter?" Heddin was smiling, his eyes of the brightest blue shone with mirth, yet it took Groundswell all of her courage to hold her ground.
"Well, chieftain, I…"
"A nice blade you have here." Groundswell blinked in surprise. When he managed to snatch her old knife from her belt? Heddin smiled wider. "It is like yourself, saw many a trial, yet still sharp. Let's play a little game."
His paw moved in a flash, and several otters reflexively jumped aside, as the knife thudded right into the middle of the Wavecrest's mainmast.
Torbit tried to step forward, between Groundswell and Heddin, but the latter only waved his paw in mock exasperation:
"Oh, do I look like a brute who can do something bad to your precious tribesotter?" A few giggles were heard from his retinue. "The game is very simple – if she can pull the blade out, I'll answer her question."
"Don't ye worry, chief." Groundswell nodded, glad, that their host, who most likely had authority to turn them away, did not seem angered by her gaffe. However, when she walked to the mast, and looked at the knife, her relief evaporated. It was buried in tough, solid wood almost to the hilt. What sort of creature this Heddin was, to hurl it with such force? Did he do that to see her humiliated? The old otter gritted her teeth, put both paws on the handle, and pulled with all her strength. The knife did not budge. She tried to set a footpaw against the mast, for extra push, but the wound she suffered back at the Seacrag Castle hadn't healed well, and immediately made itself known, making her flinch and hiss with pain.
Wintersky, who watched her efforts with keen interest, noticed that, and moved to place his paw above hers, stopping her efforts:
"I'm sorry, my friend! Looks like I looked without seeing again – you're still recovering from a wound! Well, that makes my game unfair, doesn't it?"
Groundswell nodded cautiously, expecting some sort of a trick, but glad that she might avoid the shame of fruitless efforts.
"So, to apologize, let me just say, that I'm an adopted son. And as to why my honored father gave a humble beast like me the duty worthy of a trueborn heir…" he paused for a few seconds, to pull the knife out of the mast with one paw, putting in a visible but brief effort, and present it to Groundswell "well, you should already see that!"
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Captain Aldwin liked good, sunny, frosty winter days. When Salamandastron's hospitality was within half a day's march. In the northern wilderness, "good winter weather" was an oxymoron. Now, in addition to diminishing rations and thick, soft snow, which made simple walking into grueling work, the hares had to worry about frostbite.
But Aldwin had a solution in mind even before leaving the Fire Mountain. The Gallopers needed a shelter, a hideout, where they can rest and sent searches from. Thankfully, he and Greeves knew just the right place.
Aldwin stole a look back. Well, one beast here really needed a rest. The captain was almost completely sure, that on that wet and snowy evening Sovna was guilty of disregarding his order to alert others, if she were to spot any signs of vermin, because she sought a fight for herself. That was worthy of expulsion from the Gallopers, at least. But he could not, in clear conscience, sent her back to Salamandastron alone, while weakening the unit further in this hostile country was out of the question. And "almost completely" still didn't mean "completely". So he decided to go easy on the doe. Which meant assigning to her as much of camp duties, as he could, without slowing down the Gallopers as a whole. After several days of spending every moment, not taken by marching or sleeping, building bonfires, cooking, cleaning and scrubbing pots for everybeast, Sovna looked haggard.
But she did not complain. Aldwin smiled, as he looked forward again. Well, Sovna wouldn't be the worst hare in his memory to become a good soldier.
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Before too long, Ergaph refugees were sitting in the huge long hall of the Axehound clan, enjoying a small welcoming feast, ordered by Heddin Wintersky. Torbit sat right next to the generous host himself at the head of the table, relating to him the recent misfortunes of Ergaph otters.
"Trusting vermin always ends up in death and doom," nodded Heddin, after Torbit told him about the assault on the Seacrag Castle, and what happened next. "That's how I lost my blood parents as well. I was too young to remember them, much less fight, it was my honored father, who saved me."
"Is there any place, on sea or land, free from this murderous scum?" Torbit growled.
"Hey, lighten up! We, Axehound otters, pushed vermin pretty far back since I was a babe. With luck – and your help – Northlands will be free of their filth before we're both old and cranky. I'd help you to search for your foes in my turn, if they survived the sea, but I was left here to defend the coast."
Heddin emptied a mug of shrew beer loudly, and hit the table with it. "It's probably just to test how responsible and patient I am," he complained. "No corsair dares to approach within the sight of our lands, ever since their bravest captain got walloped. But an order of the High Warchief is an order of the High Warchief. Sorry."
"Ye have nothin' to be sorry about!" The more Torbit talked with Heddin, the more he liked this fellow. "And to think of it, if they took to the sea, and winds carried 'em to the High North Coast, like us, not to the bottom, where they belong by right, winter should kill 'em anyway."
"That's careless thinking, my friend!" Heddin wagged his claw at Torbit. "Trust me, even if you see a villain's body with your own eyes, check if it is cold, before assuming he's dead."
Scrimmo, sitting close to the head of the table, heard their conversation. He seemed to himself the only Starscatter otter not charmed by Heddin Wintersky. Even Groundswell looked at the fair river otter as if she wanted to be half as old and twice as pretty. Were others, as Heddin said earlier in the day, looking without seeing, or was he just busy searching for something to validate his pre-conceived suspicions?
Either way, a few things made Scrimmo uneasy. Old mustelid and fox skulls, decorating the outer wall, reminded him of the Seacrag Castle more, than he liked. Then, there was not a single otter among the handful of beasts who served them food and drinks, only mice, voles and shrews. And in turn, beasts who apparently formed Heddin's retinue, and now sat mixed with the guests at the feasting table, were exclusively otters.
Scrimmo did not dare to draw attention of Heddin Wintersky to himself. But finding an excuse to go outside – where he couldn't be found by that piercing eyes, which color, to think of it, indeed resembled that of the bright sky over his head – during a feast, was not exactly a problem. Neither was intercepting a vole, carrying another small keg of ale to the hall, before he reached the door.
"Hey, ye, vole!"
"Yes?" The smaller creature stopped and hastily bowed. "How may I serve you?"
Scrimmo gritted his teeth. There was no real need of questions anymore, he already could see that the vole is afraid of him. This timid tone of speech, this downcast look – they reminded him of the Seacrag Castle as well.
"Sorry, go on." Scrimmo wobbled on his paws and tried to smile stupidly, pretending to be more drunk, than he was. "Forgot what I wanted to ask."
Inwardly, Scrimmo was anything but smiling, as he stumbled back to his seat. Now he could roughly guess why Ilmo Wavedog didn't like to talk about this place, and wished that the old chieftain had been a little less reluctant to badmouth fellow otters. What exactly sort of creatures the remnants of his tribe were now trying to join?
Author's notes: Skor Axehound is titled both "Warchief" and "High Chieftain" in The Rogue Crew. I decided to combine these titles for his successor.
I wanted to make a chapter that surveyed what was happening to every important group on one particular day, but it ended up huge, and some scenes diffucult to write, so I've split it in two.