60. Gloom and Fire.

Losing nobeast in today's battle was a miracle, Sovna thought. Vermin reinforcements have appeared just when Aldwin was lighting a torch to burn the few vermin survivors out of the hamlet's largest house, where they barricaded themselves. The newly arrived enemies were hard to count, but there were at least five or six dozens of them, prepared for battle unlike their fellows corsairs caught by surprise in the village. Too many to overcome. Thankfully, they seemed to be poorly and indecisively led, shooting arrows, slinging and throwing javelins from a respectful distance, rather than charge a group of armored warriors that retreated in good order, shoulder to shoulder. By the time the vermin decided to abandon their pursuit as the woodlanders reached the thick of the forest, every Galloper bore bruises and light wounds, but nobeast, not even any of the rescued villagers, fell. Sovna herself took a solid slingstone hit in the shoulder, which now smarted worse than the cut on her face. Speaking of that cut, Espadron said that it only would leave a small scar, maybe unnoticeable under fur.

"Sorry I didn't get that vermin blighter sooner," said Tesak when Sovna related that piece of news to him. "But I'll have you know, my gal, that a small scar or two won't mar yer beauty at all."

Not so long ago Sovna would have treated such words as a venomous barb, but now she slowly shook her head. "Then why be sorry? That ferret could have killed me if not for your arrow in his back."

"Who knows. Ye fought jolly well this day."

"Not well enough." Sovna felt anger rising within, the sort of anger that was unfamiliar to her before. She looked with disgust at the long, straight sword laid across her knees – after the battle she picked up the same weapon that nearly killed her, because it was the closest available replacement for her broken rapier, but now she once again felt an urge to throw it away and bury it where nobeast would ever touch it again, as if it was something filthy, stained, cursed. After the expedition to Northlands, she was no stranger to gruesome sights of death. In fact, what shocked her most back then was that the field of blood and mutilated corpses around Dornal's house, seeing another hare die in a puddle of his own blood, or even killing a beast with her own paws made her feel much less revulsion that the process of scaling a fish. She wondered if there was something wrong with her, if her father's or grandfather's blood made her heartless. But what she saw back in the hamlet… She felt nausea mixing with her rage. A few more seasons of self-questioning would have been a small price for never looking at the vermin's work.

And to think some of the butchers survived because of another vermin! She stole a glance towards Suran. Was the fox a bloody idiot… or was he playing them false? She intended to get to the bottom of this soon enough.

000000000000000

Suran did not notice her glance. He was deadly tired, his half-dozen of minor wounds and major bruises ached, and then there was one of the female voles from the hamlet – she still whimpered and whined incessantly, and though Suran naturally took place on the opposite side of the small camp from the rescued woodlanders, the sound still grated on his ears. He wondered how many such hamlets it would take for the little squirrel King to decide that no sort of vermin are welcome among his subjects. Would it take more than one, in fact? Suran wondered what Kethra thought about it.

As if in response to thinking about her, Kethra moved to sit right next to Suran. "You look awful gloomy, old dogfox."

"I know," Suran answered rather curtly. "So do you."

"I do?" After getting no answer for a few seconds, Kethra continued quietly. "Strange isn't it? We finally killed one of Kunas' captains. I thought that would be a merrier day, if I somehow live to see it."

"You must really be in the dumps to confide in old me again." Suran's tongue was itching with the desire to say that, but he was just too… exhausted. "So thought I. But it's not your fault that we only won half a victory."

"It's mine," he thought. But, Suran was sure, nobody would care about his reasons. "We just were short on luck."

"Luck is also a part of what makes a warlord," Kethra said. "I wonder how much of it we have left."

000000000000000

Captain Aldwin looked at Suran and Kethra from across the campfire. He wondered if the horror of the slaughtered hamlet touched something in them as well, or they were just tired and affected by overall dark mood. Probably the latter. That said, Aldwin was not going to complain just because of that. When departing for Southsward he was not sure if the vermin, all four of them, can stand the test of real war, but so far they fought fine and followed commands passably.

Aldwin fiddled with the hilt of the new weapon he wore on his belt ever since leaving Salamandastron – a long dirk with a beautiful green stone set at its pommel – as he turned his eyes from the vermin towards Sovna. He wondered if she may the one to need this blade – but as it seemed, the young hare managed to fix the problem of losing her weapon by herself.

000000000000000

Ewalt volunteered to stay the first watch tonight, together with Bascinette. Rowabloom could look after Selvathy and her wounds much better than he, and he needed some time as alone, as possible. The three seasons of their travels, for all their trials, dangers, and conflicts, were a happy time for him, as he now realized. Hatred became somewhat distant, no longer constantly on his mind. But today it was back with a vengeance, searing his brain, making his teeth clench and his temples throb. Vermin! How he could start forgetting what a walking blight on the world they were? Just because of a few allies! And those "allies" – how little it took one of them little to aim a weapon at him! How many days were left before the day they'll turn on each other for real? Were the vermin already planning something for that day?

Feverish thoughts consumed Ewalt to the point of rendering him uncharacteristically unaware of his surroundings. So he only realized that a beast is coming nearer when that beast was in ten steps.

When Ewalt sharply turned towards him, Smalltooth backed away a step. In the dark Ewalt could not discern finer details of the ermine's expression, but… was he scared?

"Just thought to bring you some food, what's left from our evening meal." Smalltooth said hastily. "Noticed you ate almost nothing, and, well, you see…"

Not so much the ermine's words as frightened tone acted like water pouring into the fire. Ewalt shook his head. "Did I scare you?"

"Well, it's nothing, I just had a really bad feeling for a moment, nothing strange if you think of it, I must be just tense, well, after everything that… that happened today."

Ewalt wondered if the ermine saw something in his face despite the darkness, or if his instincts were uncannily good. Being alone might have been a wrong idea. Fates only knew into what sort of madness he might have slipped after a couple more hours here.

That said, Ewalt must have been here for about an hour already. Was Smalltooth unable to sleep? "If you say so. Anyway, I don't have much appetite. You can keep me company, if you want, and we'd share the food."

"Right, sounds like a good idea." Actually Smalltooth sounded a bit apprehensive, but he moved and sat next to Ewalt. For a time there were no sounds, except for an occasional sound of munching. It was hard to speak, even besides the fact that bantering on watch did not seem very appropriate. Corsairs may have resumed their pursuit and be sneaking up on the small camp right now. Still….

"You fought well today." Ewalt said quietly, just to stave off return of black thoughts.

"You think I did? Not sure if I killed a single bastard…"

"I'm not a beast to throw empty words around. I saw you charging, not a step behind the rest of us."

"If good intent and courage alone counted for something once swords are drawn and arrows are flying, a lot of good beasts would not be dead beasts. You should know that even better than me." Smalltooth answered with bitterness. And immediately tensed, realizing that he might have crossed the line.

But Ewalt did not get angry. Instead he felt as if something clicked in his head. "So, that is how your parents died too? Because of their good intent? I once overheard you speaking about them, that they were warriors."

Smalltooth sighed bitterly. "Mercenaries. They hailed from someplace in far north I never saw and got stuck on Ergaph before I was born. Amber the vixen gave them shelter and hired them to protect her. When Ubel and a hundred of the King's solders came to make a cloak out of Amber's hide, Ubel first asked mother, father and uncle to step aside. You surely can already guess what they answered him. And what their noble bravery had accomplished in the end?"

Instead of answering Ewalt stood up, and looked around, gesturing Smalltooth to speak no more. The mouse warrior moved a few steps back and forth, listening to the quiet night and sniffing the wind, before returning to his sitting place, assured that no enemy was nearby, and speaking quietly.

"Once upon a time, Smalltooth… Once upon a time there was a young – about your age – mouse warrior. He also hated his father for dying stupidly and in vain, even while bearing his father's name to stoke fear of a dead beast, returning from Hellgates to exact revenge, among the more superstitious of the foes. But over time he realized that sometimes what is smart to do and what a beast can live with afterwards are two different things. Sometimes you really only have a choice if your heart is as rotten as this world. If it isn't, you can't just shrug and leave those you've failed to protect to a horrible death. I wonder if your parents were like that."

Smalltooth turned away, and this time his sigh sounded like a sob. "What do I know? I was little, and I got left all alone in the world."

Ewalt touched the ermine's shoulder. "Sorry if I poked where I shouldn't have. Looks like… when thinking about you I got thinking about myself again, when I saw how alike we are. You've helped me a lot just now, even if you don't know that. But I don't know words to help you."

Smalltooth sniffled. "Thanks anyway, Ewalt. You're helping me a lot too, not just today, I mean. Just let's talk this talk another time, right?"

"Right, Smalltooth."

000000000000000

On bright, hot days, like most days of Southsward summer, Ubel preferred to hide in his tent from blinding, irritating, painful sunlight as much as he could. At least from sunlight he could hide. But some things had to be confronted head-on.

It took much of his willpower to keep concentrating on the flame – burning blue and red in the large brazier before him – even as his eyes stung. Superstitious vermin ascribed many powers to seers and sorcerers, but Ubel knew all too well how much of his magic was nothing but smoke and mirrors. That made the powers he did in truth possess so much more important. And the power he intended to use now required staring into flames – or at least that was the method that always worked best for him, half the reason why he decided to call himself Fireeyes.

Ubel did not lack in determination and self-control. Even as his vision misted over from involuntary tears, he saw tongues of flame surging and forming into shapes visible to him alone, and then the world around him, the mundane, if sinister, surroundings of his tent, faded.

Describing what he perceived in trances and visions was hard for Ubel since the times of his training under Zarfayn. Just like a vivid dream, when put into words everything suddenly seemed banal, even silly, compared to the actual experience. But had Ubel been once again forced to do so, he would have put it like this:

Flames writhed like a nest of angry snakes, no longer a single blaze, but a thousand thousands distinct tongues, twisting and tangling in impossible shifting weaves, but never merging. And beneath them were the coals, more numerous than stars in the sky. Some pulsated with furiously bright light. Mere attempts to examine them closely seared Ubel's eyes – nay, very mind. Others were dim and sullen, and those interested him most. He spent some time – probably just a heartbeat actually but what seemed like hours here – studying the glowing constellations before him, finding familiar elements and trying to figure out patterns. Just this could give plenty of hints about the future. But today Ubel was not content with mere predictions. One small cluster of pale lights, scarcely a pawful, nearly lost among one of the two biggest swirls of blazing white and gold at the center of things, attracted his attention. What this position meant? And there was something distantly familiar to Ubel in their dim red glow.

Carefully, the sorcerer extended his index claw. This was going to hurt, both here and in the real world. But alas, real sorcery often had to be paid for in sacrifice – and that sacrifice had to come from sorcerer himself. When Ubel was in a more philosophical mood he sometimes thought that this is for the better – if beasts could buy otherworldly power with blood and pain of others, then probably every warlord would also be a sorcerer, and he, Ubel, wouldn't be special. But such musings were of little consolation when he had to put his own paws in the fire. Ubel selected a light that seemed the most promising and quickly touched it.

As pain seared his paw, distorted images shot through his mind. In the waking world the experience probably would have paralyzed the ferret at least for a minute. Here, in the vision, he was able to calmly withdraw his paw as his mind tried to sift key pieces from the torrent of thoughts and dreams that were not his. Touching minds of others this way rarely allowed to get more than some insight about a beast's personality and desires – no digging out specific secrets, except by rare luck. But in this case even a brief and vague glimpse was enough to confirm Ubel's initial suspicions.

He contemplated his course of actions. Sending nightmares to haunt a rat's dreams, to deny rest and gradually ruin mind was not particularly hard. Sure, the victim was almost certain to identify the sorcerer tormenting her, but that was obviously no reason for concern in this particular case. Yet such malediction worked fairly slowly – it probably would have required Ubel to enter trance again and again for weeks. And did he have so much time and energy to waste?

He did not. And he needed to impart a specific message, not to merely drive a beast to madness and suicide. The stronger and more precise sorcery was needed. It was going to hurt, but for lack of a better alternative… Ubel steeled himself, once again reached for the faint light – and grabbed what was a hot coal in the real world with three fingers.

000000000000000

Everybeast in Castle Floret, save for sentries on the walls – or at least most of those – were asleep in the middle of the night, including the rest of the black rats whose room was the next door to Ezri's, so nobeast could hear, much less see, when her sleep suddenly turned troubled. She tussled and turned on her bed, so intensely that it resembled convulsions, quiet, piteous groans issued from her throat. She looked like she was having a terrible nightmare – and, well, she was, and it wasn't the sort of nightmare from which you could wake up at the scariest moment.

Ezri was falling, and falling, and falling through the endless emptiness of the skies, where comforting stone walls and ceilings and familiar underground gloom were only fading memories. Not one, but two suns lit this terrifying void with baleful red light, and that light seared her, piercing through eyelids and paws trying to hide her face, right to the brain.

And a tremendous voice shook her whole body, sending vibrating agony through every bone. "Ezri. Ezri the traitor! Did you really think you can get free just by letting old Zarfayn die?"

"No!" Ezri, half-deafened, barely could hear her own shout. "No! This is just a bad dream! Zarfayn's necromancy died with him! You're just a bad dream!"

"Had old Zarfayn decided that a slave like you has no need to know of his only real apprentice, me, Ubel? No matter." Ezri clasped her paws to her ears but that was just as useless as cowering her eyes. The world-shaking voice continued. "It is time for you to resume your servitude – or to be punished for disobeying your master!"

"No! It's not real! It's just a dream trick! You can't hurt me!"

Ezri realized that she doesn't believe her own words even before the world-shaking bout of laughter threw her around so hard that it felt like her flesh is about to rip from bones.

"I cannot hurt you? Because we are in a dream? But that is the exact reason I can hurt you as much as I like, until you forget that there ever was anything in the world except for pain and terror! Here you can die ten thousand deaths and still be alive for more. Here I can stretch one night to a thousand years of agony and violation. But," the voice suddenly got quieter and softer, almost to a whisper, albeit a whisper of a titan, that blew like a cutting wind, "if you gnaw through your own wrists right after awakening, you are not going to open the castle gates for me. I will have to go through the effort of invading the dreams of one of your fellow rats. Be reasonable, Ezri. We both know that in the end you only care about your own hide, and that is why you already have betrayed one master when he grew weak, have you not? Do you really wish to sacrifice that precious hide for some woodlander?"

Ezri found herself sobbing, because Ubel was right. If not for the tiny hope that the sorcerer might be bluffing and she would awake if pushed too hard, she would have been groveling and swearing loyalty to him already. She loathed herself for that. In her entire miserable life Belk seemed the only bright spot, and now she was on the verge of betraying him.

"Do you?!" Words reverberated through her skull.

"Enough." The word fell with the weight of whole sky crashing down. Suddenly Ezri found herself stretched across the familiar and comfortable stone floor, rather than dangling in emptiness. She opened her eyes in astonishment. And before her was a sinuous, flowing figure, woven from roiling pale mist that sucked all warmth and color from the world – except for the two tiny pinpricks of glowing red eyes.

But that eldritch shape did not scare her as much as what was behind her – and from there merciless light radiated, and this second voice sounded again, a voice without Ubel's gleeful malice, yet nonetheless terrifying – cold as midwinter's night and sharp as cutting blade, every word making Ezri shudder in pain, even though the words were not directed at her. "Enough, necromancer. You hold no power here. Begone!"

000000000000000

Despite Ubel's strict warnings against entering without invitation, Sheska rushed into the ferret's tent when she heard a howl of agony and sounds of a body trashing wildly inside. The big brazier at the tent's center was overturned, and smell of smoke and burned flesh hanged heavily in the air, yet somehow coals scattered across the floor produced no flame, no light. Thankfully there also was a small lamp at one corner, which Ubel did not turn over in his convulsions, and in its light Sheska could see everything clearly. The ferret looked as if after a savage beating, fur wet and disheveled, blood running profusely from his nose, limbs still twitching. But when Sheska kneeled before Ubel, not sure what to do or how to help, his eyes opened. A strange gasping sound issued from his throat.

"What happened, my Lord?!" Sheska cried out. "How can I help?"

"I got overeager." Ubel's voice was clear. And despite his sorry state, he sounded almost… excited. "Wait. What's this noise?"

Indeed, the night was quiet no more. And that was not because Ubel's howl woke up too many beasts. What banished silence completely were battle cries.