63. Matters of Rulership.
Mice, voles and other smaller creatures dwelling in the Axehound fort occupied large and long houses half-buried in the ground, pretty typical dwellings for these lands, but markedly inferior to tall log buildings meant for otters themselves. One of such houses Torbit now entered. And "now" was the middle of dark, cloudy night. Torbit's eyes were keen enough to find his way outside, but inside he would have been forced to rely on smell and touch, had he not brought a small lantern under his cloak. Now he raised it, to cast a look around.
He saw Trugg, Dornal, Wincey, Lynne, the rest of Dornal's children and about a score of other mice – those who wanted to risk a sea journey with uncertain destination, rather than live in the Northlands. All the hustle and bustle associated with preparation for the biggest military expedition in living memory – the main force was supposed to march south the next day – gave them a chance to complete their own preparations, inform friends, procure various travel necessities. Torbit could see that every mouse had warm clothing, and at least some of the males were armed with knives and simple cudgels.
"Is everybeast here?" Torbit asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Then it's time to board the ship." Normally, leaving the harbor without raising questions and quite possibly being intercepted, before wind could fill Wavecrest's sails and carry it beyond reach of mere boats, would be hard to do. But coast sentries no doubt knew that Warchief Willag wanted Torbit and his ship to cover the army from the sea, as it marched down the coast, and carry some of supplies as well. Moving out a bit early, to reach open waters with the morning tide, wouldn't be too suspicious.
Torbit paused briefly to take a headcount. And it was then when all mice at once suddenly froze, and Torbit heard a soft sound of movement behind him.
"Don't do anything rash."
Torbit's blood turned to icy water as he recognized high, grating voice of Warchief Willag. On unbending paws, he turned to see the warchief himself blocking the exit, a long-hafted axe held in paw like an oversized walking stick. There were vague shapes of other otters behind. Steps of even more creatures closing in now were heard outside of the walls.
"Leaving my home without telling me…" Willag looked over the terrified company, before fixing his unflinching gaze on Torbit, and stepping into the long house. More armed otters followed him, including Akkla, and Willag's daughter, Leffel.
Torbit was not much of a liar to start with, and too shaken by this sudden calamity to deny the truth. "How you found us out?"
Willag shrugged. "What is known to three beasts, is also known to vermin, as we say. Now it's my turn to ask a question. Why this? Why are you running away with my mice in the dark of the night, after misleading us into expecting your help, instead of just coming to me and saying that revenge or not, you would rather leave than to fight a war on woodlanders?"
Torbit stared at Willag, eyes even wider than before. Nothing about the warchief's fearsome appearance or manner suggested that he might have been amenable to such approach. Was he striking a pose before his beasts? Torbit moved, trying to stay between the Axehound warriors and the group of mice, backing into the corner, as he spoke. "«Your mice»? Scrimmo told me more times than I can count that beasts talkin' like this will drag us all to the bottom. Even when dyin' he begged me to forget all about revenge, for him or anything else, and get away as soon as I can. And I see he was right. What sort of otter treats fellow woodlanders like slaves?"
Akkla sneered. "Brother, what use may be in speaking with him? Or did you not hear enough justifications for cowardice and ingratitude in your life?"
"His ship still would be of use, though, and none of our otters has time to master proper sailing." Like her father and aunt, Leffel Axehound, was tall, unlike them she was pretty enough to be called "slim", rather than "thin". She wore a simple dress, with only a long dagger on her belt for a weapon.
"This is all true." Willag did not add "And I've heard this enough times already", but his tone carried a clear implication, so both females remained silent while he stroked his beard, considering both Torbit and the mice. "«Slaves»? I can swear, these rodent ingrates thought quite differently when we were the only thing standing between them and vermin cooking pot. Why are you looking at your footpaws, Aran? Look, I still wear a few fangs taken on the day I've dragged you from Marroweater's prison pit with this very paw. And you, Kelse. I remember you weren't so dismayed to see me, when I cut my way through the vermin encircling what was left of your little village."
None of the mice dared to argue. None, except for Dornal, the only one who didn't flinch under Willag's piercing gaze. "With all respect, Warchief, there is a difference between owing you and being under your paw for ever. And if there are beasts to whom I and my family owe their lives, those will be ones you are now going to fight."
There was silence, in which one could hear the sound of the warchief's fingers lightly tapping on the axeblade in his paw, until Willag responded slowly. "Ah, Dornal the troublemaker. Are lives of your fellow mice really worth so little?"
Such menace was in the warchief's voice that Torbit's hearts skipped a few beats. Each word fell like a chopping blow on a condemned beast's neck. By the end of the second phrase, Torbit couldn't bear it anymore. He made half a step forward, pushing Dornal behind himself, and bowed to Willag. "These mice ain't guilty of anythin', 'cept listenin' to my stupid words. I'm the ringleader, the only one, do whatever ye want to me, but spare 'em."
Willag moved and seized Torbit's head by the chin, forcing the younger otter to look right into his glassy, maddened eyes. "What I wanted to do was to use you in the coming war. But how can I trust again a beast who tried to stab me in the back?"
"I… I'd swear any oath ye want for myself!"
"But not for your crew?" Torbit thought that Willag was going to wrench his head off his shoulders – at that moment strength in the warchief's paw seemed up to the task. But instead Willag let him go. "Then swear loyalty to the Axehound clan, swear that our path would be your path, swear by river and sea, by seasons and fates, by earth and all that lives on it, by Dark Forest and all of the dead. And remember, kit, you don't want to even hear what happened to the last beast who got a second chance from me and threw it away!"
000000000000000
Half an hour later Willag, Akkla, and Leffel were sitting around the table with a simple breakfast – bread, cold fish left from yesterday, and water – at Willag's room.
"I don't trust the cur at all," Akkla opined. "In sight of you he would be busy trying not to die from fear, but I'd bet axeblade against acorn, if he's not already thinking than an oath given under threats is no true oath, he would before the next sunset."
"I don't remember threatening anybeast tonight." Even a few seasons ago, Willag would have smiled at this point, but now he no longer smiled or laughed.
"Even if the bumbling brat has enough brains in his skull to figure out that you only made a frightening face and let his imagination do the rest, he does not have enough honesty in his heart to care. To think that Heddin called such filth his friend…" Akkla answered sourly.
Willag stopped eating and stared at his sister. "Enough yammering. I've heard what you have to say well enough when we decided to stage tonight's performance. Nothing has changed since then. There must be no visible dissension in the ranks, lest beasts start doubting righteousness of our war. For Torbit this is doubly true because he was there when everything started. We can neither allow him to run away, nor punish him openly. Leffel assured us his crew would follow him wherever he goes."
"Half of them were eager to talk with a pretty otter, even if she is a daughter of dreaded Willag Axehound, and either they all are amazing liars, or the crew is loyal to Torbit, for seasons know what strange reason," Leffel Axehound nodded.
"So we did the best thing we could do to secure the ship, its crew, appearance of unity, and obedience of those wretched mice."
Akkla sighed, but did not try to argue.
"I'm not the least bit fond of Torbit, but he's merely pitiful," Willag added in a softer tone. Granted, "softer" in his case meant something like the difference between bronze and steel. "Save your hatred for those who truly deserve it."
000000000000000
The camp of Gwynfren Squirrelking grew quite a bit over the last half a moon. More importantly, now it finally began resembling a military camp, rather than a gathering of refugees. A good number of beasts from border settlements and tribes have joined their King – mice, voles, hedgehogs, a handful of hares, most of them tough-looking and all of them armed. A few more otterguards and castle squirrels who survived the disastrous battle also found their way there. Gwynfren and Eskil set them to train all those numerous Southswarders who were willing to fight but lacked skill or experience in it.
None of that gave Gwynfren much relief. His first army was large and brave, and yet it got scythed down like grass. There were not enough weapons for farmers and villagers now preparing to fight for their land. Spears with fire-hardened sharp tips instead of proper metal heads and wicker shields did not inspire confidence. There weren't enough real fighters to command and train the rest properly. And the borderlanders talked big, but Gwynfren increasingly suspected that none of them ever fought anything tougher than small bands of vermin thieves and vagabonds, capable of waylaying lone woodlanders, or razing isolated households, but losing nerve every time they met a group of beasts willing to fight. The vermin army now besieging Castle Floret was not going to lose nerve that easily.
All of that Gwynfren explained to Aldwin, after the captain and his party returned from their foray. "I need you and your hares to help here. Even our finest warriors don't have a faction of your experience. I need your hares as mentors and commanders."
Aldwin did not look pleased. "There was a sayin' I once heard about squirrels teaching otters how to swim, Majesty. My Gallopers are scouts, raiders, foragers, and we're at our best when we fight as our own troop."
"But can you turn the war on your own, as a troop?"
The hare captain considered the question. So far they were lucky, taking out at least threescore of vermin, for no loss. But he had a feeling that they already stretched their luck thin. If whomever called the shots in the vermin camp wasn't a fool, soon enough he was going to send a large force to search for them. A small group, like Gallopers and their companions, could evade a large force and nibble at its edges, if not without risk. But that force was almost certain to discover existence of the Squirrelking's camp. A third of Southsward probably already knew about its existence and approximate location, and moving it with any sort of swiftness or stealth was out of the question. A small group doing hit-and-run attacks could only keep a large force away from a particular place if the latter's commander was willing to oblige… Aldwin silently cursed. No option seemed good. Finally, he said: "You have a point. All right. We'd stay for now and train your crowd."
"Another question, Captain, if you would. About the vermin you have with you."
"What's about them?" Aldwin stared right at Gwynfren, inwardly preparing for trouble.
Trouble did not fail to materialize. "Their presence is bringing discord to the camp. Goodbeasts mistrust them, and Eskil says that this mistrust may tar you as well. There are talks that those four creatures may bring misfortune to us all, and given your story I see where those are coming from."
"They've proven themselves in this war twice already, Your Majesty," answered Aldwin in a quite official tone.
Gwynfren sighed. "It is not me you have to convince. Within a week, we'll have a feast for elders and chieftains, who gathered here to support their Squirrelking. Whom we need to convince are these elders, for one of the will surely bring the matter in the open."
""We", Your Majesty?"
Gwynfren answered slowly, clearly thinking before speaking. "You, and your warriors, including those four vermin, have saved my life. Also, we have few enough experienced fighters already. If anything can bring even worse misfortune to Southsward, it is waste of talent and King's ingratitude. For now, though, make sure that the vermin go nowhere without one of your woodlanders for escort. Else things may turn ugly, if only because of a mistake by some freshly arriving beast."
000000000000000
The four vermin took the news fairly well, by Aldwin's reckoning.
"Do you think they will hang us for everybeast to see, or just drown somewhere quietly?" Suran was grinning.
"This ain't a matter of jokes!" Kethra stood up sharply, glaring at him, then turned to Aldwin. "What should we do?"
"Try to look like good…" Aldwin shook his head, "…oh, who am I kiddin', just keep to themselves, don't go anywhere on your own, and don't get into any blinkin' trouble in the next few days. We'd think about what to say at the feast later."
Author's Notes: Sorry for another schedule slip. Readers can rest easier knowing that in large part it is due to the fact that I'm currently writing in an anachronistic order, and a few more chapters are largely ready now.
Keldor314: It was pretty interesting to read your speculations, although they revealed to me least one point where I apparently failed to convey the intended meaning. Or the story has developed beyond the initially intended parameters. So, thank you. Unfortunately, I cannot comment on much of your post without spoiling pretty crucial things, including a key reveal, and general direction of the ending. But as about things I can comment on – there is one circumstantial hint about Myrai identity.