64. Rulership and Betrayal.
Belk knew he had to keep moving. He had no idea how far behind he left the vermin, and he didn't want to bet his life on absence of pursuit. But even after a night's sleep – midsummer nights in Southsward were warm enough that sleeping with no cover but one's own fur was comfortable, at least in good weather – that was easier said than done. His whole body ached and every step took an effort. For the first time in his life Belk had to cut walking stick for himself from a dry tree branch. In such condition it was far too early to even think about getting past the enemy army and back into the castle.
Another problem was that Belk had no idea where he was, and had no way to make an informed guess with his limited knowledge of the land. His best bet was to find some locals that weren't yet killed or enslaved by roving vermin bands. As far as he knew, most settlements in central Southsward were located alongside waterways, with the lake below Castle Floret serving as the natural hub of communications, into which most of the small rivers ran. And as far as he saw from the walls, the vermin weren't yet using boats to take advantage of this fact. So Belk decided to follow the stream for now.
He got lucky. Around midday a motley crew of woodlanders, resting and preparing food next to their boat on the riverbank came into his view. When Belk walked out of the bushes, most of them jumped to their paws, and one twitchy-looking young mouse even grabbed a spear. But seeing that he's no vermin was pretty easy.
"Are you escaping from the vermin too, old beast?" the mouse asked.
"That I am doing. Do you know of any refuge?"
"Thanks seasons, yes. The camp of the King, where brave beasts gather."
"I wonder what Melayna would say about her reign ending before it started," Belk thought to himself. That thought once again directed his mind towards Castle Floret, even as he moved towards the woodlanders' campfire. "I wonder what she said to Myns about the battle. I wonder if Myns now believes me dead."
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"I don't believe my husband is dead!" Myns said sharply and without a shadow of doubt. "Else the vermin would have not missed the chance to put fear into us, by bringing his head on the Sword of Martin into our sight."
"This may well be so." Chamberlain Elmsfort looked emaciated and exhausted after his time as a prisoner, he had to walk with a cane, but his voice remained firm. "But he is not here to control the rats he let into our castle. If he returns, we shall discuss this once again. For now the vermin should be isolated for ours and even their own safety. The gerbil barbarians who think themselves vermin are unruly enough to deal with actual vermin as well."
"Gerbil?" Myns was puzzled.
"That is the proper name for their people, one which the tribe now helping us apparently forgot. But let's not change the subject. The vermin should be imprisoned, and we should do it now."
"That would be most ungrateful!"
"That would be most proper," Seneschal Walmond answered for his old friend Elmsfort.
"I disagree."
"Oh. And why exactly, Lady Melayna?" Elmsfort looked straight at her eyes.
Melayna smiled back. "Belk saved this castle, and us both as well. He has shown wisdom and experience. I do believe trusting his judgment would be the best thing we can do."
Even though Melayna supported her own argument, Myns not at all liked her voice and expression when she spoke about Belk. Elmsfort only sighed in exasperation and shook his head. "I do not think that trusting a beast in everything because he was right in something is wise. But we cannot afford squabbles. Be as it may, the rats will stay free. But keep your eyes open and your ears up. They are your responsibility now."
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"They hate us, and they'd turn on us sooner or later, and you…"
"Shut up, Razkhan," Ezri responded. Her thoughts were jumbled enough without fellow rats barging in with their stupid opinions.
"Make me! Or do…"
The male rat was bigger and stronger than Ezri, but did not know that she prepared herself for the possibility of open challenge for the leadership in their small group ever since Zarfayn died. And right now she was on the edge anyway. While Razkhan was only beginning pumping himself, she jumped on him, tackling him bodily, knocking him off the chair and overturning a small table in the process. Razkhan's fall to the floor was accompanied by a loud crash, and Ezri landed on top on him. Before shock wore off, she grabbed him by the ear, and placed a small knife, that appeared in her paw as if by magic, against his throat.
"Shut! Up!" With eyes bloodshot from insomnia, whiskers twitching, and crazed expression on her face, Ezri looked like she could press on that knife if Razkhan was to blink wrong. And maybe she was. In any case, Razkhan froze in terror. Other rats in the room remained in their places, all watching, none moving a finger to interfere.
"I don't need advice from dolts like you! And I don't want to hear you at all! Is it clear, you brainless, bumbling fleabag?" She twisted Razkhan's ear harder.
"Y-yes… owch, yes!"
"Good. Then keep your stinky gob closed!" Ezri let Razkhan go and rose to her paws promptly. A thought flittering somewhere back in her head reminded that this was an error, and that she was not strong enough to afford sparing him. But she couldn't kill him while they were among woodlanders either. She could only hope Belk would return soon. Other rats thought he favored her, and while Ezri herself bitterly thought that in reality he probably was only tempering dislike with gratitude, she was not about to correct their error.
Somebeast knocked on the door, just was Ezri was putting the table back in its place. "Enter!"
Myns opened the heavy door, looking inside with caution. "I've heard some ruckus, and, well…"
"Don't worry, Razkhan here just stumbled and smashed into the table, right, Razkhan?"
Myns looked at the rapidly nodding male rat and frowned. "Be more careful, who knows what other beasts may think."
No, killing anybeast definitely wasn't an option, concluded Ezri in her thoughts, as Myns closed the door. She wanted to drop down and cry, and she wanted to sleep, after barely closing her eyes the last night, but she did not dare to do either. Who knew if the necromancer outside of the walls could try invading her dreams again?
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Unknown to her, at that same time the necromancer was considering that very idea. Ubel stared at nothing, as he was lying in the darkness of his tent, and his thoughts were moving in circles. Certainly, or at least certainly to the extent of Ubel's knowledge, both space and time were largely meaningless for the dead, but to interact with the living creatures, still bound by those, they needed an anchor, or, perhaps, a lamp, shedding light on some part of "here and now" and allowing to distinguish it from the endless tangle of all the other places in present, future, and past. The Sword of Martin, no doubt, served as such an item. Physical distance to it was, therefore, important. And as it increased, chances of the spirit within the sword being able to protect creatures within Castle Floret decreased. Ubel still wanted to capture the castle, even despite the main prize now certainly being outside of it.
Pounding headache still reminded Ubel about perils of dream invasions, and there was gnawing pain in his fingers as well. Now more than ever he hated his frail body. But raging at it or following the perverse yearning to ignore its limitations was not going to get him closer to success. Three, no, perhaps four days of rest would be the necessary minimum to recover. And who knew, maybe Fate would be on his side and bring the accursed sword to his paws by that time.
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A ferret sat and watched Ubel's tent from a distance. The tent was dark, but the ferret knew that sooner or later, likely sooner, the sorcerer would stay well into the night with a brazier or some other fire, that could highlight his silhouette against the tent's fabric. Once again the ferret wondered if he should take such chance and try a shot, particularly now, with that restless weasel gone for a time. Soldiers from the king's guard now standing watch at the Ubel's tent were lazy and unperceptive brutes.
But the sorcerer had Vulpuz' own luck. The ferret admitted to himself that missing the first shot at him may have been the result of mediocre archery, but the second time it was as if fate itself saved Ubel, making another beast move just in time to take the arrow for him. The ferret wanted to have a certain clear shot the next time he was going to risk his life. His desire to make the white ferret pay for killing the sole soldier who treated him well while he was young and weak was not strong enough to stop him from caring about his own hide.
"Thinking about something?" Even though the voice was familiar, the ferret nearly jumped.
"About nothing much, except maybe a certain score commander sneaking up on me, and perhaps telling me something good after that?" If his voice was a bit tense, that went unnoticed.
Blackear giggled and patted her fellow ferret on the back. "Good thinking, Treestalker. Come on, why you're feeding gnats out here, when we have a nice bonfire going?"
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Out of the corner of his eye Seien saw the two ferrets joining the company of their fellow archers at the big campfire. Ulakhai sure had plenty of beasts under his command.
Did Seien himself have any? Now he was sitting in a company of a dozen young vermin, once his followers in games and mischief, now grown or almost-grown soldiers. Could he command them for real?
"Hey, Seien, I mean, yer Kingness, ain't that true ye killed like five these sandy mice during the raid? Beasts said, ye were covered in blood ears to tailtip after the battle!"
It took a couple of seconds for the question to register. Seien looked grimly at the weasel who asked it. "And how come you weren't next to me to see that for yourself?
"Well, chief, I mean, King, everythin' was just too sudden, we wake up, and the whole bloody camp is upside down, and poor me ain't a great warlord like ye, I was just followin' whatever beasts I saw…"
"Probably those who were running away," Seien thought. No, relying upon this company in matters of life and death would be an even greater folly than relying upon his mother. Who could help him, then?
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Silverbrush spent the few nights since the raid and Enjo Greencloak's injury in the captain's tent, even though she was not sure what else she could do, or at least what she could do that any other beast, like Weitla, couldn't. It was mostly for her own comfort. Both comfort of the nerves and comfort of the body – like most vermin in the camp, Silverbrush herself had only a piece of cloth to stretch between poles for shelter, which of course was far from suitable for the refined creature she considered herself to be, and when Enjo was healthy, he allowed none but Weitla to live in the same tent as him.
But sleep was not coming easily for her. She couldn't stop listening to Enjo's labored breath, and to pawsteps outside of the tent, which could easily belong to vermin intending to make sure the captain never recovers. She wondered how Weitla could sleep quietly throughout these nights. Of course, a preybeast slave could not be expected to have fond feeling for her master, even he saved her life seasons ago, fished her out when she was drowning in the sea near Ergaph's shore. But in case of Enjo's death she was likely to regret being still alive. Even besides the usual vagaries of being a pretty female mouse slave among searats, some of the crew would wish to pay her back just for being a preybeast who, at least in their opinion, had the captain's ear. Silverbrush herself was halfway there. Asking her to take care of the mouse was one of Enjo's typical bits of muscle-headed foolishness. Or maybe he simply had no choice.
Maybe she also had no choice, and maybe she should have poisoned Enjo already. Seers, true or fake, and for that matter all vixens, were supposed to be opportunistic and ruthless. Her sister hinted quite transparently that this was the action required to prove importance of their familiar bond, when they last spoke. Trouble was, Silverbrush never killed anybeast before, and the thought of starting with the one corsair who treated her somewhat decently horrified her…
Ironically, she dozed off, wearied by these dark thoughts, just when vigilance might have changed something. She snapped back to wakefulness when she felt presence of more beasts, moving within the tent. But before she could as much as yelp, a strong paw clasped her muzzle shut, and a sharp blade pricked her neck. "Don't you bloody move, sis. If you think I won't kill you if need be, think again."
Even without the whispered words, Silverbrush could smell that it was Windflight pinning her down. She had no doubt that her sister could kill her without batting an eye. If Silverbrush inherited wits and charm from their mother – or at least so she liked to think – then all the ruthlessness certainly went to Windflight.
"I got the mouse. Right between the ears." Silverbrush knew this whispering voice as well, and her heart sank even lower. Snaketail, one of the few beasts whom Enjo considered truly loyal.
"Good." A big shape moved in darkness. Silverbrush did not recognize voice immediately, and her nose was full of Windflight's scent – of her hot and rancid breath, in fact.
"Hey, Brushy," Windflight whispered right into her ear, "you blabbered how sisters help each other. I wonder if you now could help us to make this sack of half-dead rat meat into dead meat, strangle him or something, show you weren't just waggling your tongue. What do you say? And don't try to scream."
The paw on Silverbrush's muzzle was removed, though the blade remained at her throat. She knew that she had to agree. She internally cursed cowardice that made her remain silent. Yet she remained silent long enough for sharp pressure on her neck to increase.
"Stop this foolishness, Windflight," the third voice grumbled. "If there is killing to be done, it is mine to do."
This time Silverbrush recognized it. Rugger the Black. Things were just going for bad to worse. And she could do nothing, but lie still and ignore horrible gasping sounds that issued when the heavy paw pressed down on Enjo's throat. The captain, even if he managed to regain consciousness, was in no condition to resist. And she… She kept a knife that the murderers did not notice in the dark near her bed, so she had a good chance to at least wound Windflight, maybe raise enough ruckus to be heard… Then she would have died, and the crew probably would have balked at the thought of challenging the most frightening killer in the camp and the rising star of the corsairs over the bodies of the captain who was dying anyway and his vixen. What else could be expected from them if even one of the most trusted beasts turned out to be a traitor. Or so Silverbrush told herself.
At least all was over quickly. Then Snaketail asked: "Should I throw the mouse wench into the lake? Guess I hafta hit her over the head some more first, so she won't wake up midway."
"Wait," Silverbrush was surprised to hear the weak voice that was none other than her own. "The crew will know something is up about Enjo's death if she disappears."
"Oh, really?" Windflight's anger was obvious even without her adding another bit of pressure on the knife, almost breaking the skin.
Rugger's words saved Silverbrush again. "Makes sense. If the mouse can live. Snaketail?"
"Got just a bump on her head, cap'n. I didn't hit her too hard, knew she might be of use yet, see."
"Then we've done what we came for. Silverbrush, do you know what you will say to the crew come morning?"
"Captain Enjo has died from his injuries in the night. If anybeast asks, I've hit the mouse in grief and rage. The crew now should follow great and victorious Captain Windflight."
"You got the gist. Now come, Windflight, Snaketail."
After they left, Silverbrush did not move for some time. Then she checked Enjo, as if there was still some hope of him being alive. Then Weitla – the mouse indeed had a sizeable bump on her head, and probably was going to be bed-ridden for a couple of days. Then Silverbrush sat, and, for the first time in many season, wept. Vixens were not supposed to cry. Not alone, when there was nobeast to be moved by their tears. Well, maybe Windflight was more of a proper vixen than she, after all.
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Rensk the emine almost crawled through the remnants of the abandoned campsite, sniffing intently.
"So, any idea which direction these laggardly preybeasts went?" Lurthen Longneck and most of the creatures in his band did not need help to find that their quarry left this place in a boat.
Rensk turned his long neck to look at Lurthen, all four paws on the ground. "May my guts rot if they did not go upstream. This bunch was not fighters, but runaways, old beasts and cubs among them. Downstream would take them closer to our army. And the current is strong. If they don't have more good rovers than it seems, we may catch up on foot."
"That army is not yet ours," a short, broad-shouldered grey fox, who looked bored and restless, pitched in.
"That we all know, Grotgard, but here and now is not the time and place to talk about this," Lurthen addressed the fox quite politely. If Rensk was his precious tracker, then Grotgard was his most valuable warrior. "First we shall recover the sword, and then, by all of winter's winds, we shall see who has strength and luck to stand on top of the army."