65. Storms from the North.

Until this season Torbit believed that great armies of thousands described in tales and legends were nothing more than a poetic exaggeration by storytellers. Kunas' army at its height had about seven hundreds, and that already was a staggeringly huge force, the likes of which were not seen on Ergaph for many generations.

On the northern bank of the River Moss now gathered three thousands of armed beasts, and more were coming. Axehound otters clad in glittering chainmail, some with brightly painted shields and spears, most with longbows as tall as archers carrying them. Otters from lesser northern clans, not as well-equipped, but proud warriors nevertheless. Grim highland squirrels, with their painted faces and checkered cloaks, armed with long claymores and even longer pikes. Squirrels from far lands near the eastern coast, loud and cheerful despite looking as savage as any vermin, with piercings of bone in their ears and scars carved into their paws and faces, wielding round shields, barbed javelins and brutal-looking spiked clubs, axes and warhammers. Fierce winged scouts, almost a score of hawks, falcons, and shrikes, looked over the host from their preferred positions up in the trees.

Other creatures, comprising perhaps the larger half of the force, were not as formidable. Lots of shrews, agitable and bellicose, eager to brag about their prowess, but small in stature, their slings, javelins, and rapiers almost like toys. Mice, voles, and moles, rarely armed with more than a simple spear or a cudgel, clearly of more use as camp workers and carriers of luggage, than warriors. But even amongst the latter most were on a campaign before, and many fought in real battles – even if they did not like Willag's war, they kept following his orders.

No vermin horde imaginable could possibly withstand this army. No vermin horde did. Some of the smaller otter companies now rejoining their Warchief spent the spring hunting down stragglers from final battles up in the mountains. A few vermin likely still were hiding in deepest woods and remotest caves, but no known vermin settlement, no roaming band big enough to be noticed, remained anywhere in the Northlands – nothing but ash and piles of skulls.

Torbit had little reason to doubt that this army was ruthless enough to fight fellow woodlanders. And whatever he thought about the idea, he too was its part.

"You're looking dreadfully grim, even more than usual," Leffel Axehound joined Torbit in his position atop a sand dune, overlooking the army camp from the sea coast side. Nowadays she was the one visiting him to relay orders or to check on his and his crew's needs. Probably Willag and Akkla realized that he hated their faces and thought that their prettier relative would be more welcome. If so, they ultimately were right. Leffel was more pleasant to talk with, and certainly more pleasant to look at – Torbit was somewhat ashamed about clearly noticing the latter.

But now he indeed was in a grimmer mood than usual, and wouldn't even have bothered pretending agreeability before Willag himself. "Your father made an error, not allowin' me to escape. I bring bad luck and doom to everybeast around me. My parents, my foster father, my beloved, my oldest friend, and my newest friend, all dead. And now I'm leadin' whatever little is left from my tribe, right into war, a war with other woodlanders! What's to be happy about, havin' a chance to die before them, or havin' a chance to die before I kill any goodbeasts?"

Leffel watched the bustle of creatures down below for a minute or two before answering. "Two seasons ago I would have said that those are words of a coward, too weak to take revenge for his losses and blaming fate for that."

Torbit was well past the point of caring about injuries to his pride. "Ye're in a mood for honesty too, aren't ye? And what would ye say now?"

"I say, you're not the only one who saw too many dear ones die. I say, I hoped to spend this season thinking how to care for my future cubs, not how to provision an army. I say, Aunt Akkla lied, I say she really tried to break the rules and kill that Kethra, and I say Father must be merely pretending to believe her."

"But why? And why ye're tellin' all this to me?"

"Because you may be the first otter to tell he doesn't want this war, at least to my face. As to your first "why", well, to make our cause look more righteous, show Salamandastron as perfidious, willing to fling blows and condemnations on simple suspicion. I do not believe even for a heartbeat that Aunt Akkla would not try to slaughter the creature who killed her beloved son before her eyes, and Father is no stupider than me, but do you expect him to condemn his sole remaining sibling as a liar and an oathbreaker, a beast who by our custom shall be punished by exile, but not before shearing off her ears, so that everybeast could see who she is, or do you think he would not take revenge for his beloved son because she broke the rules that the other side broke already before?"

Torbit thought on it. "Nay. But ye sure ain't soundin' happy with that."

Leffel sighed. "I love my father. I think, I would have loved Heddin too – do you know that Father planned to leave everything to Heddin, myself included, to ensure that his descendants still would rule? And I despise Salamandastron, most of us do. When we were battling tooth and claw, beleaguered by the Pretender in the Mountains on our northern side, and the Marroweater Horde in the east, and cubs had to take up arms to fight off sea raiders from our very doorsteps, their high-and-mighty lady-ruler sent us just a dozen hares for help, and even most of those excused themselves when they saw we're not actually joking about giving no mercy to vermin. But for a long time I believed we're fighting to vanquish evil that blighted this land for untold generations, while now I wonder if at some point we've started fighting just to vanquish anybeast who is opposed to us. I wonder if we've started fighting just because we no longer know any other life but that of warriors, and when, if ever, our war would stop, if it is not going to stop."

Torbit shrugged. Not that he didn't share Leffel's general thoughts, but how could he know that she was not testing the extent of his disloyalty on Willag's orders? "Then ye should tell that to yer father, not me. By storm and abyss, I think I got enough of a lesson about tryin' to do things behind his back."

Leffel sighed once more. "I did so, and I will again. Father is now inclined to start with words, instead of arrows, if only as yet another way to make our cause look more righteous. If those four vermin are gone from Salamandaston, there may be a chance, however small, for a show of contrition on the badger ruler's part to mend things. I've just wanted to check if I am the only otter who does not want this war."

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Shadowing an army full of skilled scouts and watched from above by birds was a difficult, very difficult feat. Certainly, had any creature in the camp knew that they are being watched by unfriendly eyes from up in the trees, their first reaction would have been a genuine surprise.

But Flicker managed. He was not sure why he was doing it, but for a week already he prowled around Willag's camp, unseen and unheard, leaving no trace as he moved among the treetops. It was not like he could actually do anything about the coming horror. Even if he was to abandon his lifelong commitment to non-violence, without actual skill at arms his chances of slaying Akkla or Willag, never mind both, were nil. Heddin, the last link to his old life, and the last reminder, safe Flicker himself, that Fortunate Freepaws had ever existed, was gone. So why was he here? He could not answer himself.

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Lurthen Longneck's force of over a hundred of ermines, common grey foxes, and polar foxes has gathered in a secluded hollow. Lurthen was justly proud of beasts under his command. Certainly there weren't the best of the Land of Ice and Snow – save for a pawful of restless veteran warriors like Lurthen himself, his troop consisted of younger sons, plus a few uglier daughters, seeking land to till and, hopefully, slaves to lord over beyond the seas. Few wore armor, many carried axes or maces instead of swords. But each had a shield and a spear or a bow with arrows, and most importantly, each passed the test of real battle, and passed it splendidly, their shield wall standing immovably like a rock, and repelling a seemingly unstoppable tide of woodlanders.

Now common vermin were checking their arms and good luck charms in preparation for battle, while Lurthen himself held council with his most important subordinates. He looked at the sky – heavy, low clouds and sweltering heat heralded a thunderstorm in a few hours at most, perhaps less – then at the crude map which Rensk the tracker drew with a stick on loamy earth. "We will attack right away. I don't want to sit and wait for the night, with so many creatures wandering around, they may stumble on us or our trail any moment. Rensk, I rely on you and your scouts to take out the sentries you spotted. Grotgard, you take ten beasts, capture their boats, and cut down everyone around. I with the rest will hit their main camp. If we get inside before the preybeasts can figure out what is happening and defend the exits, we win. These are not hardened battlers, if faced with foes striking swiftly and suddenly into their midst they will panic, and then their numbers won't matter. Attack, engage, and slaughter, and if you see any of your beasts slowing down to loot before the battle is over and the signal is given, cut him down on the spot. Is everything clear?"

"Wirkruff and his part of the scouts still ain't back with us. We're seven beasts short, and who knows what they found out there," Rensk noticed.

"Too bad for them. They'll miss all the glory."

"Don't you forget about the cursed sword." Sheska the weasel was at the council too. "It may not even be in the camp…"

"If we won't crush this preybeast crowd, we won't be able to search for it freely. And if we crush them, well, we'd see if we still should care about that sword."

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"Do you call yourselves Gallopers because of your thundering steps? Woodpigeons probably can hear you for a mile, you know."

Suran did not object to at least one woodlander accompanying him constantly, even when, as now, he went out to hunt. The logic was understandable. But with said woodlander being Sovna... He was tired of her hostile silence and watching him as if he could disappear into thin air any moment.

"I'm not asking why you called yourself Longspear."

"Called myself? Given names are bestowed by others, you hare. To be known by name you got from birth, you have to be lucky – or mean enough to make beasts call you what you want. And only the best and meanest of all, warlords and great warriors like myself, get to be known both by birth name and given name. By fang, I expected this much to fly into your long ears after travelling with us for three seasons, but looks like I was wrong."

Sovna crossed her paws on her chest. Anger born of Suran's words gave her the extra bit of resolve she needed. And they were just far enough from the camp. "Back then, at the hamlet of Fourtrees, when we fought the corsairs, and I broke my rapier, I was right behind you."

"Yeah, given that I remembering you saving my tail, you probably were. So what?"

"When you fought the big grey vixen, you could have killed her, disemboweled her right away, but you didn't."

"So what, again? By the way, why I'm hearing this from you and not Aldwin?"

"I can handle this… this question myself!"

Suran scratched his chin in a display of mock thoughtfulness. "Do you not trust him to trust you, or do you want to prove something to him, eh?"

Sovna managed to remain mostly calm by what was an extraordinary effort for her, but her paw reflexively moved towards her sword's hilt. "It's not about me. Answer – why you spared that vermin?"

At this point Suran's eyes narrowed, and his voice turned quiet and serious. "Mostly for the same reason your own spine is still in one piece. Maybe I'd tell you why if you tell me what issue you have with your captain, tit-for-tat, you know. For now, look," he raised his paw, seeing that Sovna was getting mad, "there are three whole bloody reasons we should not squabble and fight here."

"What reasons?" Sovna was suspicious, but still quieted down, copying Suran.

"First, you're not a pretty young vixen whom I can impress by neatly disarming her. Second, we have plenty of beasts to kill other than each other. And third, judging by movement of grass on that side of the meadow, some of these beasts may be almost within a bowshot."

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After Salamandaston Kethra started training and sparring again, whenever she had free time. Save for getting used to missing eye and tail, as far as that was possible, results gave her no joy, probably because she mostly had to spar against Aldwin's hares.

And now too, however she struggled against Sparth, shield against shield, light wooden club, serving as a safer equivalent of an axe, against wooden club, results were depressingly unchanging and unchangingly depressing. Thwack! Bang! Thwack! However Kethra tried to dig her claws into the ground, however she strained her hurting muscles, every blow landed on her shield by the big hare drove her a step back, left her reeling, numbed her bruised left paw even more. Summoning all of her strength and speed, Kethra ducked to the right, and the next blow whooshed through the empty air. Before she even started her counterattack, Sparth struck again, this time with his own shield catching Kethra, and sending her, out of balance as she was, straight to the ground. Another round was over.

Kethra could taste blood in her mouth, and the world swam before her eyes when she sat. Then she heard laughter. She have noticed that some of the bloody locals were watching their match, but until now she tried her best to ignore them. Not that now she could do anything else – she needed to catch her breath before as much as swearing. Her fur was wet and matted with sweat from heat and exertion and she knew that she looked pathetic right now. Hatred boiled to the fore of her mind in a flood of hot pitch. Even after all the effort, all the suffering, after fighting for them and facing nigh-certain death to prove her bravery before them, all she was getting from woodlanders were bruises and laughter?

Then Sparth shouted: "How about you jesters come down here and bally well spar against me? Just one flippin' round, just one, wot? I'd love to see if you still would be laughin' at a real warrior after that!"

To nobeast's surprise, the onlookers instead chose to shut up and pretend being inanimate parts of the scenery. Sparth was one of the tallest beasts Kethra had ever seen, and built like an oak.

"Thanks," mumbled Kethra, wiping sweat off her brow, when Sparth turned back to her.

"That wasn't worth thanks. Are you all right?"

"Will live," Kethra's vision indeed went back to normal, and with a groan she rose from the ground. "But by thunder, I think I have enough for today."

"Oh, that's not a problem. I see the King's chief otter coming here, and I wonder if he's coming for you."

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"May I take this pasty?" Smalltooth's paw hovered over the snack in question. He, Tezza and Ewalt sat for a lunch in the forest, after spending half a day foraging for mushrooms, berries, nuts, and whatever else edible still could be found in that close march from the camp. Smalltooth already ate more than either of his companions.

"Help yourself, young beasts like you need their wittles," Tezza answered.

Smalltooth looked at her with surprised suspicion, even as he chewed. Did she just try to smile? He noticed before that Tezza was as nice to him as she could be to anybeast – not very, most of the time – ever since she first recognized his existence during the sea journey from Ergaph. But any hint of smile certainly was not like Tezza the Skinner at all.

"We should still move by themselves and look for whatever edible we may find as we meet back," Ewalt declared. "Our baskets are not nearly full. We'd meet up as we approach the sentries, so you won't be shot by mistake."

"Them sentries won't spot a drunken frog, much less me," snorted Tezza, but otherwise there were no objections.

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Location of Gwynfren's camp had a flaw – or a strong point, depending on your point of view – direct movement of boats on the small river supplying it with water was blocked by a rocky ford just downstream from it. Therefore those volunteers and refugees who arrived by boat mostly disembarked on a nice shallow river bank not far from the ford. Some left their boats in the mini-camp that sprung there, rather than carry them upstream on their own backs. Rowanbloom tried to meet all the new arrivals whenever she could – sometimes they had wounded with them, more often they had ill and weak beasts, and recently she emerged as something like the chief healer of the king's army, by the virtue of being the beast healer around, who could decide which cases can be entrusted to less adept beasts, and which she had to handle herself.

Yet another boat, heading for whatever measure of safety the camp could offer, was spotted on the river well in advance, and that's why Rowanbloom was walking on the river bank right now. The new arrivals have unloaded themselves already and were talking with a couple of otters who watched over all the other boats. There was about a dozen of new beasts, save for one mouse all too old or too young to be warriors. Although one old squirrel was carrying a big sword on his shoulder so probably he at least was a warrior once. The sword struck Rowanbloom as familiar, for some reason that didn't immediately jump to the forefront of her brain. She took a closer look at it and its wielder as she approached…

And gasped. Seasons ate at his build, turned much of his fur grey, and took the old shine from his eyes, but she could not fail to recognize the face of Belk the Fair, her own father.

Belk turned upon hearing that sound. At first there was nothing but blank incomprehension on his face. After all, Rowanbloom was young, soft, and even a bit plump when they saw each other last time, the squirrel now before him was thin and hard as a spear, all freshness of youth long ago scoured from her face. Then, just as the first tears glistened in Rowanbloom's eyes, there was a clear look of realization.

"That's you, Rowanbloom," Belk said without a shadow of doubt.

"Father…" Rowanbloom really hoped Belk would step forward and hug her. But instead his face turned as stern, as she remembered from their last conversation, as he looked her up and down, from eartufts to toes.

"Seasons haven't treated you well, my runaway daughter. I…"

And then they heard the far-away sound of a bugle.

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Kethra left her arms back at the humble hut that the companions have erected for themselves. She wondered if Eskil would have asked her to disarm otherwise. After all, he was taking her to speak with the woodlander king face to face.

Gwynfren waited for her at a secluded glen, beyond the far side of the camp. The crowned brat sat on the tree root, the crutch he was now using to walk next to him. Given low-hanging clouds, threatening to unleash torrential rain any moment, not the best place for a meeting, but Kethra was not the one to choose. She, of course, saw Gwynfren before in the camp, but never up close. First, she figured out that the reminding the young ruler about her existence would be unwise. As far as she could judge, he was likely to hate any and all ferrets now. And second Gwynfren made her feel unease. Sure, physically he did not look very impressive. Quite average for a squirrel, in fact, young, and of course, the footpaw missing above the knee made him look… not a complete beast, to put it politely. Yet woodlanders still risked their own lives to save him, and now were flocking to his banner. Warlords were followed because of their strength and their earned or inherited luck. When her brother got outwitted, caught by Kunas, and spent most of a season on Hellgates' doorstep after his unfinished execution, she had to kill beasts who proposed saving themselves the trouble and cutting Marroch's throat, while others simply deserted, and Marroch was merely wounded, not crippled. What supernatural force, what luck beyond luck this little woodlander had, to command such loyalty?

Kethra even bowed, as she greeted Gwynfren.

"Greetings to you as well, Kethra the Brave. I must admit, I've never talked to any fetter before, so…"

Before Gwynfren could finish the phrase, they heard a far-away sound of a bugle. And then, as Kethra, Gwynfren, and Eskil all turned in that direction, straining their ears, they heard rustling of branches and leaves far closer to them.

Eskil barely managed to draw his sword, before seven armed vermin warriors burst into the glen.

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Summer warmth made Tezza feel younger. Well, summer warmth and the fact that neither Kunas nor Eikeru could enjoy it any longer. Hellgates, after all, was a place of eternal cold. She made her peace with the fact that both died far faster than they deserved, and today she didn't even think of the enemies that still had to be killed, concentrating on simple search for the forest's bounty.

Unlike Ewalt, or even Smalltooth, she counted birds as a part of that bounty. Woodlander cooking was quite fine, but she could only explore all their ways to make grain and vegetables palatable for so long, before longing for something more substantial. So she never allowed herself to remain unaware of her surroundings. And that's why she noticed in time that something was wrong. Or not so much noticed as felt, her danger sense whispering a warning based on signs too small to be noticed consciously – a very faint smell, a strange distant sound.

Tezza knew to trust such premonitions. She slunk towards the most secluded spot she could see nearby, placed her basket down, and put the bowstring on her bow. Now her senses detected something more specific. Her sense of smell was above average. Good enough to catch the vermin smell that light wind was bringing to her from the direction of the camp. A stoat, but certainly not Smalltooth. Perhaps even more than one stoat. Sometimes crouching low, sometimes moving on three paws, the bow and arrow in the fourth, Tezza moved towards the smell. If enemy scouts were what her nose detected, she did not want to warn them by shouting and otherwise raising alarm. By her reckoning, the camp was already quite close. They probably were trying to spy on its inhabitants and defenses.

And then her nose warned her that she was wrong. It was the smell of blood, and recent death. Tezza felt fur raising on her nape. The danger was very close. Now she cursed herself for her judgment of woodlander sentries earlier in the day. That must have brought bad luck. With greatest caution, practically crawling, the weasel moved forward.

She found the mouse that must have been on watch in a depression, under an old, moss-covered fallen tree. The hapless woodlander likely was sitting on top of that tree, when somebeast shot him through the neck, before he could raise the spear or the copper bugle still lying next to his body, then moved closer to stab him a couple more times, took the arrow, but did not bother with looting or hiding the body, and walked away in the direction...

Tezza took the bugle, and moved in that direction. She only had to walk about ten steps and then quietly worm her way through a thick bush. What she heard while moving chilled her blood, and what she saw froze it.

The forest was crawling with armed vermin – scores of grey foxes and stoats, moving in silence towards the hollow, where unsuspecting, unprepared woodlanders, and Aldwin with his hares, and Kethra, and Rowanbloom too, were going about their daily chores. Within minutes they were going to gain entry through one of the passages in the thick brambles, now lightly guarded. Tezza's first, instinctive move was to flatten herself even closer to the ground and back away, before any of the foes could look in her direction. Then her tongue happened to find the hole in the place of her lower left fang.

…When Eikeru caught her family, Tezza was near, and heard much of what happened. The whole forest was crawling with Kunas' soldiers, and Tezza did not dare to move out of her hiding place before the night. She wasn't Tezza the Skinner back then, she knew far too little about fighting or deliberately causing pain, Kunas' grudge was not against her, but her mate. Trying to fight alone against scores wouldn't even have helped him and their daughters to die easier. In helpless, silent fury, she bit earth and tree roots throughout the long, long day, bit so hard that her lower left fang broke. She tried her best not to remember details of that day, but ever since Salamandastron it returned to her time and again in vivid nightmares.

Tezza's instincts, gut feeling, common sense, whatever you name it, still screamed at her to keep her head down, to wait at least until the vermin force moves far enough from her. The more sophisticated inner voice reminded her that everybeast within their small company, even Kethra, even Ewalt who tried to be a friend to every other vermin among them, even Smalltooth, never mind every single woodlander in Southsward, undoubtedly considered her a repulsive, if useful at the moment, creature, and repulsive creatures should scurry away into shadows, rather than expose themselves. Instead of listening, she rose to one knee, inhaled as much air as she could, and blew the bugle.

She was still not about to fight alone against scores, so she broke out of the bush to run. And going around the roots of the fallen tree, there was another bunch of vermin right before her. The leading fox looked in surprise, trying to process what a strange, unfamiliar weasel is doing here. The first peal of thunder rumbled in the sky. Tezza sent an arrow right into the neck of the befuddled fox, above the shield rim. She did not think, and she certainly did not follow her instincts, she just acted. A stoat started raising his spear to throw, but Tezza's second arrow hit him. Some missile whooshed next to her, as she put the third arrow on the bowstring, aiming at a mailed female weasel that stood out among other enemies.

She lost a faction of a second adjusting her aim, so that the arrow would go into the unarmored face. Before she could loose, something hit her. And the world went black. Unfortunately, only for a few seconds. Horrible pain in the chest and in the side of her head brought her back to consciousness. She was lying flat on the ground, and the slightest attempt to rise brought her such agony, that she barely held back a scream. Then another lance of pain shot through her foot. Tezza's vision was blurred, but she saw a creature in glittering chainmail standing above her, and judging by the excruciating pain, now twisting a spear, lodged between the bones of her ankle. This time Tezza tried to scream, but the attempt to do so caused such agony to her chest and jaw that only weak, hoarse sound came out of her throat. The beast who was torturing her tore the spear out of her paw and raised it for another stab. And then something – or someone, jumping down from atop the fallen tree – knocked that beast aside in a blur of motion.

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When they heard the bugle, Smalltooth rushed towards the sound before Ewalt could say anything. Of course, there was a chance that a sentry panicked upon seeing Tezza, who kept wandering away from them despite being far too close to the camp. But most likely the signal meant enemies. And in Ewalt's opinion rushing towards an unknown number of enemies was an idiotic thing to do. He would have explained that to Smalltooth, had he managed to catch him, before the damn stoat jumped right into the middle of what seemed like a small army of vermin. He managed to crash into some mailed creature, bringing him or her to the ground, before someone laid him flat with a shield strike. Ewalt saw that he had one more chance to turn, roll off the other side of the huge tree trunk, while all of the enemy's attention was on Smalltooth and Tezza – yeah, the bloodied body on the ground was undoubtedly Tezza – and run or hide. He did not even have any spear or javelin with him, only a short sword and a small knife, last-chance weapons, really.

That knife he threw right at an ermine who was raising her spear to run Smalltooth through. He aimed at the neck, one of the few places where such small missile had a reasonable chance of dropping a sturdy beast, but for once his aim was not so great – he only hit the paw, making the foe drop her weapon and yelp in pain. Then Ewalt too leaped right into vermin midst, with the most frightening wordless screech he could manage. Having no more weapons to throw, what other choice he had? There was a small chance that the vermin would panic. There was a small chance that help would come right away.

Ten seconds later, writhing on the ground, Ewalt had one last moment to think about the folly of taking small chances, or would have had if he was not too busy gasping for air after a kick that lifted him off his paws…

"Take him alive!"

"Right away, chief!" Somebeast jumped on Ewalt and he felt like he was hit with a mountain.

"Not this one, dolt, the ermine! Oh, for winter's sake! Bind the mouse too, if you caught him already! Get in the open, you all! Form ranks! I hear warmlanders coming!"