Chapter 2

Three weeks had passed since Tenzir Bloodblade set out for Salamandastron. Summer was drawing near, evidenced by the longer days and warmer weather. Yet life on Werithor went on as usual, unaware of the passage of time. Nowhere was this monotony felt more than among the thousands of slaves who lived on the island, laboring away in its forges, shipyards, and fields.

The five hundred or so slaves assigned to the Emperor's fortress were all housed inside a large compound on the stronghold's north side, which was walled off from the rest of the courtyard by a wooden palisade. Here they ate, slept, and lived out their lives under watch from the guards, leaving the enclosure only to work.

Day had yet to break over Werithor. All was quiet in the compound, save for the communal pump creaking in the center of the grounds. Soldiers waited for sunrise from atop several wooden watchtowers overlooking four rows of identical longhouses. These were raised slightly out of the mud by stout ash stilts, and designated as "Quarters" One through Twenty.

Quarter Five was where Ingle slept. But like most slaves in the compound, the ottermaid lay awake on the straw pallet which served as her bed, waiting for the day to begin. It was better not to be asleep when the overseers came barging in; the scars on Ingle's back attested to this much. All the slaves slept in two rows of metal bunks lined up against opposite walls of the Quarter, military-style. A draft whispered through the cabin's single leaky glass window, making Ingle shiver. Once again she had kicked off her blanket sometime during the night, and the short chains shackling the ottermaid to the bedframe prevented her from walking over and picking it up.

Ingle curled into a ball, covering herself with her rudder as she tried to imagine a life beyond Werithor's shores. For three weeks she had snuck furtive glances around the fortress, looking for any clue as to how Plinn may have escaped. Though unsuccessful, the ottermaid was not deterred, for the ancient mouse's escape had galvanized something within Ingle that she didn't realize she had.

Turning on her side, she found herself staring across the room at Plinn's empty bunk, which sat closest the doorway. Ingle knew it would likely be filled soon by a slave brought up from the surrounding villages. New arrivals to the island had steadily dwindled over time, forcing the empire to transfer slaves from post to post. Still, Plinn had been a part of Quarter Five as long as anybeast could remember. Being part of the first batch of slaves brought to Werithor, the mouse was as old as the empire itself. Thus it was no surprise that, in the weeks leading up to Plinn's breakout, the others paid no heed to his senile utterings of a single word: "Salamandastron!"

The word meant nothing to anybeast in Quarter Five, both then and now. As far as Ingle was concerned, she was the only slave who knew what really happened.

The bunk directly above the ottermaid creaked, followed by a voice she knew too well.

"Ingle, are you awake?"

"Aye," Ingle nodded. "Did you sleep well, Haida?"

"Like a flea on a rat's back," came the mousemaid's reply, and the two shared a quiet chuckle. Ingle was always grateful for the short time before sunrise where the two could socialize. It kept her sane amidst all this madness.

From atop her bunk, Haida sighed. "Things've gotten quiet without old Plinn around. I could really use one of his stories right now."

Ingle did not take her eyes off of Plinn's bunk. "I miss him too. I hope he's in a better place."

Inwardly, the ottermaid was dying to tell her best friend the truth, but there was little either of them could do with the information at the moment. Telling the ebullient, cream-furred mousemaid would also likely endanger both their lives. One never knew who could be listening.

Their conversation was cut short as the door to Quarter Five was kicked open with a bang. "Rise an' shine, youse lot!" yelled a familiar, hated voice.

The longhouse came alive instantly. Chains rattled as the slaves sat up in their beds in various states of wakefulness. A score of guards marched in, headed by Dirgetooth, Quarter Five's cruel overseer. The huge, tattooed stoat stood a full head taller than his brethren, his dirty, unkempt brown fur only emphasizing his crazed look. The bracelets and rings on his arms and legs jangled as he walked, reverberating around the cabin.

Conch horns outside blared three times in succession, signaling the start of a new day. The slaves were unchained from their beds and ushered into two rows facing each other, where they were shackled to one another by their wrists and ankles. As always, Ingle was chained next to Haida, who quietly grasped the ottermaid's paw with her own.

Dirgetooth grinned evilly, baring his crooked fangs at the beasts on either side of him. "Good mornin', sleepy'eads," he teased in an almost singsong voice.

When nobeast answered, the stoat unfurled his whip. "I says good mornin'," he repeated, his voice a lot more ominous this time.

"Good morning, sir," chorused the slaves.

"Now then, that's more like it," growled the stoat. He nodded toward his squad. "Give 'em a soak."

Ingle winced as she and the other slaves were crudely doused with cold water and sprinkled with soap flakes. They stood shivering before the guards as the overseer, ignoring their plight, announced: "We gots a new transfer today, which means you lot gots a new friend."

Ingle watched as the guards dragged in a pygmy shrew, whose sleek fur was blacker than any she had ever seen. The tiny creature continuously bit and kicked at his captors, despite the chains that bound his limbs.

"You'll take 'is bunk!" one the guards snarled, pointing to Plinn's old spot in the corner. "Now get in line!"

Dirgetooth watched as the guards shackled the shrewslave to the others with chains that dwarfed his undersized footpaws. "Yore a real nasty one, ain't ye? Well, I'll breaks ye like I breaks the rest of 'em. You'll be beggin' me to kill ye by the time this season's over."

The fearless shrew glared hatefully at the overseer, his beady eyes burning with defiance. Ingle shuddered, imagining what this creature would do if set loose upon his captors.

Dirgetooth turned his attention to some of the weaker creatures, singling out a small squirrel who was audibly shivering. Ingle recognized the slave: he had been transferred from the surrounding villages last week. Dressed in an oversized tunic which was completely soaked from the "bath" he had been given earlier, the poor creature now stood, drenched to the bone as he continued to shake. In a second, Dirgetooth was in the slave's face, brandishing his whip.

"Oi, you there! Wot're ye blubberin' about?"

The squirrel's chains rattled almost as loudly as his teeth. "I-I'm c-c-cold, s-sir."

Dirgetooth gestured around him cruelly. "Yore cold, eh? I don't sees anybeast else complainin'! Youse lot gots warm beds, a roof over your 'eads, an' two meals a day, so you better shut yore gob afore I really gives you somethin' to complain about!"

The poor slave broke down crying. "Please, sir," he wailed, "I don't b-belong here! I'm a f-fieldslave! I'm n-not meant for this, please – "

"Right, that's it!" shouted Dirgetooth, motioning for his underlings to help him. "Clear this area so I can teaches this ingrate a lesson!"

Two guards spread the slaves as far away from either side of the weeping squirrel as their chains would let them, making room for the stoat to deliver his punishment. The slaves averted their eyes as Dirgetooth unfurled his whip. They knew what was coming.

SWISH! CRACK!

The heavy rawhide braid lashed out, wrapping around the squirrel's left shoulder. The victim screeched in pain as Dirgetooth yanked hard on the whip, dragging him to the ground. As the poor creature struggled to rise, he was felled by a succession of lashes to his back and skull that the stoat delivered with deadly accuracy.

Ingle bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to block out the slave's agonized screams as the stoat thrashed away mercilessly at his unprotected body. She could feel Haida's paw now tightening around her own like a vice. The ottermaid knew that with Dirgetooth, every whipping was a potential execution. She prayed the poor creature would pass out quickly.

Guard and slave alike winced as a particularly well-landed hit was met with the gruesome sound of bones breaking. The screaming stopped instantly. Breathing heavily, Dirgetooth stepped away from the pitiful carcass lying at his footpaws. An eerie silence hung in the air as the stoat cast his glare around the room, his face and tunic now spattered with blood. "Because I 'ad to gets me paws dirty dealin' wid this filth, youse lot gets t' miss breakfast this mornin'. Now, anybeast else got summat they wants t' cry about?"

The slaves kept their eyes glued to the floor. Nobeast dared make a sound.

"Good," growled the stoat, motioning to the guards to dispose of the body. "Split these slaves up and send 'em off t' work. Move!"

Ingle took one last look at the overseer's underlings callously tossing the bleeding bundle outside before she herself was unshackled from the other slaves and led out of the cabin towards the fortress. She almost didn't feel the cold spear prodding her back and the guard barking at her to move her useless hide. The ottermaid couldn't even cry. All she knew was that she had to get out of there.

The morning sun shone through the open windows of Valroth's chamber. The calls of seabirds mingled with the sounds of the fortress below, as corsair and slave alike went about their daily toil.

Ingle stood by the sheer blue curtains, holding a large clay jug. Laid out at her footpaws were large baskets filled with Valroth's favorite breakfast: hard-boiled turtle eggs, fresh grapes, and a whole roasted quail cooked and seasoned to perfection. Everything looked and smelled divine, especially since Ingle had not eaten. However, the horror of what had transpired back at the compound remained fresh on the ottermaid's mind, pushing away any thought of food.

"Slave, pour my wine!"

The Emperor's mailed paw, holding a bejeweled goblet, emerged from beneath the cloth which hid him from the rest of the world. As she had done a thousand times before, Ingle gingerly tipped the heavy vessel downward, carefully pouring the purple liquid into Valroth's cup. After this was done, she got to work preparing the eggs just the way the ruler liked them, by cutting them into thin slices using the tiny knife contained in the basket.

Valroth's paw emerged again, selecting the quail and the basket of now-sliced turtle eggs. Trying to ignore the bone-crunching sounds now emanating from behind the curtain, Ingle picked up the wine jug and studied it. It was decorated all around with paintings of past conquests. She could make out images of vermin – those were clearly corsairs – depicted slaughtering a plethora of mice, squirrels, shrews, moles, and otters in some open meadow. There was also some text scrawled on the vessel. The ottermaid, while illiterate, was fairly certain that the writing described one of Valroth's past conquests.

Although Ingle had studied that jug down to the very last detail in her many seasons as Valroth's personal slave, these pictures had started to take on new meaning ever since she had learned of Plinn's escape. For the first time in her young life, the ottermaid felt angry viewing these pictures; at seeing her likeness being so cruelly subjugated by the corsairs. But seeing these violent images also inspired her. If there was a world outside of this horrible island that innocent beasts could be torn away from, then there was a world they could escape to.

One day, she thought, maybe this epic battle could be reenacted on the island; only her side would be winning.

A knock at the door returned the ottermaid to reality. The obscene noises from behind the curtain stopped as the Emperor looked up from his food.

"Enter!" commanded Valroth.

A ratguard came in, bowing low. "I apologize for interrupting your breakfast, Your Majesty, but Nadira wishes to see you."

"Tell her that I do not wish for my breakfast to be disturbed," Valroth said, in a dangerously measured tone of voice.

The guard swallowed. "She won't leave until she's 'ad an audience with you, my lord."

Ingle jumped at the sound of the goblet smashing on the floor. "Then make her leave, you idiot!"

Terrified, the guard ran back to the doors, only to bowled over by a pitch-black form sweeping soundlessly across the floorstones.

"How dare you enter without my permission?!" roared Valroth.

The seer known as Nadira stopped at the foot of Valroth's throne. "Once you've heard what I have to say you'll be glad I told you this soon," she hissed, her sibilant voice dissipating throughout the hall.

Ingle shrank into the shadows cast by Valroth's throne, trying to attract as little attention as possible. She had seen Nadira roaming the fortress grounds countless times before, and knew that the vixen lived in a tiny hut on the other end of the courtyard. Even so, the vixen's ghostly presence and wraithlike movements never ceased to terrify her.

"What false prophecies have you been cooking up of late?" snarled the irate wildcat.

Nadira removed her hood. She was an ancient, snaggle-toothed vixen. Thinning, discolored fur clung to her sagging skin, which in turn seemed to cling to her bony features. Her single green eye seemed to bore through the curtains that obscured the Emperor, while her other eye, a sliver of white pupil suspended in a murky gray iris, rolled around in its socket. "I have seen the future. His Majesty must leave this island immediately, or face certain death."

The thin curtains could not contain the wildcat's laughter, which boomed throughout the hall. "Tell me, Nadira, does my fortress look like it can be breached to you? Is there anybeast who has challenged Werithor and lived?"

"It is not the threat of an outside invasion his Majesty must fear!" rasped Nadira, lifting a shaking paw toward the ceiling. "The fire mountain, whose stone makes up the very walls of this palace, has come alive again."

The Emperor's figure shifted lazily behind the curtain. "I see no evidence of this."

"There shall be very little foreshadowing. But soon, a black cloud shall consume the sky. The very gates of Hell will burst, burying this island and all those who foolishly remain."

"How long, seer?" challenged the wildcat.

Nadira seemed to falter. "My shells do not foretell the exact passage of time, but Your Majesty must listen – "

"If there is no firm indication if or when the volcano shall erupt, then I shall not leave," Valroth proclaimed.

Ingle could hear the growing alarm in Nadira's trembling voice. "I have served Werithor from the start, Your Majesty. I would never lie about my omens!"

The Emperor's tone was impassive. "And yet, you failed to foretell that the island's fortunes would dwindle in my lifetime. You failed to foretell that an old mouse would escape the fortress. Why should I believe you now?"

The vixen practically threw herself on the steps of Valroth's throne. "If we do not leave this island we will all die! My lord, you must – "

"ENOUGH!"

Nadira dove for cover as the livid wildcat kicked over the baskets of food, sending his breakfast splattering all around her, roaring:

"I built this empire from nothing, and I will not surrender it based the word of failed soothsayers! Nobeast leaves! Do you hear me, vixen? Nobeast leaves! Guards!"

The doors burst open and four blue-clad soldiers stormed in. "Get everybeast out of this room!" Valroth practically shrieked from behind the curtain. "Get them out, now!"

Ingle felt two pairs of rough arms seize her. "You 'eard 'is Majesty. Move!"

As she was frogmarched out of the throne room alongside Nadira, Ingle felt something hard press against her lower back. It took another second for her to realize what was causing this sensation.

The knife, which she had used to prepare Valroth's breakfast, was tucked away beneath her sash.