Chapter 9: Genocide

Dog eat dog, every day; on our fellow beast we prey.

Dog eat dog, to get by; hope you like my genocide!

Ripfang was lost.

He didn't want to admit to it. This was hardly news that would benefit group morale; hordebeasts looked to their leaders for guidance, and if his horde couldn't trust him to at least pretend he knew what he was doing, then he would soon find himself replaced.

In truth, he had been going quite the wrong direction from the start. His path had taken the horde further north from the abbey than they were originally on the beach, and although he had managed to correct his course a bit, he still could not be sure when to turn south.

At this point, the horde had settled down for the night. The audience would do well to remember that most of their supplies had been left on the beach; they had to make do with what little they could scrounge up from the area.

Not to say that foraging was a poor option; in fact, the area was teeming with sustenance. After Ripfang had given his subordinates a crash course on edible roots and berries in the region, they had brought back several shirts full of provisions. (There was nothing else to carry the harvest with. You make do with what you got.) The archers had even managed to shoot down three woodpigeons; these were now roasting over the fire.

What's that? Do I hear you asking about Ripfang's "crash course"? Yes, I suppose that could use an explanation. You see, while Ripfang was definitely… erm, "gifted" with the classic irrationality of infamous vermin leaders of lore, he had a great deal more intelligence than they did in more basic matters. For most of his adolescent life, before he settled in with the wrong crowd and became the scourge of the seas, he traveled the world alone, learning the ways of the land. In those days, he was far more rational, as his anger management issues had not yet surfaced. This allowed him to learn from the lone beasts whom he met in his journeys; it's far easier to talk openly to a rat who isn't trying to look for gold in your chest cavity.

Or purse. Yes, a purse would be a much more rational place for gold.

Now, how come such a beast was now lost? Well, that was more the fault of his particular method of traveling. Back in those days, he never considered goals; all that mattered to him was going to sleep somewhere he hadn't woken up in yet. Still, despite his incompetence in navigation, his knowledge of survival on land had not diminished with his time at sea.

Which would explain why he was now tying a piece of his shirt, rubbed with wild garlic paste, over his nose, and yelling at his horde to do the same. "Archers, ready your bows and prepare arrows! Foxes, pack up provisions and douse the fires! Everybeast else, keep your paws on your hilts!"

One fox, excepted from packing duty by right of his archer status, stepped forward to Ripfang's side. Riding on his shoulders was a young squirrelmaid, whose tail and legs were matted, torn, and mostly missing. She sat in a special harness that kept her aloft; the straps crossing his chest complemented his sack-masked face nicely. "Switch, Evildog," Ripfang acknowledged the pair with a nod.

Now, this curious pair is going to need quite the explanation. Evildog was once part of a band of foxes that roamed the Northlands. One day, this pack got it in their heads to raid a village. Though his rather brash monicker would indicate otherwise, Evildog was quite against the idea, and only joined begrudgingly. As the battle wore on, most of the villagers escaped; the rest stayed and fought like mad beasts to protect their retreat.

As the battle raged on, Evildog found himself tucked away in one of the abandoned buildings, avoiding the battle as much as possible. In the relative silence of the empty house, he found he could hear sobbing coming from the cupboards. Inspection revealed the younger Switch, who immediately flew into a reckless, last-stand attack. The sound of her rage alerted another fox to their presence inside; when he entered, he congratulated Evildog on locating the straggler. He pushed him to the side, tossed Switch down on her stomach, and dealt a wicked blow to the base of her tail.

Some of you should know what spinal injuries do to the use of your legs. Evildog was not so medically aware, but he did recognize that his "friend" was torturing an innocent child. In that moment, he knew what he had to do; he lunged forward and knocked the other fox to the ground, knocking his sword from his paws. The fox snarled and, drawing a dagger from his cloak, slashed out Evildog's eyes. However, this only served to infuriate Evildog further; grabbing the other fox, he pounded him against the floor until his grey matter was proven to be rather a different color. With that last brutal act, he passed out.

The day passed, and the two injured creatures returned to consciousness. With a great deal of effort, Switch bandaged Evildog's now useless eyes; she did the best she could to clean her own wound, but her reach was rather limited, especially without the use of her legs. After everything had been tended to, that could be, they helped each other outside, to find the most sorrowful scene either had ever witnessed. Not a soul beyond them two remained; the village defenders and attacking foxes had wiped each other out entirely. Without homes and families to call their own anymore, the two set out on their own. Evildog acted as Switch's legs, and Switch as Evildog's eyes.

Now, how did this pair come into the realm of archery? Amazingly, that development came after their injuries. Switch was a whiz with calculations; she could plot the trajectory of an arrow in her head in a matter of seconds, with only a slight margin of error. She and Evildog developed a system of subtle taps and gestures that would help her communicate to him exactly which way to fire an arrow. After several seasons of training, they advanced to the point where they could hit a leaf from as much as five hundred paces.

But why would such a strange pair end up in a pirate crew? Turns out, prejudice is trending in the Northlands. Even if he had Switch's testimony for his good behaviour, Evildog's very name kept him out of most communities, and he was far too honest to take a pseudonym. Spurned from every community they encountered, the pair turned to the more accepting bandit clans. One thing led to another, and their clan ended up "recruited" into Ripfang's crew.

"What's goin' on, Admiral?" Evildog inquired, adjusting the hem of his mask.

"Did you smell the smoke? Faint, slightly sweet; smells like rotten fruit? Telltale sign of Flitchaye gas," Ripfang explained. "Not sure how we ended up in their territory; I was under the impression they were further to th' north than this." He turned back to the crew. "Are the supplies collected?" His answer came in the form of a brief salute from one of the now heavy-laden foxes. "Good. We're marching south." He turned back to Evildog and nodded.

Switch tapped on Evildog's head to indicate the direction of south, and he started moving. Ripfang took a step, then looked down and adjusted the rapier on his belt. In truth, this was little more than a ploy to convince Evildog to start moving first, so Ripfang would not be seen leading the crew in some direction other than south. He quickly returned to Evildog's side, though; only a select few beasts could truly lead from behind.

Only a few paces later, he held up a fist to signal his horde to stop. He drew his rapier and inched forward a few more steps. Then, suddenly, he jabbed the point down into the ground. Somebeast underground squealed briefly in shock, then went silent. He pulled the blade back out of the ground; the tip was now stained with blood.

At once the area erupted into motion, as a score of weasels dressed in bark and leaves leapt up out of the ground. They chattered in a primitive language, waving flint spears and axes at the crew.

Ripfang calmly walked toward the closest Flitchaye, his face almost completely neutral. He stopped only a whisker's length away from the confused weasel, then stood analyzing him closely. After a few silent moments, the weasel had had enough, and raised his spear to shout a battle cry.

Or at the very least, he attempted to raise his spear. However, this motion was cut off, along with his head and arm, by a few quick strokes of Ripfang's blade. "Archers engage! Swords flank right, packbeasts follow!" Ripfang shouted, returning to a neutral stance and picking out his next opponent.

Switch selected a target as well. She made a few quick mental calculations, then tapped on Evildog's shoulder. He raised his bow to firing position. "Left eight ticks, up two," she tapped; he shifted the bow slightly in response. She checked the angle, then tapped twice on his shoulder again.

The arrow shot through the air, impaling a Flitchaye weasel right between the eyes. The beast crumpled to the ground immediately. By the time he hit the ground, Switch had another target chosen and Evildog another arrow notched.

Ripfang advanced on his opponent, rapier poised to strike. The weasel raised his axe to deliver a tremendous overpaw blow; this proved to be a fatal mistake, as Ripfang lunged and sliced open his neck. Twisting the rapier away, he brought it up to parry a thrown spear and dissect its owner.

A guttural roar sounded from somewhere opposite the Flitchaye. A fox with far too much muscle mass lumbered into the clearing, swinging an enormous, bloody sword through the ranks of weasels. His body was covered only in an array of belts and straps, carrying a wealth of weaponry and gruesome trophies of combat - skulls, spines, femurs, and so on, all stripped entirely of flesh. Beyond this semblance of clothing, he was… well, quite shameless.

The impractically muscular beast tore through the Flitchaye like wet paper, leaving a trail of death in his wake. In no time, the weasels all lay dead, victims of the brutal double onslaught.

The fox motioned to the weasel at Ripfang's footpaws. "You gonna eat that?"

Ripfang mentally stumbled at the question. "Wh-um, no..."

"S'rude to steal other beasts' prey, 'specially if you're not gonna do anything with it." The fox stepped over the fallen beast, flipped his sword to a backhand position, and stabbed it down on the weasel's neck. The tip, which had curiously been smithed flat instead of coming to a point, severed the corpse's head with ease. The behemoth reached down (you'd think he was too atrophied to bend like that) and picked up the head, which was then thrust onto a hook on one of his many belts. Then he sheathed the sword in its carrying ring, pulled out a knife, and knelt down to begin carving up the rest of the body.

Ripfang watched with a mixture of disgust and morbid interest. Clearly, this fox was quite used to dressing his kills; he worked his way methodically through the corpse, sectioning off limbs and organs and placing them in marked bags. Within a minute, the kill was fully dressed and packed away, and the fox stood again. "Quite the crew you've got 'ere," he commented. "Where y'all headed?"

Ripfang sheathed his rapier with a quick flourish. While this wasn't the most trustworthy beast before him, he could prove to be a valuable ally. "Redwall," he said.

"Oh, you're one of those gangs." The fox picked up another weasel corpse. This one, though was not treated with any care; he simply jammed it on a hook and slung it over his back. "Think I might come with you; I've got, a-heh, business, with Redwall as well."

"Very well. But remember, if you join my beasts, you follow my orders."

The fox halted at these words, then bent down and brought his face very close to Ripfang's. With a full set of poorly managed fangs openly on display, he growled, "Nobeast commands Vrox the Devourer!"

Ripfang stared back, his expression hovering on the border of total neutrality and impractical rage. "I imagine that's because nobeast has ever tried," he replied levelly.

Vrox's expression immediately switched to dumbfoundedness, before he burst out into laughter. "Well met, meatling! Very well, I'll take your input into consideration."

"Then we march at once." Ripfang motioned for his crew to follow, and began walking in the direction he remembered from earlier to be south.

Most of the abbey came out to see off Ranga and Mayton. Many well wishes and fond farewells were exchanged Beasts of all shapes and sizes stood atop the wall, waving goodbye to the two messengers. They stayed atop the wall until the pair faded into the distance on the southern path.

Ranga adjusted the stuffed rucksack of provisions on his shoulders. It seemed to be enjoying tipping to the left, and the weight of it was throwing him off balance. "So, where're we headed?"

Mayton pored over her map of Mossflower Country. "Well, Charlemagne said he lived by the Southern Plateau. Trouble is, it doesn't look like anybeast has bothered to map the region. From what I can tell, it's somewhere to the east of the Great Inland Lake, here. Judging by the ruins of St. Ninian's, there, I'd say it's about a week's journey to pass the lake, then at most another week to the plateau."

Ranga wiped his brow, in an imitation of wiping off sweat. "Whoo! We'd best get moving; we've got a ways to go!"

Mayton rolled up her map and slid it back into its case. "Indeed. Let's just hope nothing too… exciting happens."

"Aw, a little excitement never hurt anybeast!"

Ranga, you brazen idiot.

Anyway, I've started summer quarter, so any updates this receives during the next few months were completed on the bus (I can't do homework then because there's no WiFi).

As promised, Blackish, here's more Ripfang, along with two characters I've been planning for a while. Until next time!

EDIT: More minor revisions; nothing too big this time.

Credit to The Offspring for the song title.