Kan's awakening the following morning was, to say the least, eventful. The young stoat abruptly fell out of his bunk with a screech as a good-natured voice roared, "G'mornin, lazybones!" in his ear.
Sitting up, Kan glared at the two Sakhyos that were smiling cheerily at him from atop the ladder. He shook his head and the double vision cleared, although the pain of crash-landing on a hard stone floor stubbornly remained.
Looking out the window, he saw that the sun was only just rising, and most of the stars were still out, unaffected by the vague pinkish glow. "Bloody hell," he snarled. "What time is it? And where is everybeast?" he added, seeing that aside from him and Sakhyo, the room was deserted.
The mink laughed, leapt down from the ladder, and swung him upright. "Time for yer trainin' ter start, Kan, that's wot time 'tis!"
The young stoat barely had time to squeak, "Training?" before Sakhyo grabbed him and forcibly marched him out the door.
Shortly afterward, the two young creatures stood outside the great mountain. A breathtaking vista of sea and sky stretched out toward the horizon, lit by the warm glow of the rising sun. The golden rays of light reflected into the ocean rippled gently with the movement of the waves.
Mesmerized by the beautiful scene before him, Kan did not notice that his friend had disappeared from his side.
A swift and powerful blow to the back of his head sent him face-first into the sand. Spitting out grit, he struggled to rise, but his foe was applying considerable pressure to the nape of his neck and he remained immobile.
Without warning the force was released, and in an eyeblink Kan was flipped onto his back with a curved knife held to his throat.
He opened his eyes, expecting the Corsair weasel at least, but the only two creatures in his field of vision were shockingly familiar. Rinqan was standing coolly by, taking in everything, as Sakhyo shifted her grip on the knife.
After what seemed like an eternity, the coyote nodded and Sakhyo removed the blade. She tried to help Kan upright, but he swatted the proffered paw away and leapt up, his gaze radiating disbelief and anger.
To his further displeasure, when Rinqan spoke, his voice held a poorly disguised amusment. "You must be ready for this situation at any time, Darikan. A foe may sneak up on you just like this, or you may have to do the same to them. Speed and stealth are the keys if you wish to fight in the Shadowtide."
As his intended lesson became apparent, Kan's fury cooled somewhat, although he was still annoyed at being caught so off guard. "All right," he grumbled. "What d' we do now?"
Sakhyo laughed. "Now yer gonna really start trainin', mate!" As she spoke, Rinqan drew a long, straight knife from his belt and tossed it toward the stoat. Catching it by the simple bronze handle, Kan was surprised to recognize it as his own. "Where'd yer find this?"
"One of d' wave vermin we slew had it thrust in his belt," the coyote answered. "After we captured you, I reckoned it was yours- it has not the make of a Corsair blade. Now that you have a weapon, it is time to begin."
Without further ado, Kan was set his first task: Sakhyo sat on a rock near the shoreline with her back to her two friends, obliviously swigging from a flask and chomping away at a scone. Trying to silence his pawsteps(as well as his stomach, which was snarling audibly at the sight of the food), the young stoat tried to prowl up behind Sakhyo and attack in the same way she'd surprised him earlier.
He had scarcely gone two paces when she whirled around, drew her own knife, and leapt at him. In an embarassingly short time, Kan was pinned to the ground once more, and Sakhyo pressed her blade gently into his throat fur, grinning.
"Huh, looks like yer dead, mate. Hordebeasts always gotta weapon of some sort- y'hafta move faster afore they turn the tables on ya. Try it again." She released him and allowed him to retrieve his knife from where it had fallen, then resumed her seat on the rock.
By the time noon arrived, Kan felt as though he had been performing the exercise all his life. Each time, he could go two, possibly three steps before Sakhyo noticed him. His temper was nearing the breaking point, as was Rinqan's- a barely concealed growl lingered in the coyote's voice as he watched yet another failed attempt.
After he was released the next time, an idea suddenly struck him. He waited the couple of seconds that it took for the mink to stand up and turn around. As she trotted back to the rock, he drew his knife and pounced.
Not expecting the attack, Sakhyo turned halfway around in surprise, then fell on her back in the sand, cursing. Kan was just going to indicate defeat when she shoved hard with all four paws, catapulting the stoat off of her.
"Excellent nevertheless," Rinqan announced. "You learn more quickly then I thought. Do it again."
It would turn out to be Kan's only success of the day, although his companions were reasonably pleased. As they headed back inside the mountain, Sakhyo laughed and nudged him hard in the side. "More o' the same t'morrow, Kan. Ain't that nice, mate, ya got somethin ter look forward to!" His groan as he forced his aching muscles into a walk was drowned out by her cheerful laughter .
The warlord sat outside his tent, looking off into the distance. The stripedog mountain, huge as it was, was a mere dot on the horizon. He growled softly. At this rate, they would not reach it until next winter. And they must arrive before autumn's end, or be forced to launch a siege in the snow. Cold and starvation could bring down even the mightiest of hordes more swiftly than any living enemy.
Over the passing seasons, the warlord had grown increasingly unpredictable, prone to murderous rages that could erupt at any time. His anger had always been with him, a hot coal inside his mind that blotted out all emotions but bloodlust, but in the period of time that had begun with the exile of his brother its power had flared, feeding off his hatred and murderous ambition. He carried out conquest after conquest, till all of the Northwest lands, from the border with the lands of snow and ice down to the fringes of the woodlands called Mossflower, were under his control.
The memory was fully awakened now as he stormed about his tent. If only he had been warlord then! His brother was a soft-hearted coward, a cringing worm unfit to live. Why had he been spared? An exile into the wilderness was as good as a death sentence, true, but his species was strong. They could adapt to any situation, surviving through all odds. His brother was alive, he was certain.
He needed a stronghold. The one talent his sibling possessed, that had somehow gotten him elevated to a position in the horde above his own, was that of eloquence, combined with a certain skill in tactics. Any soldier that heard his voice could be inspired to fight and die for any cause, no matter how insane.
Then his brother would have an army of some size, no doubt. But no horde could rival his, and nobeast could defeat its leader in combat.
"Soon, brother," he snarled exultantly, eyes blazing with bestial rage. "Soon."