Chapter One
There was never a Warlord quite like Vartun. The weasel, with his enormous horde of vermin, wreaked destruction through every settlement they met, stealing everything of value and slaying the weak. The ones who surrendered, he made into slaves. Those who defied them, he had a special treatment for.
Vartun had a special selection of knives and daggers awaiting his use on a tough leather belt he always slung over his left shoulder. Everyday, he would take the belt off of the searat uniform he stole one day and shine every one of his blades.
And, with those particular blades, he carved up those who stood against him, piece by agonizing piece. The weasel had always loved to hear the agonized screams of his prisoners as he killed them, savored it really.
That was what gave him his title. Vartun the Slicer!
Now he and his horde plundered around the coast, always going south, south towards the extinct volcano they called Salamandastron. South towards a mountain full of great weapons, forged from the great, powerful Badger Lords that always succeeded one another. Oh yes, Salamandastron. Vermin everywhere had aspired to claim the legendary mountain stronghold, but that was all they could do. Aspire, that was all. None had succeeded; none had taken it as his own.
Vartun would be different though. Whoever he chose as his victim, in less than a moment, he was dead. The Warlord was powerful, merciless, pitiless, and bloodthirsty. He had the makings of the greatest vermin leader of the world. All who opposed him died by his blades. None had crossed Vartun twice, most had not even once. He was fearless, he was malicious, malevolent. There were too many words that could describe him. Too many words.
It was springtime, much to Vartun's distaste. The weasel sneered and spat contemptuously at every little flower he noticed, snarling under his breath about the too-peaceful atmosphere. However, despite his initial mood, the Warlord kept up a lively march, almost double-time. His dark eyes glinted greedily as he thought of the mountain fortress, the loot he and his horde could plunder, and the slaves he could capture. He would have to slay the badger occupying the area, but those hares that inhabited his target, they would make fine workers.
Vartun gritted his teeth, annoyed, as the labored breathing of some vermin tickled his ear. Without breaking stride, he whirled around, teeth bared, paw swung over his shoulder to the handle of a dagger, and snarled, "Wot, wot d'ye want, eh?"
Captain Heflo, a small, lanky rat, winced under the Warlord's penetrating gaze, gulping through his gasps of air. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
"Sir, Vartun, sir, I was jist wonderin', could we slacken up the pace a little? The 'orde's getting exhausted, sir."
Vartun, backpedaling furiously with ease, quickly swept his gaze around at the horde's ranks. His paw still clenched the dagger in the belt as he shook his head with disappointment. Heflo was right. The vermin that followed him, the vermin that he thought were so fit, so deadly, were having trouble keeping up. Every now and then, Vartun would see one or two in the front ranks trip over some protruding rock, some obscurity in the ground, or their own footpaws, and fall head over tail. As he continued to observe, they were trampled on, and left in whichever rank they stood up in.
The Warlord hissed something incoherent, and released his tight grip on the dagger handle. Sweeping oxygen deep into his lungs, he abruptly stopped backpedaling and yelled, "Halt!"
The vermin collapsed. Armor clattered together, setting up an awful din, as the multitude of rats, weasels, stoats, and ferrets fell upon one another, on the sand, on coarse grass, some even content with the sea's edge. Only Captain Heflo stood to attention, his spear held up, the butt end protruding from the sand.
"Heflo, git these slackers to make a decent camp, will ye? I can't stand my horde lookin' so messy an' unorganized." Vartun glared at the rat as he grunted and stood up to obey. The only reason he promoted Heflo as a Captain was because he had more brains than most of the vermin he had in the horde, that and the fact that he had unabated loyalty to the Warlord. Otherwise, the rat would have been just a pile of scrap to Vartun.
Eventide loomed in the skies by the time the horde set up camp. Fires dotted the area, surrounded by Vartun the Slicer's followers. Foragers were sent out, weapons were set aside or polished, and the vermin residing warmed their paws and cooked what little rations they had left, often fighting with one another. To Vartun, it was all normal.
As the foragers returned with meager findings, they were set upon, attacked and maimed as others tried to get to the food.
"Captain Heflo, break it up, will ye?"
The rat had only just sat down next to the Warlord. His face twisted slightly as he hauled himself up again, then he saluted weakly with his spear and dogtrotting toward the melee. "Oi, break it up, do y'hear me? Orders from Vartun!"
Vartun watched with no curiosity as Heflo brandished his spear and threatened to kill anybeast who did not obey. After a moment, his interest in the subject totally diminished, and the weasel lay down, his paws cradling his head. His eyes slowly closed, and he concentrated on the crackling of the fire, coupled with the background noise of fighting vermin, and the shouting Captain Heflo.
By the time he ventured a peek at the arguers, Heflo had gotten most of them in check. The rat was now snarling and poking the remaining whiners with his spearbutt. Hefting himself up, Vartun swaggered toward them, holding a dagger at the ready.
A young stoat was just starting to complain when the Warlord stopped right behind him. "But, Captain Heflo, I caught this 'ere woodpidden fer me mum and me, y'can't take it away."
"I've never met one in my horde who looked after 'is mum. Go on, then, why don't yer try an' take it back fer her, eh?"
The stoat went rigid with fear, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing erect. He turned slowly and gulped at the sight of Vartun. The weasel was carelessly flicking his blade in the air and catching it deftly by its handle, repeating the process again and again as he awaited the young vermin's answer. The whole time, Vartun's eyes were trained on his task.
"Uh, um, er, n-no thanks, Vartun, y'can 'ave it if'n ye wants," the stoat stammered, taking a step back to further the distance between Warlord and hordebeast.
Vartun tossed the dagger in the air once more, caught it, then laid his ruthless gaze upon the stoat. With a swift horizontal slice, the Warlord chopped off the whiskers from the stoat's right side and laughed. "Oh no, I insist, yew have it," he replied, signaling the woodpidgeon with his free paw. "'Tis nice to see somebeast carin' fer their mum." Vartun smiled his wolfish, toothy smile.
"Ah, er, we're fine, Vartun sir," the stoat squeaked, eyes wide with fear. "I was just goin' ta go on a diet, h'anyways."
Vartun's raucous laughter boomed across the beach. "Yew, a diet? Try figgerin' this out, mate: if'n yore already skinny as a twig, 'ow d'yer go on a diet?"
The stoat bit his lip and waited for inspiration to come to him. When it did not, he said the first thing that came to mind. "I dunno sir, don't eat as much?"
Vartun guffawed. "Aye, yore right there, stoat," he laughed. "What's yer name, eh?"
"Porran, sir," the stoat answered, shrinking under the Warlord's gaze.
"Well, Porran" – Vartun sneered his name – "Ye'll jist 'ave to go back to where ye foraged the food and git some more for ye an' yore pore ol' mum, eh?" He took a long stride forward, closing the distance between the two of them in one shot. The weasel's daggerpoint tickled Porran's chin. "Ain't that right, Heflo?"
Captain Heflo nodded furiously. "Aye, Vartun sir!"
Lightening-quick, Vartun sheathed his dagger, back into the belt that was slung over his shoulder. "Now git, Porran!" he snarled, and turned towards his fire. When the sound of pawsteps receded into the distance, the Warlord cocked his head back to Heflo. "I want that woodpidgeon fer food, d'ye hear? Make it snappish, now." With a sweep of his tail, he sauntered off to sit by his fire once again.
When Vartun was out of earshot, the rat Captain sniffed. "But I wanted the woodpidgeon. Ah well, he is the Warlord." Heflo shrugged, then snatched the plump bird to prepare it for roasting.