Tales of Iffrit

Of the Struggle With Grueson Flickblade, Noguos Defector

(Part I)

In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's Redwall Novels

The bodies of a family of six foxes floated in lazy circles in a pooling area of Northstream where the current eddied. Wiping the blade of his rapier on a tussock of reedgrass, the old shrew with the hard, black eyes admired his work, sheathing an additional weapon, a main gauche dagger. A mother, a father, two young maids ages four and six seasons, and a helpless old grandfather were the victims of the ruthless killing. The only weapon the foxes had been able to get to, found on the person of the mother vixen, was a pruning knife that was being used to core a basket of freshly gathered apples. After putting away his own rapier the perpetrator of the insidious crime smirked and gingerly plucked up the knife from the pebble beach. With a flick of his wrist the blade spun through the air and landed with a sickening sssthlunk! in the back of the old dogfox's carcass.

Then the shrew went to watch the sun rise in shades of maroon, vivid pink and rich tangerine orange over the hills, scrub forest, woodland groves, and a chain of very distant mountains topped with a permanent glaze of ice and snow. They were called the Highlands by most creatures in this northern latitude, though as the craggy-featured, middle-aged shrew recalled many from the Mossflower region to the south and east called them the "North Mountains". Grueson Flickblade snorted; stupid southern bumpkins! Never went far enough outside their own borders to know that two more large mountain ranges existed even farther north of these Highlands. They were too gutless to brave even the immediate north-this northwestern country, for example. But there were plenty of reasons not to trespass here. An army of eight hundred reasons-the patrolling militia of the Wuulvite Kingdom. Not to mention those vermin scum who weren't part of it, the families of the soldiers who farmed and foraged and hunted on this land. Like the family of foxes he'd just dealt with.

When Jerro and his search party found the Log-a-Log's uncle the old fat shrew was waiting for them. Nonchalantly leaning against the scaly trunk of a big, old sycamore, Grueson gnawed one of the apples and watched their approach with spiteful, challenging eyes.

Log-a-Log Jerro scanned the water's edge and noticed the floating corpses becoming stuck in reeds and cattails, low-hanging alder branches and other aquatic vegetation. The young Noguos leader felt his gorge rise at the sight of the wanton slaying-there was no possible way that the family of six unarmed vermin could ever have posed a threat to the shrews of the Northstream Guirella Union of Shrews. Again came the wave of disgust and despair that Jerro often felt when confronted with the brutality of his uncle's deeds. He had tried more than once to rein in the reckless and ambitious old shrew, but he couldn't bring himself to enact a proper discipline upon a fellow goodbeast. Grueson was family,after all. And even if the slayings were totally unjustifiable with the information he had it wasn't as if his uncle was slaughtering peaceful tribes of mice and moles. The victims were vermin-foxes too. It was a reasonable theory, or perhaps an excuse, to any shrew of his tribe that the deadbeasts could've been a covert group of slavers, or even the healers and seers to an awful horde or Juska band. Or maybe they were thieves who burglarized the homes of squirrels and hedgehogs? It was impossible to tell now.

But Jerro couldn't shake the nag of conscience eating at his morality. There was always that agonizing possibility that the vermin victims of Flickblade's massacres had been honest creatures.

Log-a-Log Jerro padded up to the sycamore, followed by the search party of seven other shrews. Steeling himself for the inevitable verbal battle about to unfold, the tough-looking shrew leader clasped his paws behind his back and stopped a few paces short of where Grueson stood.

"If it isn't my dearest nephew," Flickblade sneered, his paw resting on the hilt of his rapier, "Whaddya want now?"

"I'd like it if you'd explain yourself, Grueson, before it gets too late for you," Jerro responded, trying to sound hard-lined and strong, but struggled to keep his voice on an even keel.

"Explain m'self?" the older shrew chuckled as if the suggestion was ludicrous, "What's t' explain? We're stream shrews, little one--waterwarriors. 'S what we were born t' do, dispatch vermin." At this Jerro opened his mouth to interject, but, chortling nastily, Grueson overtalked him, "Looks t' me like you're some kinda advocate for the scum. Well, are ye a vermint-lover? Don't sound too good for yore reputation as Log-a-Log t' be more concerned with these worthless creatures than with fellow shrews-"

Jerro's temper was unleashed. Quivering with rage, the young Log-a-Log jerked his rapier out of its sheath and held it forward, pointing it at his uncle's throat.

"Think about what you're doing, Grueson. You put my honor on th' line and I'll salvage it with steel," Jerro warned fiercely, "And let nobeast say I put th' welfare of others over my crew-but what you're doing is hazardous to the Noguos! The Wuulvite Kingdom is a stronghold for vermin in these lands. Don't mess with 'em; they're a force t' be reckoned with. Even without you, idiot, to stir the coals!"

Insolently, the overweight shrew waved a hefty paw as he turned and waddled off towards the shrew camp in the scrub hills, as if his nephew the Log-a-Log wasn't worth his time.

"Yak, yak, yak! What a breeze ye stir up, stream-lawyer," Flickblade snorted out his parting insult. Jerro bared his many small, sharp teeth and barred his uncle's way, pricking with his rapier point menacingly.

"Better a stream-lawyer than a war-monger," the Log-a-Log said bluntly, "I won't take any more of your nonsense--there's no use in starting up a war that'll only endanger our shrews' young 'uns!"

Blinking in stunned silence, Flickblade's face radiated contempt as he shoved the blade aside.

"Fine then, milksop-too spineless t' lead two hundred warriors into battle with squattin' vermin scum in yore own backyard, enh..." the fat old shrew stamped a new path up the low broad hill toward scrub woodland and glades of fruit trees, all the way grumbling profanity and curses upon his nephew. Three of Jerro's party readied bows and slings to go after and capture the offending challenger, but a barking order from the Log-a-Log stopped them.

"Let 'im go. He's stubborn, and insubordinate, and immoral, but he's blood kin t' me, and I won't see him harmed." Jerro blinked against a tear of frustration, "Anyways, he's harmless by 'imself. The Noguos will follow me, not that foolish murderer..."

Heading off on a different path toward the Noguos camp, Jerro and his seven loyal trackers made their way back to their creatures and to a day's business running a shrew union.

Thirty leagues from the brackish estuary where the Noguos had made camp was the Wuulvite village of Norwood. Above the winding upper lengths of the stone-littered Northstream the string of stone and timber cottages, the spotty wildflower meadows, the vegetable fields, and the surrounding forested lands rich in haw and blackthorn, elm, pine, oak, maple, alder, and even chestnut trees the same sun rose in the same painted canvas of splendor. The Norwood creatures were awake and breakfasting on the products of their fields and the efforts of their hunts. Rats, weasels, stoats, ferrets and foxes got their fill of spiced barleymeal, toasted apples and almonds, fresh farls of wheatbread and leftover roasted ptarmigan and water millet hotpots. The larks were rising, blackbirds and goldfinch were already in song, and all manner of streamflies and other insects were taking to the air in lazy flight. It was well into the new Spring season, and the sowing was over. Some early harvests had been begun only just yesterday, and every capable beast was called upon to aid in bringing in ripe produce.

Iffrit, son of Norwood Chieftain and Wuulvite Captain Raegnor Warscythe, had grown quite a bit since the late winter day when he and the village youths had driven out the small Noguos band, some four seasons back. The shortsword forged by his mother and co-Chieftan, Vautanna Snakeroot, seemed a bit too small for his dark chocolate-hued paw now. He wore a stylish but slightly worn barkfiber frock coat of a deep, dark blue color, the buttons of a well-polished brass. He had it open in spite of the chill in the morning air. The hazel eyes of the young weasel were focused on his task: Iffrit stood in a field of spring greens-chard, dandelion, yellow mustard, and kale. A satchel was slung over his sinewy shoulder, already half-filled with the salady materials. With a pair of small paw-shears Iffrit snipped every other succulent leaf, listening with humored satisfaction to a song being sung by another Norwooder--an older stoat named Grisk Rodtail. It was an old Wuulvite tradition that every trained fighting beast have a similar song-the Foesong. Practiced and crafted at home with devotion and pride, sung to one-on-one challengers before any fierce death duel with an enemy, for honor and country. Grisk's may not have been the most serious, but it was certainly foreboding enough. It went like this:

"'Tis a warning all you rovers, thieves, marauders, too,

that this song ye hear is about t' spell out for you.

There's a fever going 'round; they call it Grisk Rodtail-

known t' make corsairs and scurvy slavers pale.

"It'll get you by the kidneys an' give ye such a shock,

that ye can't destroy with fear or fight off with a rock,

when this destroyer's done you'll be shakin' an' alone.

My foebeast's darkest nightmare-I zero at th' bone!

"If this song is not enough for ye I'll make it pretty plain;

Grisk's a master of yore death an' a typhoon of th' main.

Stand before this fever, if ye dare, look in the eyes of might-

There's an oaken rod now at my back--'S all I need t' fight!"

"How long'd it take t' come up with that, eh?" the young weasel chucked, nodding admiringly. Grisk flashed a snaggle-toothed grin and continued snipping mustard greens.

"Nigh on ten seasons, young 'un, 'S I remember. Nah, wait, more like twelve. Hard time I 'ave with it-I ain't much've a versin' creature," the stoat began proud, but ended modest. The Wuulvite Norwooder gave Iffrit a quizzical look, "'Ave you started on one yet, eh mate?"

The dark-furred weasel guffawed loudly.

"Wouldn't know what t' say. I'm only sixteen seasons this spring an' never been in a real scrap," Iffrit frowned, "You'll tell me more about that raid an' seabattle ye were goin' on about yesterday, will ye?"

"Caw, Iffrit, boy-I thought I'd satisfied yer yesterday!" Grisk threw up his paws, but before Iffrit became too disappointed he winked and continued, "Don't mean I ain't gonner humor ya. Very good, 'ere 'tis:

"Now 'fyou'll remember, me troop o' Wuulvite shoreguards led by m'self were rangin' the coast south o' the Northstream outlet, 'longside Swampdark lands where that tribe o' big fine natterjack toads live. We got some contact with their scouts, y' see, 'bout a Corsair sloop moored 'round a rockpoint 'alf a day's march from there. Toads ain't so good on salty waters, y'know. We told 'em we'd deal with that rot-er, lot.

"Anyways, we tracked a fair belt o' seaboot tracks down form th' 'igh dunes t' th' sea, an' an 'ole crew o' th' cutthroats were waitin' fer us, cutlass an' spear-tooth an' nail!"

"Aye, I heard that bit," Iffrit grinned affably. Grisk took a swig from a brass flask at his waist by a cord during the break.

"You ain't 'eard this, though-th' Cap'n o' this nasty bunch o' wet dogrags was non other'n' th' big bilgerat Skurr Tyrinas."

"Skurr... nasty name, 'Skurr'. Sounds like 'spur'. Or 'scar'." Iffrit curled his lip disdainfully. Grisk laughed aloud.

"Hawhaw! Nasty but fittin'--nasty bunch, nasty searat! Er, where was I, then? Oh, yeh! Skurr Tyrinas--biggest searat you'll e'er see in yore life, 'ad 'is dreaded 'ookwhip weapon with 'im, not to mention more'n enough steel blades on 'is person t' sink a cork raft!"

"Hookwhip?" Iffrit blinked quizzically, snipping kale, "What th' devil is a hookwhip? A weaponized fishin' pole?"

Again Rodtail hooted loudly with laughter.

"Nay, nay, young feller. 'Tis more of a demented type o' ball-an'-chain," he explained, taking an experimental nibble on some red chard. He pulled a face, "Whoo--these greens're a lot nicer in a soup... or in a lovely salad with shredded yellowleaf cheese an' some snow peas..."

"Tastes fine t' me. It ain't meant t' be roast duck, y'know," the weasel laughed softly after testing some mustard greens for himself. The affable stoat looked up in wonderment, then beamed broadly at his younger partner.

"Ah, well said. Wise 'ead y' got there on yore strappin' shoulders. That's goin' in me brain's mem'ry o' quotes--youngbeasts sayin' bright things." the old Wuulvite complimented, then went back to his harvesting in quiet. frowning slightly, the young weasel gave him a light nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

"Er, ach, what?" the stoat started. The youngbeast gave him a sorrowful, pleading look, and after a moment of confusion Grisk's face lit up, "Oh! Right, sorry young 'un, forgot completely what I was doin'. Right-o then, back to me tale.

"So there Skurr was, backed by nigh on four score wave robbers an' cutthroats. They came at us from be'ind th' rocks on either side o' us. Now, as ye know, m'boy, a Wuulvite Patrol Comp'ny's only got about for'y beasts that make it up. Ten archers, ten spears 'n' pikes, an' twenny miscellaneous infan'ry. Most of me mates 'ad slings on 'em at least, an' everybeast 'ad at least a sword or long dagger t' fight with, but yore ole mate Rodtail 'ad a liddle secret weapon, if y'd like t' call it that. That's the battle that I get me Foesong from!"

"Wait, wait, don't tell me," Iffrit smiled, shaking his head in disbelief, "The valiant Norwooder Grisk Rodtail, beset by insurmountable odds, defeated th' dread crew of Skurr Tyrinas the Sea Raider by thrashin' 'em t' pulp with 'is tail?"

"'Ey, now, don't get cheeky with me, young weasel. It wasn't all me an' I never claimed it," Grisk sniffed, "Th' rest o' th' Company helped."

The two both found the humor in the statement and succumbed to gales of hearty, healthy laughter. As they paused to get their wind back a lone figure breasted the hill above the vegetable patch. It was the mother of Iffrit.

"Son, can you come home for a moment?" she called down to them.

"G'on on then, young feller. 'Tis an edict of Lady Snakeroot; the greens can wait." Grisk chuckled. The weasel turned and frowned as he headed up the slope.

"Shh. She hates bein' called that!"

The stoat's chuckles still echoing behind him, the young weasel made his way to the top of the hill and his mother's side. He could not help but recall the awe his mother always inspired in him. Though not officially a Wuulvite warrior, Vautanna Snakeroot could every inch pass as a soldieress. She was taller than most of the male weasels and stoats he'd seen, and every bit as powerfully built as her mate Raegnor. Her steely sinews were concealed under half-breeches and gown, but her sure step and graceful movements whispered the truth to every watchful observer. Her eyes were golden and intense at times, but now was not one of those times. They were warm and faded to mellow brass.

"What's th' trouble, mother?" Iffrit questioned the weasel chieftainess as they padded along softly between garden patches and well-tended fruit trees. The golden-eyed weasel nodded slowly and stifled a chuckle.

"Well, your father has something to ask of you, but I think it's better you hear it of him..." she evaded the prying nimbly. Iffrit jutted out his lip and squinted suspiciously.

"Why's that?! I ain't a babe no more-I can handle th' truth!" he attempted to coerce, waving paws energetically. This time Vautanna did chuckle.

"Too bad, young pup. We're here," she teased. Before them was the great house of the Cheiftan's family: Constructed of blocks of dun sandstone and framed with polished yew scaffolding, it was a fine, well-layed out abode. There were two stories, a slate-shingled roof, white cheerfully painted shutters on square glass windows, a cellar door poking out the left side of a shady wooden porch strewn with carven willow chairs. Growing on either side of the house were two ancient holly trees to ward lightning away from the tin weather vane and twin chimneys. Lady Snakeroot put a paw on the doorlatch and gently pushed the heavy oak door open for her son.

"Go on in; he's waiting on you," she whispered. Iffrit couldn't help but be nervous; his paws became sweaty suddenly. Stepping inside, the young weasel followed by his mother bypassed the small entry hall and rounded the corner to the den, where he was startled by the sight of many im[ortant-looking creatures waiting there for him.

Aside from his father, three of the ten famous Wuulvite Captains looked up sagely towards the dark-colored weasel youth. The youngbeast's heart pounded with excitement at the sight of the three noble-looking warriors he'd heard such wonderous tales about. Nearest him was the famed Archer Captain Scruvo Whitemane-a lean, fairly tall albino brown rat, his long headfur held in a horsemane-like arrangement by eight silver clips. Nearby his recurve bow and quiver of white-flighted arrows lay on a wooden bench, and at his side was his trusty halfsword, called a seax. He peered cryptically with his pale pink eyes over a beaker of elderberry cordial he was sipping on. Seated at the square study table was the Training Captain, a smaller and normally colored brown rat with the name Dunnage Loampad. his dark eyes studied the youngbeast astutely, twitching graying whiskers. There was no great weapon hanging from his belt, but a sheathed arming sword lay nearby on the table. And the third stood by the side of Raegnor, the only one of the Wuulvite officers present who was taller and more intimidating than the young weasel's father-the awesome Tactical Captain Forgo Wolftooth: A large gray vixen with wild, pale blue eyes like a wolf's. Her upper fangs protruded slightly from her jaw, and she was a mottled white, silver, tan and black with a dark rusty-brown tailtip. Her armament consisted of a long, heavy backsword of the falchion variety, and it was at her side. She still wore the green cloak of Captaincy about her shoulders, but the others had taken theirs off and hung them on the coatrack near the entryway. Iffrit stood by a smiling Vautanna, frozen with awe. Raegnor crooked a claw at him to join the conversation.

"Hallo, son. We were just talkin' about you," he grinned. Iffrit cam back to reality swiftly and padded in, seating himself reverently a respectful distance from Captain Dunnage. The rat smiled at him.

"Don't fret--it's all good things." he said, his voice crackly and thin, "We'd like to ask ye about yer thoughts on becomin' a Wuulvite militiabeast in a coupla seasons."

"Y' mean... I could?" Iffrit gasped, looking to Raegnor. His father crossed his arms and nodded slowly.

"You ain't a babe anymore. If that's what ye really aim t' be then it's no judgement of min t' make," the weasel Cheiftan explained, his voice low as if he were taking a blood oath. The albino rat Captain held up a snowy paw.

"Think about what this will mean, Master Iffrit. To pledge oneself to the defense of this land is no feat of a petty beast," he warned in a silky melodious voice that carried no trace of accent, "I can see that this is an aspiration of yours, but I would think on it some more."

Iffrit heeded the wise words of the white rat. Immediately questions came popping up in his mind. He voiced them immediately.

"When would this be? Do I go to training first? And I'm not th' only one, right?"

Captain Forgo stood rigidly and answered him in a husky, authoritative bark.

"Recruitment age is seventeen seasons minimum, and you get a minimum of one moon of combat training," She stared at Iffrit unwaveringly, "You're among fourteen other Norwood youngbeaststhat we would like to recruit in two seasons from today, after the Great Harvest." The vixen shifted her weight,"Is that satisfactory?"

Iffrit laced his paws together, his eyes wandering to the centerpiece of a craved cherrywood stag set on the table. After a pause he looked back up at his elders and betters.

"Who else're you tryin' t' recruit?" he asked. Captain Dunnage looked uneasy, as if he did not wish the answer to influence the young weasel. But the wolf-like Forgo rapped out several names in smart military fashion regardless:

"Several are friends of yours; Loach the ferret, Bramm the fox, Shaggfur the weasel, Violet the stoat, Doulthe the rat, Furcrest the stoat... among others." To the four Captains' surprise, Iffrit smirked almost joyfully at this and laughed.

"Ahahah! Well, there's no need t' twiddle paws then. If that lot said they're up for it then I am too!" he stated confidently. Vautanna placed a paw on her son's shoulder and smiled calmly, dispelling the worries of the grownbeasts as well as herself.

"There you have it, your Lordships, another eager champion of Norwood to join the great Wuulvite Militia." she said proudly, "What say you?"

"I say his heart is certainly in it," Whitemane nodded, standing and setting down his empty beaker, "And that is something we will honor."

"Yes, I s'ppose..." Dunnage grunted, retrieving his arming sword from the table and clipping it back on his belt, "So, now, I believe that's th' last of 'em. We'll return t' Fortress Wuulvite an' arrange t' begin th' trainin' this autumn. Thank ye kindly," he bowed briefly to Raegnor and his mate, "for th' 'ospitality. Y' run Norwood admirably."

"You're most welcome, friends," the large weasel responded politely. Vautanna helped the older rat Captain into his Captain's cloak.

"Are you sure you won't be needing anything for the return trip?" she expressed her concerns to Scruvo. The albino smiled and reassured her as he slung his bow and quiver over his back.

"Your concern is appreciated, my good lady, but we will manage," he indicated the powerful vixen following him out, "Forgo here can live off the land for many seasons, so we will be fine for a four-day march through friendly territory."

The two rats padded out, but Forgo lingered for a moment longer. Her eerie eyes flicked to Iffrit.

"Congratulations, fiery one," she said gruffly, then, looking to Vautanna, said, "Never forget how to make such fine oatmeal bannocks." And with that the gray vixen was gone. Iffrit rose, nose twitching in puzzlement.

"What a weird way t' say 'good-bye',"he snorted, "What an odd creature she is!"

"Officer material stands out, they say," Raegnor muttered pensively. Iffrit, fired with excitement at his acceptance into the Wuulvite ranks, grabbed his sling from where it lay on a wall-shelf. Vautanna watched him curiously as he scampered to the door.

"Now where're you boundin' off to with that?" she asked smilingly, knowing the answer but asking anyhow. The young weasel whirled in the doorway, paws on the jamb.

"I'm gonna go an' practice a bit with my mates, of course!" he whooped. Raegnor waved him on, shaking his head with a smile.

"Of course. Go on, son."

As the spirited youngbeast frolicked and bounded off, Vautanna and Raegnor stood side by side, watching their only son gallivanting through the mainway of Norwood, darting around gardens, trotting between cottages and workshops, ducking in and out of groves of shade and fruit trees towards the floodwall by the river edge of the village. The golden-eyed Chieftainess sighed and gazed over at the hazel-eyed Chieftain.

"Oh, me. Did we make the right choice, Raegnor?" she whispered softly. The large weasel took her paw as it was offered and smiled reassuringly.

"'Tis what he's wanted to do since he was a little bairn." he gave her paw a light squeeze, "Who knows, maybe he'll make Captain... or meet some lively maid that takes 'is fancy on some lonely patrol."

Vautanna squealed with laughter, leaning of Raegnor to remain standing.

"Oh, you old flirt!" she flailed a paw weakly at his chest, "That's just what you'd like, eh, for your darlin' son to end up just like you!"

"Not just like me," Raegnor purred, "He'll never find a second Vautanna."

"Now, you stop that, you rogue. You're worse'n those bachelor hares."

The Noguos settlement was laid in a bowl-shaped land depression, ringed with the northwest woodlands on the surrounding hills, a narrow, paw-beaten path wound through a gap in these rises to the northwest; it led to the broad estuary where the shrew union's many logboats were moored to willow and sycamore trees by hemprope hawsers. The village itself was an assortment of canvas tents, set in rings around large, well-established fire rings. Dozens and dozens of dun, pointed tents filled the vale almost from end to end, leaving room for washlines draped with wet woven blankets and an assortment of other miscellaneous gear: Grindstones, workbenches and the like.

Around a large cooking fire near the northern edge of the encampment a large gathering of shrews sat, stood, and peered over their fellows' heads, listening at length to a pair of speakers seated next to the flames. One of the two was Grueson Flickblade.

The old, overweight shrew sat side by side on chairs made of sawn-off logs, too age-worn and knobby to be made into log canoes, with another shrew, far younger and slimmer than the Log-a-Log's uncle. The other shrew, an elite warrior of the Noguos and a trusted member of the union, had an expression of pure disbelief on his weathered and lightly scarred face. A young shrew brought them both beakers of shrewbeer: Grueson grabbed his away and immediately began chugging it, while his confederate accepted his weakly and automatically. Over the hushed chatter bouncing around the gathered crowd, the experienced one finally spoke:

"Tell me again, friend Flickblade." He shook his head as if dazed, "Because I still don't quite know if'n I should believe it."

Grueson finished his draught with a loud sucking noise and wiped his foam-coated whiskers on the back of his paw.

"Aye, Venroh. it shocked me too, when I first heard of it," the grizzled old creature murmured, his face the very picture of grim sincerity, "With me own two lugs-me nephew ordered me t' stand down after I put paid to a half dozen rovin' vermin, naught but a quarter league from our own camp!" The shrew spat angrily into the fire, causing it to sizzle. "I tell ye, comrades, our loyal Cheiftan's got some kind o' deal made with these Wuulvite vermin scum! Why else would 'e object so 'ighly t' me fendin' 'em off?!"

Venroh stared into the fire silently as the scores of gathered Noguos shrews burst into an outraged hubbub, half highly convinced that their Log-a-Log was allied with the Wuulvite Kingdom, the other half enraged at the suggestion of a goodbeast doing such a dastardly deed. Somewhere in the back a fight broke out between two young shrews; they scrabbled and bit at each other on the churning ground until four others parted them. When the noise was reasonably lessened the veteran shrew warrior looked up.

"Enough!" Venroh roared at the still-chunnering rabble, "enough now! Grueson, I dunno if'n I'd go so far as t' say Young Jerro's in with those vermin slime, but at the very least 'e ain't fit t' be Log-a-Log. Ye said 'e was scared to go fight th' vermin at that Norwood place?"

"Aye! Th' lily-livered brat!" Grueson glowered angrily at the skies, "I heard 'im say from his own mouth that we waterwarriors oughtn't mess with 'em, an' d'ye know why?" He leaned forward, and the shrews listening did so in anticipation of the scandalous quotations, "Because 'e said we weren't strong enough!"

This caused much fury in the Noguos shrews, who stamped, roared and screamed horrible curses upon their young, good-hearted leader. Venroh, though, looked most betrayed, glaring his rage out beyond Grueson.

"I think I've heard enough," Venroh ground out the words, "There's few things as evil as lettin' a vermin horde go free t' conquer save a cowardly Log-a-Log who's only held back by fear o' th' scum."

"Aye, throw 'im down!" an angry voice called out. Others joined it.

"'E ain't fit t' lead good 'onest shrews!"

"Flickblade's next in line-make 'im Log-a-Log!"

"Aye! Then we sail an' drive out th' vermin!"

"Death t' those vermin scum an' their monster King!"

"Well, ain't that a bright idea, boys?!" a reedy, crackled voice shrilled out over the commotion, "'F'you believe that sorry tale f'r more'n a minute then I'll be ashamed t' call myself a shrew!"

The congregation turned, rendered near-silent by the shouter's brazen defiance of popular opinion. Many near the sides, their backs to the nearest tent dwelling, parted to make the visage of the dissenter plain to their leaders. An old female shrew, tangerine orange bandanna tight on her head, paw on her short shrew rapier, stepped forward. A light was burning furiously in her fierce brown eyes as she glared at her husband Grueson.

Kainna had spoken.

"Kainna?" Venroh gaped, eyebrows raised, then he turned questioningly to Grueson, "Isn't she yore wife? What does she mean?"

"I'll tell ye myself what I mean!" Kainna growled, still burning holes in her mate's face with her angered gaze, "I'll tell ye, 'f'you take all these shrew fighters up t' Norwood, or south t' Borrcreek, or anywhere in Wuulvite lands t' do battle all ye'll receive in the end is boatloads o' yore dead comrades!"

"You're jist like Jerro!" Flickblade spat as he snarled, his eyes radiating contempt for his wife, "Shut yore jaws afore I shut 'em for ye!"

"Don't you lot find it at all odd that out o' th' blue this fat loathsome slug is tryin' t' get you all t' bring down out Log-a-Log-right when he happens t' be next in line as our leader?!" Kainna continued fearlessly. Some of the shrews began to murmur in puzzlement, "Do ye really want this useless lump t' be th' one who leads ye into battle with seasoned an well-armed hordebeasts? 'E may not've told ye, but four seasons ago he tried that very thing with a smaller bunch. An' do ye know what 'appened?!"

"Kainna..!" Grueson growled warningly, his eyes shifting from hateful to crazed beyond reason, "don't ye dare!"

Venroh had gotten his nerve back. He blinked at Flickblade's wrathful display.

"Dare what?" He glanced at Kainna accusingly, "This is all hearsay. I have no reason to believe yore speculations."

"Hearsay is all I've heard said of late!" Kainna spat disgustedly, "An' this ain't no speculation--'tis truth!"

"Kainna!" the old shrew clenched his paws and began to shake.

"This blubbery toad an' all he brought with 'im were made t' run off, tails between legs, by foebeasts we couldn't even see! In fact, th' rumor is that the vermin we were fightin' were no more than some scraggy cubs!"

CRACK!

The sound of the beaker shattering as it struck Kainna's head was deafening in the confines of the crowd of shrews. The old female wobbled on her feet, feeling warm blood drip down her forehead and snout, before she crashed painfully to the ground. The shrews immediately around her gasped in shock, and the rest stared and the crumpled form in stunned silence. Eyes began turning to Grueson Flickblade, who was huffing loudly and still clenching his fists.

"Ye see?! Ye see what 'appens when you stand with a coward an' not yore own mate?!" the snarling shrew ranted, casting about for more disagreers, "Anyone else want t' stand with yellowstreaks an' vermin-lovers?!"

Forcibly removed from their shock at the assault, the shrews were only disquieted for a moment before they became fired again, shouting and chanting in agreement with the warmongering elder shrew. Venroh observed the blood seeping from a small gash in Kainna's head slow and gradually cease; it was not a great deal of blood, so Grueson was not a murderer... yet. The veteran stood and nodded towards the fallen female.

"That one's arguement's as brittle as 'er head. I agree with Flickblade! There's no place for avoiding wicked creatures as stream shrews-th' time is now!"

Apparently not all the Noguos crowd had been suffused with battlelust. The grayed fat shrew snatched the collar of one's shirt as he attempted to shuffle off, dragging him in front of the two leaders and holding him there struggling.

"Where're ye goin'?! Off t' warn Jerro an' get us imprisoned by our own fellow shrews f'r doin' what we're meant t' do?!" he snarled, eagerly encouraging his mob entourage into a frenzy. He knew that in such a fervor they'd accept anything he said as long as it sounded like it was for the greater good. it was an old trick that he relied on heavily and used well. Cowardice was the best bait for this, but vermin hatred came in at a close second. Inside the old shrew smiled; thank the fortunes that this campaign could involve both.

"Bind 'im an' toss 'im in that tent!" Venroh ordered over the jeering and howling rabble, "Put Kainna in there too. She can't be trusted not t' turn us over t' th' coward Jerro!"

Several shrews obeyed, with one wrapping an extra bandanna around the female's head before tying them about the middle with strong hempen ropes, pinning their arms and legs, and hustling them into a nearby tent dwelling. When they exited they knotted the flap closed on the outside, so that they could not escape.

Venroh drew his rapier and held it point up in front of his face as he turned back to the cunning usurper. He licked it's sharp edge lightly and gave a grim smile.

"We're with ye, Log-a-Log Flickblade... I swear on this blade that th' Noguos'll never be ruled by turnfurs or cowards agin," the veteran fighter declared seriously, as union shrews will when taking up oaths of this nature, "We are yores t' command!"