Tales of Iffrit
Of the Struggle With Grueson Flickblade, Noguos Defector
(Part II)
In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's Redwall Novels
"Ah-ah. You're off yore game today, sister."
The sleek, tall stoatmaid that had made the comment swept her long, bead-woven headfur braid out of her face and slipped fluidly into a shooting stance, sweeping an arrow almost nonchalantly from its quiver and nocking it with no effort or pause. A second later the shaft flew true-straight into the tightly bound straw bundles which served as targets. Violet fumed slightly and readied her own arrow, convinced that she could never look quite so graceful and strong as Saulk, her older sister.
Truth be told, there was little difference between them. There was only a minute shaking in the younger stoatess's paws as she drew back, sighted down the missile's length, and fired with one hundred percent accuracy, striking the target in such a way that the two arrows were touching with no room to spare. Saulk smiled fondly at her younger equal. The two were some of the finest archers in Norwood, aside from their coach the expert hunter Phloxruss. The hefty fox did not even bother to supervise the youngbeasts anymore, knowing them to be adept and responsible creatures.
"Oi! Nice shot!", a brown rat youth named Doulthe called out to Violet, who blushed with happiness at the praise. Her sister was too tough to show much affection. She was only in her home village now because she was on leave from her duty; Saulk was a Wuulvite Militiabeast, part of the Missile Unit, of course. It would be autumn before she would have to return to deployment again. And by that time Violet would have joined her as a fellow warrioress.
"Oof, that's enough for t'day," the pretty stoatmaid winced, indicating that her paws were sore from gripping the waxed bowstring for so long, "Does anyone else want a go?"
"Try it with yore sling, Doulthe," the stoat Furcrest urged his friend. Doulthe shook his head and held his paws up for mercy.
"Nononononono! I can't use a sling right t' save me life. You try it," he backed down sheepishly. Furcrest, whose fur was slightly spiky on the very crown of his head so that it stuck up in a little ridge, accepted the challenge, taking the rat's sling and stepping up to the chalk line beasts were meant to stand behind.
"Okie-dokie, one slingstone to one arrow," the stoat grinned, looking rather foolish for his audience's benefit. A female weasel named Prishan, younger than the other by a few seasons, began heckling the slingbeast teasingly.
"You couldn't hit a field if ye were standin' in it, Furcrest!"
Saulk chuckled almost silently, smirking. She was almost sad that nobeast had placed bets on who would hit their target most accurately (of course none would bet on Furcrest).
"My tailring says he won't even get halfway down th' range," a black rat snickered to a ferret. The ferret clasped paws with the rodent, signaling that the bet was on.
"Your tailring t' my silver chain ye been eyein' all season."
"I challenge the loser!" Loach cried out, swinging his own empty sling above his head. It was clear that the mood in the Wuulvite village was exuberant and all the creatures joyous. Iffrit, who was standing at the back of the small gathering around the shooting range, clapped his ferret friend on the back.
"That's not fair, mate. Furcrest's already outmatched. You should challenge Sleetpad an' I instead!" the weasel suggested. Loach eyed him warily.
"I dunno. You're getting to be quite a lump of a weasel," the cinnamon-furred ferret crossed his paws and tapped a footpaw, "I'd wager you could shoot a stone the size of a frog's head with all that brawn. No way I'd challenge that!"
"Maybe we should just have a contest among everybeast," Iffrit peered around, searching the bunch of rats, weasels, stoats and ferrets for some missing faces, "Where's Bramm an' Shaggfur?"
"Spear-fishing, I believe," the ferret answered, slipping his long dagger in and out of it's decorative woven leather sheath, catching it in the air and experimenting with twirling it, "Aye, the old vixen Rhinex Truthful sent them, along with some pups and two rats, Troggol and Tinga. They're supposed to get some grayling and freshwater mussels for the feast this afternoon."
"Feast? I ain't heard of a feast," Iffrit was surprised by the news. Loach clucked disapprovingly and smiled wanly at the weasel.
"Don't you remember last spring's feast? That was when Saulk and Pewterfur and Ento Smallfang and Wormal were inducted. Remember that?"
"Oh, oh right," Iffrit suddenly recalled, smoothing his headfur with one paw, "Cor, that was great. They 'ad a great roast snow goose an' celery an' onion rolls an' beautiful marchpane wafer cake. We're havin' another just like that?"
"I hope so," a nearby fox called Maltfur muttered dreamily, wiping a bit of drool from his snout.
"No goose this time," Loach frowned, "That was a lucky break in itself that Phloxruss got a snow goose the first time. Those things're fierce."
"They're not so fierce when they're turning over a fire," Iffrit snorted, stretching his paws and acting confidant, "I'm gonna go find Bramm an' see what's for supper."
The going upriver was tougher than Grueson had expected. His shrews, about ninety total, were having to strain at the oars at a rapid pace to keep up with the swift current of the Northstream, even though they were cramped three to each paddling station. The dozen large logboats crept up the small river slowly but surely, with the hard-eyed usurper at the prow of the lead boat, scanning the shores for signs of movement.
When a whitish shape stepped out from the elms and willows lining the bank and stood boldly in the open Grueson had to look twice to determine exactly what it was. Raising a craggy paw he shouted the order to stop.
"Put in! Beast on th' shore!"
The shrews were glad to obey, relishing the chance to relieve their aching muscles. The log canoes made a sharp change of heading and gently nosed into the currentless shallows, not too far put also hard enough--displaying all the skills of a streambeast.
Grueson still wasn't entirely sure what manner of beast it was that was standing before him on the mossy sward of the bank. It was clearly a rodent of some kind, but whatever type it was was not one that the old shrew had seen before. It was too small to be a rat or squirrel, too big to be a dormouse. It had a blunt, dark gray snout, but it's body was a silvery-white speckled with dabs of dun and slate. It had a short bristly tail like a vole's. It's whiskers appeared to have been singed down to stubs, and it's garb was heavy leather armor studded with pieces of clamshell as extra protection. A sword with much greater heft than a shrew rapier hung at the beast's waist from a gemstone-studded belt. Its eyes were fierce and light blue in color.
"Who're you?" Grueson demanded, breaking the frosty silence that had lingered since they had first spotted the creature. The white beast stared down its nose harshly at the logboats, but said nothing, "Nevermind then--What are ye, strangebeast? Talk!"
The creature thumped its tail twice on the ground, and instantly the woodland fringes were alive with more of the white-furred animals. All were armored in a similar fashion to the first, and armed with some variety of axes, cudgels, swords, spears, and short bows. Flickblade put a cautionary paw on his rapier hilt. The creatures looked war-like even though they were clearly not of a vermin species.
"You are warriors?" The beast finally spoke, it's voice deep and rasping. Grueson removed the paw from his weapon and instead thrust it out.
"Indeed we are. I'm Log-a-Log Grueson Flickblade, Cheiftan of th' Noguos shrews," he introduced himself, "An' who would ye be? What manner of beast are ye?"
"I am Froll Skyslayer, Cheiftan of the Icevole clans," the creature stated simply. He waved a paw over the some twoscore beasts backing him, "We are icevole, but others have called us lemming. We come from far north in the frozen lands, seeking better resources." The icevole eyed the logboats and their well-armed crew once again, so intensely that many of the shrews were forced to look away, "I see that you seek battle. With whom do you quarrel?"
"Th' vermin o' Norwood, Wuulvites!" Grueson barked, admiring the bulk of the many heavily-armored lemming Froll had at his disposal, "You know of 'em?"
"Many moons ago, our journeys were thwarted by the Wuulvite beasts," Skyslayer growled savagely, "We would crush them for their stubborn defiance!"
There was a chorus of snarls and hisses from the icevole mob. Grueson smiled slyly as he waited for the cacophony to die down.
"Aye, we Noguos were jist on th' way t' crushin' those scum," He turned to his followers with a daring grin, "Weren't we, mates?!"
The shrews, too, shouted out loud in agreement with their leader, though not quite as coarsely or fiercely as the lemming pack. Froll Skyslayer also smiled, exposing huge yellowed rodent incisors in a ferocious way.
"I think we shall enjoy working together, Log-a-Log Flickblade."
Acda was sure that something was wrong. She had not seen many of the union's shrews in over two hours, and that repulsive Grueson Flickblade was not to be seen either. That was strange indeed, especially since the Log-a-Log's uncle had just been in a fight with the shrew leader this morning. The Log-a-Log's pretty young wife paused to straighten a row of small shrew shoulderbows on their racks. Twelve bows appeared to be missing, which wasn't too unusual. But things were starting to come together in a way that made the female shrew extremely uneasy.
Two shrewbabes were playing in the dirt in her path, and she hustled over to stop them before they succeded in eating the piles of powdery soil. Bundling them roughly but carefully under her arms, she marched them off towards the nearest circle of tents.
"Stop yore squirmin' this instant! What were you doin', eating dirt pies? D'you want t' get chalky muzzle?!" she scolded the whining babes, "Where are yore parents?! You go t' them this instant!"
"Mumma lef'," the younger of the two little shrews wailed. Acda quickly put them both down and knelt to their level, holding the crying babes by the shoulders.
"What d'you mean, 'mumma left'? Did she go to tend the fields, or catch watershrimps?"
"Nuh-uh..."the babe snuffled, wiping his running nose on his sleeve, "Mumma go wit' big gwoup. Daddy go too."
Acda was aghast. This sort of thing had never happened before--Noguos parents leaving their little ones unattended for hours. Who could have done such a thing was unthinkable, for Acda could not see how any of her fellow shrews could be so irresponsible.
"Shush, now, come with me, you can stay with me 'til they return," the pretty shrew-wife spoke soothingly, clasping the babes' tiny paws as she led them to the Log-a-Log's tent, "You want t' see th' Log-a-Log? He'll show you two rascals a sword trick if you're good 'uns."
The shrewbabes immediately stopped crying and eagerly tottered along with Acda, behaving themselves surprisingly well. In a short while the three were at the Log-a-Log's tent, which was slightly larger than the other Noguos' tents but otherwise no different in quality. The shrew leader's wife pulled back the tent flap slightly and secured the ties so that it would sta open a little ways.
"Now you lot just scurry about as y' were-but stay in th' tent or within sight o' th' door!", Acda sternly commanded the two little ones. The babes nodded slowly and plopped down, being careful to stay in a direct line of sight of the shrew-wife or anybeast else in the tent. Acda sighed, watching the babies begin a game of stones and acorns and playing it completely outside of the established rules, as very young creatures will, before she turned and ducked into the tent's entrance.
Her mate, Jerro, was home. The shrew leader was lying on his back on a small bundle of the colorful shrew blankets, examining his rapier pensively. He continued turning the light sword around and around in his paws, as if seeking signs of it pitting or rusting, but there were none of these imperfections to be seen-the blade was immaculate. Acda sat down on a separate bundle of textiles, near Jerro.
"Something happening out there?" Jerro asked her, not taking his worried eyes off the rapier's blade. Acda shook her head in bewilderment.
"I couldn't say. It seems so strange out there." she muttered. Jerro sat upright. lowering his sword, "An' there's hardly anybeast about th' camp. I found two young 'uns unattended-said their mother and father had gone off somewhere. I dunno what t' make of it."
Jerro yawned and stretched, setting his rapier down on the blanket beside him.
"Let me speak t' Venroh an' Bankpaw. They'll find out whose young 'uns they are," the Log-a-Log said as he stood, "Then I s'ppose we'll have t' have some sort of disciplinary action. 'Tain't right t' leave your babes behind no matter th' reason."
"I haven't seen Venroh yet," Acda murmured, chewing on a claw nervously, "Bankpaw's over by th' smithy's. I don't know--d'you think something's wrong?"
Jerro sheathed his rapier and stared down at his seated wife, concerned by the very fact that she was concerned.
"D'you think something's wrong?" he asked her back. Acda waved her paw dismissively, not wanting to bother him with her nagging suspicions.
"Oh, I'm just worrying as usual. Find Bankpaw. I'm sure nothin's really wrong..."
Jerro knelt, taking his wife's chin in both paws and looking her straight in the eyes.
"Are you sure?" Acda nodded, "Because ye know you can tell me anything. If you feel fear agin, you come t' me. I am with you no matter what, Acda. Know that." The Log-a-Log rose, gently releasing her and placing a paw resolutely in his sword belt, "I'll be back once I talk t' Bankpaw."
"I'll be waiting," Acda smiled, glad her husband was there to comfort her, no matter what, like a true Noguos.
Kainna came awake suddenly, a drumbeat throbbing in her head. Her paws were sore and swollen, and somehow she could not move them. Looking down at herself she saw the tightly wound hempen rope pinioning her arms to her body, then tying her legs together. She was propped up against a barrel inside a tent that had been tied from the outside to lock her in. Another shrew lay moaning on the ground nearby, trussed in a similar fashion. Kainna let out a vicious curse.
Then she had an idea as she noticed that her attackers had left her ungagged and unmuzzled. Leaning down, she set her razor-sharp shrew teeth into the rope fibers. After a short while of sawing at it the rope parted, immediately loosening around the aching shrew and falling away. Rubbing life's blood back into her limbs, she crawled over to the other shrew, drawing her rapier and cutting him loose as well. Standing shakily, she let a grim smile cross her face.
"Fools-imagine not takin' my sword, not tyin' my snout. Idiots!" she growled out loud to herself. The newly released shrew in the tent with her cam awake, groaning and rubbing at bruises the mob had inflicted on him by tossing him in their makeshift prison.
"What 'appened? Where's th' others?" he choked, rubbing a bootmark on his throat. Kainna curled her lip to bare her teeth.
"They split, I'll bet my sword on it. Prob'ly gone to th' nearest Wuulvite place t' get themselves killed in some stupid battle!" she spat, piercing the closed tent flap with her blade, "Dirty swine of a husband! He's leadin' 'em t' their doom an' he don't care-he just wants some glory an' vermin blood on 'is sword before he pegs out for good."
The rapier made short work of the canvas flap, slicing a neat slit in it large enough for a shrew to pass easily. The other shrew staggered to his footpaws and followed Kainna outside, blubbering and wailing in hysterics.
"W-we gotta tell Log-a-Log about this! T-there's gonna be a terrible slaughter, he can stop it, can't 'e?! Some of my friends went with that lout! No, don't let 'em be killed by th' vermin-"
"Shut it!" Kainna growled, slapping the shrew lightly on the jaw to bring him to his senses, "You're warnin' nobeast by ditherin' on like that. Shut yore trap an' just follow me!"
The shrew quieted and obeyed, dashing through the Noguos camp after the old female, who was running at a surprisingly swift rate for her age. They skidded to a halt in front of the Log-a-Log's tent, narrowly avoiding colliding with a pair of shrewbabes.
"Log-a-Log Jerro!" Kainna gasped out. It was not the shrew Cheiftan but his wife Acda who came to the entrance, "Where's Jerro?! Why isn't he here?!"
"He just left to speak t' Venroh an' Bankpaw," Acda informed her, startled by the sudden appearance of the two winded shrews, "Why? What has happened?"
"Huh," the old shrew gave a humorless laugh, "Yore mate'll never find Venroh in this camp. He's defected with Grueson along with many scores of our shrews. They are traitors!"
Acda was speechless. She threatened to sink to her knees, all the previous worries she had had that day rushing back to haunt her. She had known something was wrong. Standing and shoving the two infomants aside, the Log-a-Log's wife took off through the camp, sending up a dustcloud in her wake. Alarmed, Kainna's companion made as if to go after her, but the old female stopped him.
"Let 'er be. She's goin' t' find Jerro. Our job is done f'r now..."
The river of Northstream, though it looked calm enough on the surface, had a strong flow. Bramm could feel its pull as he stood knee-deep in the brown-green waters, a light fishing spear in his hefty paw aimed at the stream's surface. A weasel stood just as deep not too far away, with a similar spear, tracking the movements of a stickleback under the surface. Farther down the stream a rat's head broke the surface, glistening black. Another followed suit a pace away, and between them the two sleek rodents hauled a wire-mesh device to shore, filled with wriggling crustacean shapes. They were the black rats Troggol and Tinga.
There was a notable difference between the races of rats: The brown rats were generally stockier, with shorter tails and some shade of brown or tan fur. The black rats were a bit lither, with longer tails and a greater ability in the water, but not quite as able as a true water rat. One such rat, though a rather small example, lounged on the shore, his vertically flattened swimming tail flicking away inquisitive midges and his naturally waxy fur shining in the late morning sun. With a grin the water rat jumped up and inspected the catch in the wire trap.
"Not bad, not bad. 'Tis a goodly amount of watershrimps," he approved, "Shows that th' river's healthy, this. Good work, Troggol, Tinga."
"Thankee, Ento Smallfang," the male, Troggol, blustered modestly, "but we ain't done yet. There's two more traps out yonder. We could use th' help of a true waterbeast."
"Ah, of course," Ento smiled, pointing out over the stream, "Where do they lie? One below the rapids, two in th' deep ruts by the bends?"
"Aye, y'know more of river yore than us," Tinga chuckled, "They're exactly as ye said."
Bramm left off watching the three rats and turned his eye to the gentle shallows behind him. A number of Norwood youths were splashing about there, some hurling gobs of bankmud at each other and giggling fiendishly. One, a pudgy weasel named Berrynose, was splattered with the goo already, and was whinging about it.
"Not fair! I'm stuck inna mud! Y' can't frow at me!" A fox cub named Reddtail grinned like a demon and ignored the weaselpup's plight, chucking another gob of the substance so that it splatted wetly on the top of Berrynose's head. "Blehh! Reddtail, I'm gonna skelp ya when I gets outta this mud! Nunna!"
At his plaintive shout a kindly brown ratess looked up from attending her own little one, who was scarcely more than an infant. She glared sternly at the youths, but particularly at Reddtail and a black rat of a similar age named Limpkin.
"That's enough you two. Help that pore beast out of that mud this instant or I'll 'ave yore parents make ye clean all the fish th' village creatures catch 'til next full moon! Am I understood?"
"Yes, marm, we understand, marm," the cubs uttered in a dejected chorus. Limpkin and Reddtail then slung each of Berrynose's paws up over their shoulder and heaved him up, pulling him free of the mud morass with a sucking pop. The rat mother beamed, returning to dipping her babe's toes in the very shallowest of the shallows, which resulted in the little beast squealing happily and cooing for more.
Bramm chuckled at the adorable sight. Something large and scaly brushed his tail, and he was instantly alert, hefting the spear.
"Shaggfur," he got his comrade's attention, "Big 'un, this. I think et's a graylin'."
"Don't move, let it check ye out," Shaggfur the weasel cautioned, making painfully slow shuffling pawsteps towards the fox, "Let me at 'em, I don't think ye can reach around that far."
"Aye, that's troo..." Bramm remained still as the weasel inchwormed closer, "Y'd better 'urry yoreself, afore it ets me tailbrush..."
Suddenly Shaggfur lunged, letting the light spear zing forward and strike the large fish. Bramm leaped clear as the huge aquatic animal thrashed powerfully for a moment before it went still, its tall, cobalt blue dorsal fin still raised in a fighting stance. The weasel's aim had been true.
"Whoo, he is a big 'un!" the mustelid grunted as he grabbed hold of the slain fish's tail, attempting to haul it out of the midwaters but not succeeding, "Gimme a hand, you hulkin' brute, will ya?" Bramm smiled triumphantly and grabbed hold of the grayling's massive bullet-shaped head, and between them they managed to drag their catch into the shallows where the babes had ceased playing, oggling the huge creature in wonderment.
"You catchered th' big 'un!" a ferretbabe cried out jubilantly, reaching paws out to touch the scaly hide eagerly. More cubs joined him, oohing and ahhing at the impressive feat and the impressive fish. Berrynose tugged on Bramm's shirt incessantly until the fox turned around.
"Is we gonna eat th' big fish?" The big fox smiled warmly.
"Aye, yunng 'un. That's th' only reason we'd take sich a bonny creature as this," he explained. Berrynose jumped about excitedly.
"I wanner keep th' teeths an' wear 'em like a neck'ace!" the weaselbabe exclaimed. Bramm laughed out loud.
"Hahaharr! Well, we kin do that too, then. Waste not."
Ento Smallfang had come over at the commotion, his eyes widened.
"Cor, blimey! How'dye manage that great monster of a fish?! Th' brute's as big as you!" he exclaimed in amazement, running a paw over the mighty signature fin of the fish. Bramm grinned broadly and toothily, looking on proudly as Shaggfur attempted to measure the water beast using his paws.
"Actu'lly, 'twas Shagg 'ere what done it," the fox corrected, causing the weasel to puff out his narrow chest, "I was only th' bait, but I guess that's 'elpin'."
Ento nodded with satisfaction, still examining the grayling, peering at its bright eyes, its vibrant crimson gill rakers, even checking the base of its tailfin for signs of leeches. Eventually he stood back and crossed his paws.
"Aye, a prime example of a fish ye got there. Not a sign o' sickness in 'im-not even a single leech bite. Good work, young 'un!" Shagg snickered at the somewhat short water rat's attitude.
"Oi, you ain't but a few seasons older'n Brammy," he pointed out, "Whats with th' 'young 'un'? Ain't we yore mates still? You 'aven't gotten a big 'ead from bein' a fightin' beast in th' militia, 'ave you, eh?"
The water rat playfully initiated a tussle, grabbing up the younger weasel in a headlock. Even though the rat was a bit smaller it was clear he had received superb training, as he soon had the tittering weasel on the ground, the musteline creature begging him to stop.
"Och! I quit! I give! Bramm, 'elp me, mate! 'E's ticklin' me somthin' awful!" the weasel squealed, while Bramm shook his head.
"Nobeast e'er got tickled t' death," the fox said dismissively with a sly wink. Ento sat on Shaggfur's chest and caught his breath.
"Whew! how'm I th' one winded if ye were gettin' all th' punishment?" he wondered aloud. Standing he clapped a paw on Bramm's hefty shoulder, "Aye, I'd better be off, got t' help those two with their traps. We might need a few more fish yet, lots a hungry mouths tend t' show up at feasttimes."
"Aye, we'll catch a few more, then 'ead in with th' liddle 'uns," Bramm agreed, adjusting his tunic slightly. Ento nodded in acknowledgement before turning to go, trotting at a goodly pace back downriver to where Troggol and Tinga were diving for the second trap. The large fox sighed, and the weasel struggled upright.
"Ouch! That fellow's got a wicked grip," Shaggfur commented as he felt an accidental bruise forming under his pelt, "Must be th' militia trainin'. Hellsteeth, why d'we 'ave t' wait 'til autumn t' go join th' Companys?"
"We ain't old 'nough yet," the fox reminded him as the sloughed into the midwaters again, "b'sides, recruitment's always in autumm. 'As been since afore we was born, b'fore our maters was born too."
"I know, but I don't like it," the weasel grumbled, taking an experimental jab at a chub minnow crossing his path. Bramm stabbed downwards, bringing up a mid-sized trout, which he snatched from the waters deftly before it sped off downstream and out of reach. He hucked it over his shoulder, and it landed with a dull wet slap next to the beached grayling giant, "Good 'un." he complimented.
The babes were playing around again, splashing, hurling mudballs, chasing stream insects and pestering their adult supervision, the brown rat mother, about all manner of childish issues.
"Missus Wheatberry, I wanna jump on Bewynose's stummich. Canna?"
"No, ye may not. Ye'd hurt pore Berrynose, be'avin' like that. Ye mind yore fellows' feelings, now."
"Marm Wheatberry, izzit okay t' eat mayflies?"
"No! Put that back! 'Ow'd ye feel if'n ye were that mayfly? Let 'im go, sharpish!"
"Wheatberry, marm, are rocks alive?"
"I never seen 'em move about, an' they sure don't grow, so no."
"Heheheh! I got a good idea for a prank now!" Shaggfur cackled, rubbing his paws together, "Rocks don't grow, do they? Well, we shall see!"
"Yew git..."Bramm rolled his eyes. The weasel ignored him, still giggling mischievously. The sun approached noontide.
Froll Skyslayer, the Chieftan of the Icevole Clans of the far northern wastes, was just as ruthless and cunning a beast as Grueson had made him out to be. The band of lemming were warriors and raiders, slaughtering any groups they came across that they could get away with and purloining their supplies. There were approximately forty of them, give or take a few, and all were heavily armed and fierce fighters. Soon after the negotiations between the conniving shrew deserter and the savage lemming warcheif were settled they revealed that they also had possession of a longship: Carved of a massive oak and in the shape of a mysterious seabeast, the efficient and versatile vessel could seat every icevole with room to spare. Twenty of the hulking rodent brutes carried the boat out on their shoulders and slid it roughly into the water, then clambered aboard in a flurry and immediately set up a rowing pattern, following the Noguos band easily.
The fearsome icvole stared out over the bows, contemplating his newest ally. None of his allies ever lasted long; the ermine had all been slain in battle, the gyrfalcon had defied him and thusly had to be dealt with, and the gray rats had been planning treachery the entire time, so they had been taken care of as well. Idly he wondered how the next attempted coup would work, and how he would put it down. He knew it was only a matter of time. No decent creature knowingly joined up with the icevoles--and those that did were always surprised at their life of banditry whenever they found out. Froll knew that this Flickblade shrew was not one of the latter, but his followers were. He was relieved to know then that their targets were of specie many of these southerners collectively called "vermin". That meant it was easy to come up with some excuse to slay them with impunity.
"Ho-Friend Grueson," Skyslayer called out, causing the fat shrew to turn in his logboat's prow, "When we reach the camp of the vermin, what may my killers expect? One hundred? Two hundred?"
"Hahar, 'tis many o' th' verminous scum," Grueson answered with a sneer, tapping his snout knowingly, "Over two 'undred, nearly three, in total. But only about seven'y are proper warbeasts!"
Froll and his creatures laughed raucously, as if amused by such a tiny force facing them. The icevole chief pounded his armored chest with a clenched paw.
"Hah! Seventy warriors is half of what it takes to challenge my staunch fighters! Especially if they be mere vermin louts!" His cronies roared appreciatively in response, so loudly and coarsely that birds of all kinds were startled from the trees lining the river. There was such a clamor of banging shields and clanging weapons shoals of fish passing under the logboats and longship turned and scattered, darting into the reeds and gnarled underwater tree roots for safety. A young shrew up near Grueson winced and pulled his bright green bandanna down over his ears, muttering in distaste.
"Yeah, that's mighty clever o' those strangebeasts--make as much noise as possible an' warn all th' vermin that we're comin'... Ouch!"
Grueson withdrew his paw from where he'd cuffed the other shrew and leaned down close so only his victim could hear him.
"One more word outta ye about our brothers-in-arms an' I'll tie ye with yore own belt an' lob ye in th' stream. 'Ow's that sound, eh?" he hissed, "No more whisperin' t' yoreself, I warn ye. That goes f'r all of youse!" He called back to his shrew wargang, paw tapping meaningfully on the scabbard of his main gauche. The shrews appeared alarmed but not surprised. It was no secret that their new leader had a temper. The shrew who had spoken under his breath bit his lip and rowed more strongly, choosing to direct his bad feelings towards the Wuulvites they were out to destroy. Froll watched the exchange impassively, then nudged a female lemming by his side.
"Shukkel, when we reach the vermin place, tell our warriors that there is to be no looting or burning or disobeying of our allies' Log-a-Log-not yet. Only when the shrews all leave may we return to our usual business." Shukkel, who was the only female, and also the only one of the icevoles clad in faded rags as opposed to armor, nodded in meek servile understanding and hurried to do her Chief's bidding. She looked tired and old, with much more white on her than the others. She carried no weapon, not even a small dagger. Malebeasts shoved her aside as if she did not exist as a matter of course as she shuffled along, whispering Skyslayer's orders into the ear of everybeast from the front to the back of the vessel. Froll payed her no mind at all. He was eyeing Grueson again, silently watching his new comrade with narrowed eyes as if trying to read the creature's thoughts. Nobeast was ever sure if this was possible for the icevole. For Flickblade's sake it was imperative that he not be.
There was no doubt now. Grueson Flickblade, uncle to the Log-a-Log Jerro of the Noguos, was a traitor. Worse still, the headcount that the shrew leader had ordered confirmed that over four score of his shrews had joined the dark-eyed shrew on his perilous venture to sack Norwood. Jerro had been afraid of this. He had never known the Wuulvites to conquer or pillage as he had been taught all vermin did, but he knew that even this shred of decency displayed by their nation might disintegrate should they be provoked. He didn't pretend to understand the motivations of his rat, weasel and vulpine neighbors, but what he knew of his own folks' ideology told him that if Norwood were assaulted, no matter the outcome, the Wuulvites' standing army would come for those who were thought to be responsible. The Log-a-Log did not dare to imagine what they would do to his people-the tales he'd heard of vermin were enough to make his fur stand up on end.
Jerro shook his head to clear it. Standing on the bank where their tribe had left their boats tied, he should have seen twenty large log canoes, constructed of burned-out ashes and maples, but he only saw eight still moored there. His uncle had to have been the thief. A sweaty paw rubbed his temples. Now that Grueson was a boat-robber there was only one punishment for him by the bylaws of the shrew unions. Death. That had always been the way; nobeast had expected a fellow shrew to be a boat thief, only vermin, but there it was. There was no going back for the Log-a-Log's uncle or the Log-a-Log. Flickblade had to be put to death, preferably before inciting a war with the relatively invincible Wuulvites.
"Bankpaw, gather every fighter still remainin'," Jerro commanded his aide, a tall lanky shrew which stood nearby, shaking his head at the scene of the crime, "Bring them here. If we can't all fit in the logboats that're left, we'll 'ave t' split ourselves. I will lead the land group-you tend t' th' water group."
"T' catch them we'll 'ave t' move double-time," Bankpaw observed astutely, picking up a sawn-off hemp hawser that had once secured a logboat, "That might be too 'ard on our shrews. We may not be in top fightin' form when we catch them up."
"It's a risk we have t' take." Jerro growled, clutching at his rapier's hilt instinctively. "Th' sooner we go th' better. I know th' waters much better than th' old traitorous one. We will catch him, it's just a matter of when."
From back on the path to the Noguos camp, Acda watched the two experienced warriors examining the site of Grueson's departure. A tear slipped loose from her eye, and she hurried to stop it running down her cheek with a paw. Everything seemed to be going awry. She wasn't sure she could completely trust her fellow Noguos anymore, nevermind otherbeasts. What had happened? Had some of their shrews always been so selfish? She had never recalled seeing such wickedness from them when she was younger. What was the world coming to, when goodbeasts would stab you in the back and vermin threats were nowhere to be found? Where were the days of yore she'd heard so often on fireside nights, listening to the stories of Log-a-Logs of old and neighboring lands-where immaculate woodlanders strove gallantly to defeat a tyrannous and eager horde of filthy, rotten-to-the-bone rats, stoats, wildcats or marten? Did the world change in her twenty seasons? Or... had it always been less black and white, she just didn't see it? Her chest burning in hatred for the one who had stolen her trust of her comrades away, Acda stormed down to the waterside, surprising Bankpaw and drawing a stunned look from her mate as she vaulted over the side of one of the logboats.
"What are ye doin'?" Jerro asked her, "You're not comin' with us, are ye?"
"I am a Noguos shrew, aren't I?" Acda snapped, making the vessel ready for lauch at lightning speed, "Where you go, I go. That is the oath we took. Did you forget?"
Jerro opened his mouth to voice a complaint but paused. It was taboo to the shrew unions to go back on any vow, even a marriage vow. Though he desperately did not wish to see his beloved anywhere near such a dangerous battle, he relented, lowering his head.
"I remember fine." he murmured, "You come along then. Bankpaw, get th' others. We move as soon as we're all here, and no later."
Bankpaw returned only a moment later, a column of glowering Noguos in his wake. There had almost been no need for Bankpaw to pass along Jerro's commands. Each Noguos shrew knew what needed to be done without a single hesitation. They launched shortly after noontide, the eight logboats being rowed furiously, at a pace that seemed liable to kill the shrews with exhaustion. Close to forty shrews could not fit in the boats that had remained, so Log-a-Log Jerro led them at a constant trot on the stream banks, fatigue seeming to not matter, briars going unfelt. The only thought of the shrews was that of revenge now.