Tales of Iffrit
Of the Struggle With Grueson Flickblade, Noguos Defector
(Part IV)
In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's Redwall Novels
The Council Shelter was a big foursquare building built almost entirely of granite stone blocks with the exception of the roof, which was timber slats overlaid with greenish slate shingling. The entryway was large and open, almost as if the southern side of the shelter had no wall. The center of the massive single room was a plain soot-smudged fireplace. Two fireplaces, actually, one pointing east and one west in order to heat the entire space effectively. A large oakwood table was near this double-hearth, around which stood all of the prominent creatures of the village, with the obvious exception of Sherpp Fogrunner (who was with a small squad patrolling the other walls searching for attempted breaches) and Wilneg (who was leading the effort to keep the shrews and lemmings in their defensive position). Raegnor Warscythe stood half a paw over the others, made to look larger with his war gear. Nearly eighty Norwooders ready for battle stood patiently awaiting what the Cheiftan would say, each either kitted out in militiabeast gear or in chainmail and with weapons lent from the forge of Lady Snakeroot. About sixty were members of the Wuulvites' volunteer army, or were among the youngbeasts soon to join, but the rest were commoners with some fighting skill. Those in the gathering that were part of this group shuffled nervously, unsure of how useful they would really be against a small brigade of renowned fighters like the Noguos.
Captain Warscythe raised his left paw upon which an issue targe shield was strapped. Swiftly the room grew silent as a tomb, every eye on the craggy-featured weasel warrior.
"Norwooders, soldiers an' common creatures alike, in a few moments we'll be marchin' out of here to face an army of foebeast which have come to our gates with foul intentions," he began gruffly, his stalwart face barely emoting, "Some of ye may be concerned that there are more than a hundred of 'em. 'Tis true they outnumber us close t' two t' one, but we have th' advantage of walls, and our fightin' beasts know full well how t' use 'em." At this several of the more sure-looking soldiers nodded and added short murmurs of "That's right" and "Aye, we do know that".
"Our nation 'as proved itself in th' past," Raegnor started again, barking roughly over the crowd's exuberant affirmations, "Whether it be Corsairs tryin' t' raid our shores, robber bands targetin' our age-old homes, or th' woodlanders strikin' out against us for whatever reasons they may 'ave, we have always stood firm! An' no matter th' obstacle, our folk have always prevailed with a bit of our Wuulvite pride, our great skills, an' our savvy preparedness." The response to this was much louder and more unified, a lusty collection of cries and howls in agreement. Raegnor placed a paw on the hilt of his fine, black-handled broadsword, drawing it out slowly and meaningfully as he finished his warspeech:
"We've done this before, an' we can do it again. We are Wuulvite--we fought our way up from degradation and despair an' nobeast in th' land dare t' threaten to force it upon us again so lightly if they wish to live!"
This time the shouts and yells transformed into an almost choir-like roar, echoing an ancient war cry that each rodent, mustelid and vulpine creature knew well:
"RAH-DDI-YAH! RAH-DDI-YAH! WE ARE WUUUUUUULVIIIITE!"
After the rousing, the town defenders gathered in the two large lawns on either side of the Council Shelter. The sixty militiabeasts stood in ranks near the front, facing the wall where most of the fighting was taking place, their eyes flicking back and forth between their military and non-military leaders having a private discussion of strategy by the open well and the lulled action on the walltops. Occasionally Wilneg, Drubber and the others would fire off an opportunistic arrow or sling a dart or stone through the trapdoor slats to keep the shrews and lemming in line, but other than that and the sharp crack of slingstones retaliating against the now-closed slats there was no action. Several of the veterans were of the opinion that something had gone awry with the Noguos strike, and that if they hadn't had the first warnings as quick as they did their position would be much more dire. They were grim but sure of themselves, psyching up the non-fighters with their glib banter of war.
"It's almost as if they didn't 'ave a plan," the fox Maltfur scoffed, leaning on his hooked halfpike and shouldering his own heavy targe shield, "Just came on upriver an' jumped at us like a lizard on a beetle. With those northland raiders with 'em it don't surprise me..."
"Don't be daft," a muscular brown rat chided him, "They 'ave a plan. Yew didn't see it, but they 'ad those log-made canoes o' theirs turned up t' block shafts an' stones. They know a thing or two about fightin'."
"I was deployed t' th' scrub belt south o' Snowgap when those icevoles attacked there seven seasons ago," an older female ferret named Snowheron remembered, "They were sackin' every den or buildin' they came across up there. Used a longship like that'n' t' knock doors off their hinges."
"Wouldn't work here," the rat shook his head, taking a final look at the sharpness of his falchion, "Shanna, Saulk an' a few o' th' craftsbeasts already shored 'em up tight. There's four foot o' sandbags be'ind those gates an' solid oak bars. A ballista stone couldn't budge 'em now."
"Ballista?!" a female weasel started, bristling as she gripped her longaxe tighter, "Th' foebeast 'ave a ballista?"
"Goodness, no, Wrenn," Maltfur stayed her paw, not wanting the worked-up beast to injure the creatures immediately to her right and left with a jerking weapon, "Kirtt 'ere was just makin' a figure o' speech. They don't 'ave a ballista. They barely 'ave a decent archer between all of 'em."
"You better watch what ye say," Snowheron warned, "There was nothin' wrong with their aim seven seasons back. It may be a fluke, t' get us t' lower our expectations on 'em. Assume they're all as good shots as th' shrews, an' you'll live longer."
Farther back, the non-warriors and those who had not endured their training as of yet were gathered, acting as back-up to the bona fide warbeasts should they need the push of extra troops. The gear and armor of these Norwooders was a bit more hodge-podged: Swordbeasts and archers mingled with those carrying gaffed pikes, lances, slings for both stone and dart, staves, cudgels, spears, daggers, knives and axes. Shield placement was random, which a fierce-looking female rat soldier was trying to remedy, steering those with some variety of shield to the outsides and front of the bunch. Iffrit stood near the very back, anxiously standing up on the tips of his toeclaws for a better look at what was going on with his father and the village's council members by the well. He felt a bit peeved that he didn't get to come closer to the wall. As he was, he was nearly cornered against the side of Veeral Winebeast's distillery. The fumes from the rat winemaker's spirits wafted out from the low, sloping shack and into the nostrils of Iffrit and his friends as they scuffed the earth and grass in waiting.
"Graah," Iffrit snarled, beginning to pace back and forth between the distillery wall and the right rear flank of the Wuulvite militiabeasts. Violet left off obsessively waxing her bowstring and gave the dark-furred weasel a look of concern, but chose to say nothing, "Why don't we move already! Th' enemy's out there an' they've slain a babe! They've wounded an' terrorized two dozen of us! Why aren't we doing anything! Ow!"
Raosk blinked as he watched Iffrit sit down abruptly, nursing his stubbed toe. The agitated weasel had kicked a stone fiercely out of frustration, not anticipating it to be embedded deeply in the ground. Sleetpad and Furcrest both gave him a strange look, one bordering on worry but also a little chiding.
"Steady on, mate, "the young ratmaid scolded, putting her sling back into its beltpouch with the stones she'd selected.
"Aye, use that kick on th' shrewmice, why don't ya," the mohawked stoat grinned. A frosty look from the weasel killed his cheerful expression instantly.
"It's not fair!" he growled, pawing the shortsword at his side, "Why not get out there right now an' put paid t' those murderers?! They don't deserve t' be out there free as th' wind!"
"Don't we 'ave bigger problems than that, firemouth?" Doulthe's brow furrowed as he interrupted the other youngbeast's rant, "Pick yer battles! We'd all get killed or wounded runnin' out there like a mob o' savages. I thought ye were smarter'n' that, Iffrit."
"You callin' me stupid?!" the weasel stood, sore toe forgotten. Raosk and Sleetpad hurried to put themselves partway between the two glaring creatures with raised paws.
"Easy! No need t' fight each other!" the ratmaid yelled at them, voice becoming weepy all of a sudden despite her efforts to contain herself. Raosk said nothing but looked incredibly uneasy. He was not nearly of the size of either combative animal and wasn't sure if either would be so self-aware as to avoid trampling his thin weasely body if they were incensed into a brawl. A fox, almost as young as them and a near-perfect clone of Maltfur, leaned back from the last row of militiabeasts and spat a scathing remark back at all of them:
"Will you all just shuddap already an' be useful? Whaddyou milksops expect t' accomplish, eh? Ye don't 'ave th' sense of a nit. Especially you, Irfgret weasel or whatever yore name i--"
Pushed beyond his capacity for clear thought by his rage, Iffrit dove at the fox mid-sentence and tackled him furiously, knocking the lochaber axe from his russet paws as both beasts collided with the ground in a dust cloud. Before the ambushed vulpine could get injured by the young weasel's flailing fists several militiabeasts crouched down and hoisted the Chieftan's son none too gently off their fellow fighter.
Snapping and still struggling blindly, Iffrit fought to get at his insulter against the combined strength of the two heavily armed stoats securing him. He convinced himself he was doing well, but despite this illusion of his the stoat's brawny arms never budged an inch. Spitting dirt from his mouth, the fox stood up and seethed at the pinned mustelid, his tailfur standing up like a bottlebrush with outrage.
"You dungfaced git!" He exclaimed shrilly, having to be stopped from pummeling the helpless youngbeast by a bow-carrying black rat, "I 'ope you die in th' battle!"
"Better'n' hidin' in th' rootcellar combin' yore brush while th' foebeast makes off with a trade cart! Cowardly cur!" Iffrit shot right back with a knowing fang-bearing smirk. Once again the fox had to be held back as he took an aggressive step towards the bound creature.
"Wormal, no," the rat cautioned, prodding him with the tip of his bow, "Go yonder. Trade spots with Thurna an' let it go."
Drawing himself off haughtily, Wormal scooped up his metal-hafted weapon and strode huffily off, his chainmail tunic clinking slightly. Before Iffrit's face bore too smug an expression the rat turned to him and shook the bow in his face.
"One more like that an' it's three days gaol fer you. I know you don't like that cheeky clattertooth but it don't excuse basely attackin' 'im. Now focus on 'elpin' out with th' fightin'--real 'elpin', mind do what you're told--or go 'ome an' wait fer word on it!"
The stoat infantrybeasts holding Iffrit dropped him abruptly on his shaky footpaws and marched back to their posts. The young weasel glared death at an errant dandelion to avoid the lingering disapproving look from the rat archer. Finally he felt the fearsome gaze lift and sighed, leaning back up against the distillery.
"Maybe I should go home," he murmured angrily, "Nobeast thinks I'm helpin' here, even though this mornin' they was all ajoy for me." Sleetpad's sweet brown eyes widened.
"We don't think you're not helpin'," she offered, clasping her paws together. Iffrit huffed.
"Well, I mean besides you lot an' Bramm an' Shagg. I know you're my mates," he acknowledged. Furcrest and Roask smiled, but not too broadly. They weren't really following the line the hot-headed weasel was taking, but in an effort not to agitate him were keeping their silence. "We all did get into th' militia. That should count f'r somethin'!"
"It does," Doulthe snorted, leaning on a light spear he had borrowed from the armory in lieu of owning a true melee weapon, "We're on th' front lines, aren't we? Well, not th' front. But we're in reasonable danger. They must know we're at least that mature."
"Hunh," Iffrit grunted ambiguously, not eager to agree with the hefty rat so soon after their quarrel. "Mebbe."
"Hush," Violet spoke up, perhaps the most reasonable thing any of the high-strung young creatures had said thusfar, "Lady Snakeroot's comin' this way. She's probably in charge of th' untrained beasts, an' is goin' t' give us instructions."
Shutting their jaws, the youngbeasts all straightened as the golden-eyed weaseless, now clad in a leftover steel chestpiece and gauntlets and using a slim tall pole-cleaver like a walking stick, approached alongside the attentive mass of patchwork warriors. She raised her paws to indicate she wished to speak with them all.
Smallfang came forth from the murky waters in a whoosh, like a trout leaping for a mayfly, onto the bank, gasping for breath after fighting upstream for over five hundred yards on a single lungful. The patch of reeds he had crawled into crackled and swayed, drawing the attentions of a lone icevole lingering on the edge of the attack front. The shaggy rodent raider's ears perked up, staring at the rustling flora with a suspicious glare, and he drew a short spiked club from a sling on his back and scuttled towards it. Creeping up on the panting rat through the reedstalks, the lemming could scarcely hold back the triumphant smirk as he raised the bludgeon.
Ento could hear the heavy plodding footsteps approaching from behind. Unbeknownst to the Norwooder's stalker his paw slid his curved fighting knife from its holder beneath the hanging edge of his jerkin.
Rolling onto his back, the water rat felt the breeze off the striking club as it sunk into the marshy ground where he had been crawling. The Wuulvite fighter shot both footpaws out and landed the other rodent a double kick to the knees, sending him falling forward, straight onto Ento's thrusting blade. Shoving the large beast's carcass off of him, the rat flicked blood from the knife as he righted himself and fled the scene in a four-pawed scurry. The Noguos and icevoles were distracted for now, but they would soon notice the missing face. He made for the northwest-facing gate at all the speed he could muster in his odd posture, staying low and discreet.
There was nobeast at the gateway, though it was shut tight and clearly fortified from the inside if the edges of old flourbags filled with sand jutting out from the crack beneath it were to be judged. Starting with a tentative scratch, Ento inspected the woodwork and he stone archway around it, seeking a few choice cracks or nooks to aid in his ascent. It would be tricky, as the barrier was designed not to be crossed. With a stifled grunt he began climbing. Though the walls were not nearly as high as those built around proper military fortifications, they were tall enough to discourage most climbers, and most of the stones within reach had been selected for their smoothness. It was difficult even for an experienced athlete like Ento. He went with painful slowness, praying to himself he could keep his muscles from cramping long enough to get at least one paw over the lip of the battlements over twice his height above him.
One paw over the other, Smallfang ascended. His right footpaw slipped once, causing him to clutch the wall in a panic two-thirds of the way to his destination. Eventually, he got going again, easing himself up foot by foot and dragging himself breathlessly over the ramparts. With an exhausted wheeze he slumped against the back of the protective wall slats, making them rattle slightly. After a moment's pause he forced himself upright again, his muscles all afire with soreness.
With a limp he made his way through the northern portion of Norwood, seeking his path determinedly and making a beeline for the tallest structure in the village: The Aviary.
The Aviary was a structure akin to a grain silo, tall and rounded on all sides. The four-story tower had open, shutterless windows with large sills to act as perches on every side of the top three levels. It was the resting place of the Wuulvites' many avian allies; a percentage of carrion and a few other birds species living in Wuulvite lands had elected to serve the powerful kingdom as messengers. Chattering amongst themselves and fueling up for a variety of different journeys, the dozen or so birds currently stopping in Norwood Village dipped their beaks into complementary bowls of water, grain, dried fruits, and a few of shredded bits of various jerkies. There were six different kinds of birds here, though elsewhere and at other times there could easily be more: Jackdaws, rooks, magpies, starlings, and a few kingfishers and hoopoe. Rising up the spiraling staircase to the second floor, Ento didn't even try to stop himself from collapsing onto his side and panting raggedly. A rook and one of the kingfishers that were previously conversing jumped at the noise and fluffed their wings in alarm, then once they realized that the rat was there hopped down from their perches and gazed curiously at the rodent, wondering how they could help him. The rat raised his head shakily.
"Rajik...Forrakri... I need two good birds t' travel east," he gasped, "Search th' well-used trails heading t' th' Fortress of the King. Find Captains Scruvo, Dunnage an' Forgo. They'll need t' know this: Shrews an' lemming 'ave attacked Norwood. See if they'll all return with all speed, if not, return with two an' allow th' final 'un t' go warn th' King." With this, the rat let his head fall against the floor, breathing hard and too worn out to do much more. The rook Forrakri and the kingfisher Rajik looked at each other, then back at the prone rat. Rajik peered over his shoulder at two more of his feathered companions, a pair of jackdaws.
"Yoos, gitta mista chief weasel 'r missa chiefess weaselady. Tell'm Entorat much winded, needsa help," the kingfisher hopped back up to the window sill plank, "Wees go, finda captain furbeasts. Raggahik!"
With a similar avian phrase the rook followed Rajik as he leapt from the window, gliding effortlessly over the rooftops of the Wuulvite creatures and the walls of the town. They winged in an easterly direction, flapping fiercely to ascend over the treetops, leaving the jackdaws to hastily flutter to the Council shelter in search of the two chieftains.
"Shhhut..!" Grueson hissed as quietly as possible to the shrew nearest him, coming just short of striking him in the face with the back of his paw. Himself and a grouping of twenty shrews and ten lemmings hunkered down behind the smallest of the logboats. They had backed up slowly, deep in a patch of rushes on the edge of the Norwooders' water millet and barley fields south of the village. The plan was confusing to the icevoles, who were much happier to use overt force in all their battle tactics, not his sneaking about.
"Hrr, why do we back into this mess?" one lemming grumbled aloud, seeming to be making sure that the grayed shrew heard him clearly, "We should be using the plan of Chief Skyslayer! Use the longship as a battering ram on that gate, then slaughter the verminbeasts who fight and put the rest to the sword!"
"Aye, what a brilliant mind y've got, fatface," Flickblade sneered, rather enjoying the look of indignation that came over the foolish lemming as he insulted him, "Jist run right up an' kill 'em all, eh? Well, you go right ahead and do it then. See if those scum don't put arrows in yore skull th' moment ye knock that door down!"
Sulking, the icevole shut his mouth. Even the barbarian raiders were not dumb enough to support such a foolhardy plan once it's flaws were pointed out to them. A shrew named Reedblade nudged the usurper Log-a-Log to get his attention.
"We're well-in now, Log-a-Log Flickblade. We ought t' start settin' up attack soon."
"Good! Here's what we'll do: Git four shrews at a time an' duck 'n' weave out into those fields. Stay only where th' crops're high enough t' conceal ye, an' don't move too quicklike. Once all th' Noguos be'ind this logboat're moved out, we'll creep another few back an' continue. Once our fighters 'ave all gotten a ways away Froll's goin' t' start givin' those vermin heavy volleys of arrows t' take their eyes offa the background. When that 'appens we skirt into th' woodlands an' make our way t' th' east an' north walls o' th' vermin camp. We'll cross in two groups. Is that clear, bukoes?"
"Aye, sir. 'Tis a good plan with solid guerrilla tactics." Reedblade nodded in satisfaction. Grueson smiled toothily, clapping the other shrew on the shoulder in a friendly manner.
"Aye, oughta be! We're Guerrilla Shrews. 'S what we were born t' do!"
West of the Northstream all seemed peaceful, with a faint wind blowing the new green leaves about lightly. The speckled sunshine and shade fell upon the undergrowth in a checkerboard of light and dark greens, browns, grays and buffs. Nobeast save the very astute could pick out the minute movements of the stealthy beasts making their way though the groves.
Jerro panted roughly but stormed ahead, keeping at the head of his land-based party. They were all tired, but they had covered a lot of ground. Only a single league stood between them and the place the Wuulvite vermin had named "Norwood", which lay on a large kinking of the winding river. The Log-a-Log did not want to stop, but he knew that he had to for the sake of his creatures' health. The older, younger, and less fit were looking ill from fatigue and desperately needed a break.
With a sigh, Jerro gave a signal whistle that sounded a bit like a kestrel shriek. Immediately all of the shrews ground to a halt, catching their breath as they stowed themselves skillfully in the mottled and mixed foliage, rummaging in small gear satchels for victuals and flasks, or shrugging off canteens of much-needed water. Bankpaw flopped down on the opposite side of the ash tree Jerro had leaned against, perspiring heavily but holding up better than the majority.
"I never gone quite this far in day, on land at least," Bankpaw marveled, wiping sweat from his brow, "We've gone ten leagues since noontide. I wonder where Acda is?"
"There, see," Jerro pointed stoically to the opposite bank at a nondescript creek inlet. "They slipped in under those low-hanging elders. I only just caught sight of 'em as they disappeared." The Log-a-Log sipped gingerly at a canteen, "We can't 'ang about here long. If we 'aven't run aground of Grueson yet then he must be at th' vermin place already."
"Pardon my bluntness, sir," the shrew warrior began quietly, as if a bit ashamed at what he was about to say, "But can't we just let the traitor be taken care of by th' Wuulvite vermin? It's all 'e deserves." Jerro looked up pensively.
"I agree with yore sentiments about Grueson, but..." he huffed, "We can't do that. Flickblade's a traitor, but he betrayed us, not th' vermin. We must be th' ones t' find an' punish him or risk th' shame of knowin' that we failed th' mates of ours he took with 'em."
"Of course," Bankpaw lowered his head, "I knew that, but we all got temptations."
"Aye," Jerro gazed out over the treetops, watching the distant V's of two birds on the wing disappear out to the east. "That is true."