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Chapter 40. I Don't Want to Hurt You...

by Antonio

"Miss Rea?"

The wolf's ears perked.

"Might I enquire as to something?"

She nodded, although she did not much appear as though she wanted to answer a question. Antonio began to notice the group responding rather begrudgingly to his instructions of late. Perhaps it was time to change tact.

"If you do not mind, there is something of which I am curious. However, I do not wish to make you at all uncomfortable."

Rea shook her head. "Not at all."

"When you touched me back at the warehouse, what did you see?"

Apparently, "not at all" minding a question did not apply to those pertaining to visions. Rea jerked her gaze away from Antonio, her ears lowered against her head.

"I'd rather not…"

She trailed off, leaving Antonio to pick up the slack.

"You said that you had visions and, even though you yourself do not believe in them, and even though I myself am…skeptical at best when it comes to matters of…supernatural quality, it his wise to give a healthy dose of respect and consideration to folklore. Though misguided, certain elements of primitive beliefs are rooted in truth." He stepped closer to the wolf for good measure. "Though your 'vision' previous may not have been that, it divined the position of those wasps."

Not to mention a certain kernel of information I have kept hereto concealed.

Rea had called him a Prince. At first, Antonio believed he may have let it slip his tongue earlier, but he was more careful than that. He did not make mistakes when it came to his identity. He had learned from experience what sort of things happen in his homeland to a royal who wears his title over his heart – he soon has a blade driven through it.

"I am merely curious as to whether or not you…divined anything else important, back at the warehouse when you brushed against me. I assume that was what caused your sudden change in temperament?"

"I saw…I saw a small child. A boy. He was crying."

Antonio's lips spread across his face and he nodded. "Why, though, were you sorry?"

"I'm sorry about your father."

His mouth opened. The question died before he could so much as formulate the words in his mind. Instead, his attention focused on the loud sound of impact just behind him. The stoat and wolf turned.

Staring him down at the other side of the untidy clearing was the beast that had threatened his entire group, personally insulted him, captured and no doubt – probably – killed one of his own, had set a booby trap into which he had almost fallen and had decided to continually menace he and his group.

Antonio organized his resources in his mind in a second. He had Rea and a hatchet. Only Rea and a hatchet. He closed his eyes closed his eyes. What he was about to do was foolish, unplanned and irrational.

"Retreat."

"But –"

"I am fully aware of your stance as far as violence, Miss Rea, and I would prefer it if you were not around to witness what I am about to do. Retreat, gather the others with haste. I shall hold him off to the best of my ability."

Antonio heard her retreating pawsteps, the tattoo of a battle hymn as his blood began to boil. Rea would be no help in a fight and while she would make a good distraction to throw to Castille, Antonio knew it was not the right solution. Aras was outwardly dubious about the contract, Sybil's quips grew ever sharper. Silisk had nearly killed him. He was falling from power and the stoat didn't care to meet whatever was waiting at the end of his descent. He had to do something to restore his follower's faith in him.

The pile of sinew, scum, grit and fur at the opposite end of the clearing cackled. "So the prissy prat who doth protest decides to parlay. Pray, what caused the change in heart? I thought you found me rather putrid."

"Silence!" Antonio snapped. "Calling you putrid would be kind."

Antonio had more than few scores to settle with Castille – Castille, what sort of a boorish handle was that? Probably does not even properly know how to spell it. For one, he had personally insulted him, then proceeded to defy him when challenged. That alone merited corporal punishment. For another, he had spread discord through his group. Untidy rabble as they were, his group was still his group. And there was the Dirano to consider. Who may or may not have been dead.

"A simple, smug, sly accountant, hm, feeling a bit small, perhaps?" the beast prattled on. "So it would seem, yes, so it would seem."

Insanity had less a look and more a smell. Or rather, if it did have a smell, it would have been something quite similar to the aroma that wafted heavy as an anvil from Castille. A sickly, organic smell that reminded Antonio of war rooms and sport competitions, mingled with sweat, tiny yet pungent notes of urine and bodily waste of all kind, tied together with the stiff metallic scent Antonio had trained himself to recognize at age ten.

"Or, perhaps something more, yes?"

Antonio remained firm as the madbeast babbled, something else he had learned early on. Castille would make the first move and Antonio would reap the opportunity.

"Perhaps…a Prince?"

Antonio went rigid.

"You heard the mad prattling from that wolf, no doubt," he answered. "Tisk, tisk; did your mother not tell you it is rude to eavesdrop?"

A smile gleaming like the crescent moon – and just as yellow – split open Castille's face. "Mother told me lots of things, oh yes she did. So noisy was she before I cut a hole in her throat and let all that sound drain out in little red bubbles. But mother also told me it's rude to lie." A spear-point finger extended in Antonio's direction. "I think you are hiding something from me. Come now, does the Prince not wish to live up to his honorable handle?"

"What would you know of honor, hiding behind booby traps and plucking helpless beasts into the air? Afraid to face me in combat?"

A paw clasped Castille's chest as though clutching a wound. "Sir, fair Prince Antonio, you wound me! Attack a helpless beast, me? Far too enjoyable, the way they wriggle and writhe like babes before the steel pacifier is plunged down their throats. Dear dead Dirano was far from helpless. Such lovely little toys he had." His head suddenly tilted at a dangerous angle. "One wonders why he did not feel like sharing. Oh well. His soul may be gone, but I did him a tribute in his death. His possessions are being put to good use."

Silver flew through the air, giving Antonio barely enough time to throw himself flat on the ground, roll to his side, pull himself in a kneeling position and brandish his hatchet. Moving a top speed, he caught the marten in the stomach just as he was attempting to re-load his crossbow, sending both himself and Castille sprawling. The stoat swung the hatchet, scoring only soft dirt as he was pushed off of Castille via the blow to his face.

Antonio quickly regained himself, got to his footpaws. Keep a low, defensive posture, he reminded himself. Just as he was taught. Castille charged, brandishing a knife while Antonio kept himself still, springing at the sable's knees at the last moment. Both of their weapons were sent flying. On the ground, they shoved against one another. Here a blow was struck to Antonio's gut, there a kick was scored against Castille's ribs. Room for a good submission hold or choke could not be found. But there was no difficulty in finding a pawful of dirt. Flinging the grit at the monster's face, the stoat rolled for his weapon, bringing it down across Castille's midsection with viscous abandon. Thus exited Castille.

Or so Antonio anticipated. Upon further inspection, he realized he had struck against Castille with the blunt end of the hatchet. Upon inspection further than that, he discovered that Castille could take a hit from the blunt end of a hatchet quite well. The sable also had a right hook strong enough to send the stoat staggering a good six feet backwards.

Grit and blood exited Antonio's mouth before words. "Why follow us?"

Castille was on his footpaws now, gripping his knife. A direct attack would not be the preferred approach. He would have to wait and see if he could distract or otherwise disarm Castille. His best weapon now was his voice. "Lonely, were you? I can imagine it would become quite tedious to have only one's self to talk to, especially were I as boorish as you."

"Lonely? I am never lonely. Those lonely lovers of company, always longing for the touch, the taste of another, those aren't the kind for me. Someone more like…dear dead Dirano would be more of that particular persuasion." Although Castille did not look or motion in the direction of his dropped weapon, Antonio was sure the marten was planning on retrieving it even as they spoke. "Such a lonely beast, Dirano. Lonely to the end. He cried out to his friends as he was pulled faaaaaaar into the ceiling, tata, flying cat, adeu, how sad it is to say farewell to fair-weather friends." A filthy claw stroked a scraggly chin. "Now, what were his last words? I was far too busy tending to the mechanism, such a fussy thing it is. What was that last thing he said before he was hoisted into the sky? Perhaps our precious Prince could enlighten us?"

"I heard nothing," came Antonio's prompt reply. He had not heard a thing, Dirano had whispered so. The booby trap was making far too much of a racket. Antonio had not heard a single, solitary syllable. Not one.

Castille shrugged. "Pity. Such a good guest he was. Treated me to a drink. Such a grand gesture when all mine is turning to ash…but as they say, cats are fat but Brandy is dandy." The mad expression upon Castille's features clashed with the eerily cheery tones of his speech as he approached Antonio, step by step. "You and I, we look for the same thing."

Antonio took a few steps back to compensate. Every cut in the hatchet's handle embraced his palm as it tightened about it.

Castille continued to babble. "Search, search, search, it is not there, it is not here – oh dear! Just a drop, and my problems would be clear. But, should I need a bit of a pick-me-up…" With a flick of his wrist, the marten procured a second blade. "Care to make a donation?"

Damp potato sacks make a distinctive 'thud' when they strike the ground, much like the sound Castille's body generated when it struck the ground, bowled over by a sprinting Aras. As he retreated behind the wolverine, Antonio saw the rest of his group come into view.

"Stay close, spread out," he ordered.

"How d'you expect us t'do both of those at the same time?" he heard Sybil quip.

Before he could return verbal fire his attention was stolen from the nuisance thief by loud gasps. Aras stood, paws clenched around his throat, spine twisted back at an odd angle. Castille was blocked from view but Antonio had a clear idea what was happening. The hatchet was quickly seized, becoming a grey blur as it was rushed over to Aras. One swing and the metal cord was severed, Aras saved from asphyxiation.

"Touché," announced a voice from all around them. "Now we play a new game: hide and run!"

"Come along, this way," Antonio commanded.

"Pray, sir Antonio, where are we bound?" asked Silisk.

"We are off to make good on a prophecy. Miss Rea, you shall join me at the head of the procession."

Moments later, although the time span would have been at least half a moment shorter had the natives been civilized to provide some sort of path through the wretchedly overgrown jungle, Antonio's ears picked up the correct sound. He looked at the wolf.

"Miss Rea?" he asked, letting the sentence hang as its own question.

She nodded, Antonio reciprocating the gesture in kind.

"Very well," announced the stoat to his team. "Over yonder is the wasp nest upon which we happened earlier." He pulled them all closer, talking in a low, conspiratory tone. "When Castille appears, we shall fall back to a place near that nest, putting it between us and Castille. Then, Mister Thalliv will shoot said nest down and the insects shall hold the marten off long enough for an escape, provided they do not outright kill him from their collective poison which would not at all be an undesirable bonus."

"That won't work," said Aras.

Antonio forced himself not to roll his eyes. "Yes it will."
"Psh, no it won't!" piped Sybil,

"Yes, it will."

"Pardon me, but perhaps there is some sort of alternative?" asked Thalliv.

"There is," Antonio conceded. "But it is much less desirable than my plan and the end result would be one in which we are all considerably less alive than we would be if we followed my plan."

Then, from above and all around, dancing towards them in a grisly sing-song, "Little, little, little ones, run and run, run and run. Little, little, little ones, I am going to have some fun!"

Antonio nodded to them all. They broke into a run towards the wasp nest.

"Little, little, little ones, which one should I take, oh, which one?"

He could see the nest just behind them now, hidden behind a tangle of emerald and chartreuse. Further behind, something hit the ground.

"Mister Thalliv, would you kindly shoot the nest down now."

Metal struck metal, the bold was released. It hit nothing.

"Such a lousy shot!" Castille clicked at the back of his throat. "Yo-hooo! I'm over here!"

Somewhere further along, somebeast continued to run.

"He's getting closer."

"I can see that, Mister Aras."

"Pray, why do we not flee?"

"Because, Silisk if we run no, then there is no end to the running." And he could certainly catch up to us on foot unhindered.

Closer and closer he padded, walking now, not the slightest sign of worry on his face. Thalliv struggled to reload his weapon, his trembling paws making it difficult to align the metal bold with the proper mechanisms. Antonio's legs took a step back involuntarily.

"How long does it take to load a crossbow, Mister Thalliv?"

No answer.

"Mister Thalliv?"

He was two steps away from the midpoint. Any more and the shot wouldn't be worth taking. Nervous feet betrayed Antonio, pulling him further back. Another beast had already begun to flee. He brandished the hatchet at his side.

"Why so still? The game isn't nearly as fun when you don't play along."

A loud crack, a hollow sound like some great, fleshy balloon cracking open, followed by mad buzzing at their ears. Castille became a twisting, gyrating blur as he strove to shake off the angry yellow clingers-on. Laughter and shouts of victory joined the sable's pained gasps and yells. They all soon found out that wasps' rage was not exclusive to any one beast, however.

"Yeowch!"

"Ow, ow, ow."

"Retreat now, re-ow, damned insect! Retreat!"

Jungle ground harsh upon his footpaws was only made worse by their hasty retreat. Large rocks stubbed sensitive skin and tiny pebbles wedged themselves into small spaces, rubbing against and lacerating tissue. Antonio would take that over the harsh poison sting of the insects, though. The pain their retreat incurred must have been nothing compared to what Castille was suffering. At any rate, Antonio had suffered far worse before.

Ahead loomed a figure barely discernable amongst the jungle vegetation. A jarring shock hit Antonio. He raised his hatchet, ready to deal a quick blow least it was Castille. The path was soon clear, though, and gall rose in his throat when he noticed who it was standing stark still in the middle of the jungle like a daft idiot.

"Miss, Sybil, make haste! Behind us is –"

His arms wheeled around and around like a pups toy top. Antonio's stomach jumped to his chest as he felt his footpaws teeter at the threshold, striving to pull his body weight back to where gravity would favor him. Miss Sybil had in fact not been standing still in the middle of the jungle for without reason; bellow him, now visible that he was right upon it, was a deep chasm.

The earth bucked to one side. As green swirled and began to change places with blue, Antonio Calceterre was occupied with a solitary thought; the horizon was crooked.

His plunge stopped. The stoat's claws had twined themselves around something thin and leathery. Soon, he found he was not the only beast falling. Antonio had grabbed Sybil by the strap of her back pack.

A brief return to non-gravity, a sudden jerk and Antonio feared that his arm would be ripped from its socket. Above, the marten clung to the edge of the pit with both paws. Bellow…

Antonio averted his eyes. There was nothing interesting to look at.

Although his brain strove to will his strength into her – were he dangling over a chasm with himself caught on his own backpack strings, he would have pulled both his own weight and that of his doppelganger's out in mere moments – Sybil continued to hang onto the edge.

"Help, please!" he shouted. "We require assistance!"

The call went unanswered for an agonizing eternity. Soon, the marten began to shake herself.

Good, she is trying to pull herself out. Finally.

The jungle was silent save Sybil's soft gasps. Then another sound joined them, so soft, so deliberate it reminded Antonio of the cottage and the fire bombs so seemingly long ago. Glass was rattling against glass. His eyes were pulled to the backpack's opening as a glossy texture peeked out of the darkness, a dark liquid contained within. Sybil turned back to see where the noise was coming from. Antonio was given a brief look at one fearful eye before the shaking began again, the marten fervently trying to pull herself up.

"Some help, please. Would somebeast kindly remove us from our eminent peril?"

A violent shake from above nearly dislodged Antonio from the pack.

"Miss Sybil, would you please…" He trailed off. Sybil wasn't just trying to pull herself up.

Another shake nearly accomplished what Sybil had set out to do, reducing the number of claws hanging onto the back pack strap from five to three. His forearm, nearly dislodged from its joint before, came dangerously close to doing so again as they traveled slowly up. Thank –

Glass flashed from out the pack, the soft tinkling met by a whispered curse from Antonio. The bottles sent small refractions all around as they tumbled out of the bag, into the darkness.

Fates!

Aras hefted the stoat and marten onto solid ground.

"Has he stopped following us?"

Antonio did not answer Rea. He did not know. All he could think of was the glass flashing, flying, falling.

"He broke off some time ago," announced Thalliv.

"Thank Siren!"

Sybil stood just at the edge, exactly where she had the misfortune of standing when Antonio had blundered into her.

"Very well," he heard himself say. "We should continue on. Miss Sybil, if you would."

She did not move. Antonio stepped closer.

"Miss Sybil?"

Her eyes bore into that abyss as though paws stretched from them, trying to reach into that darkness and take back what was stolen. Antonio paused a moment, his eyes wandering to a loose thread at her shoulder.

"Miss Sybil…I owe you my life. Were you not there, I would have –"

For all the criticism Antonio viewed her with, Sybil was actually very strong. The stoat was nearly bowled over as she pushed past him, dashing into the greenery to sulk.

"I shall go speak to Miss Sybil. She has been through a trauma."

He gave Silisk a small nod before he walked after Sybil.

She had tried to kill him. That badly dressed, scruffy, wise-cracking urchin had tried to kill him. Yet, he had not been lying before; she had saved his life, even if she had endangered it not a moment later. Furthermore, her own life had been on the line in that her antidotes would have been lost – were lost because of him. Antonio had a kind of begrudging respect for wanting to look out for one's self. If anything, his life was far more valuable then hers, but her reaction was…understandable. At least that was what he continued to tell the ever gnawing frustration in his breast.

Matters did not much improve when he found he tread much further than anticipated without meeting Sybil.

Stupid girl. Why go this far only to sulk?

Antonio froze as he trod upon something. He did not have to look down to find out what it was. The familiar, copper smell was already wafting into his nostrils. Turning on his heel, he began to walk back to his group, then run, then sprint. Four pairs of shocked eyes focused on him as he exploded from out of the thick cover.

"Mister Thalliv was mistaken. Castille is closer than first expected."