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Chapter 58. I Am the One, Camouflage and Guns
by Aras

"You killed me, Aras."

What?

The voice came low, haunting, with ice dripping from every syllable.

"You... killed... me..."

Aras found himself in a gazebo. He knew it was a gazebo, because it was an octagonal room constructed of glass and flakily-painted timbers. What he couldn't, for the life of him, remember, was how he'd come to know that. He'd read it, probably, and filed the word away somewhere with all of the other words which he'd hoped to find an excuse to write. Every scribe, he supposed, must have one, if they had any imagination at all. After all, any humdrum activities could cause the paw to write a "which" or an "all," but only extraordinary events could stir it to pen a "catastrophic," or a "quagmire." One "lachrymose" could make up for an entire scroll of "it"s.

However, Aras did not, at this time, want to be in a gazebo. There were things to be done, assuredly, and discussions to be had. Troops, which would be mobilized, spurred into action, and inevitably cut down, thanks to the actions which he might take, which he had planned out and doubtlessly would take, when he stopped mucking about in gazebos.

The wolverine turned. This gazebo, apparently, had been constructed without a door. All about him, in eight different directions, were panes of glass. No sign of a handle, hinges, or anything.

"You killed me, Aras." The voice was right behind him.

He turned. Nothing was there.

Glass cracked behind him.

He turned again. Something was there.

A gull had flown into the glass wall of the gazebo. Long cracks formed a spider-web across the pane. The gull should have flown away, but it didn't. It stayed, pressed against the window. It let out a rasping squall.

"You... you killed me," said another voice, to the left.

Aras turned towards it. It was hare, dressed in full regimental uniform. Blood was spattered all over his tunic. The hare sat beyond the glass, staring listlessly at a broken spear clenched in its paws. "You... killed me," it said again, not looking up. Its words were slow and deliberate, as though it simply could not reconcile this fact.

There was a long, wet, warbling sound, behind him and to the right. It was Tysen. The ermine's tongue was pressed to the glass, licking it in a slow circle. Saliva beaded on the pane.

"Tysen? What are you doing here?"

The ermine stopped. He stared through the glass at Aras. "Aras?"

"Tysen?" Aras asked again. "What are you doing here?"

Tysen smiled, showing blackened stumps of teeth. "Don't you know?"

Aras shook his head.

"You killed me," the ermine said matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"Oh yerss, Aras. You killed me. You snapped my footpaws and you broke my spine, an' I asked you why, Aras, why? An' you said I knew what I'd done, an' you left me there to die. I lay there forever and ever and it was cold and I couldn't move, Aras, and I died, Aras, and you killed me, Aras." Tysen practically spat the words at him.

Aras had nothing to say.

The ermine's white face crinkled in perplexion. "You really don't remember?"

"No!" Aras protested.

"You should remember," Tysen said matter-of-factly. "You killed me. I died, and you should remember that you killed me, at least. The least you could do, Aras, is remember that you killed me."

"I can't remember! I can't remember anything!"

"Do you remember me, Aras?"

An old squirrel appeared to Tysen's left.

"No!"

"How 'bout me?" It was a leveret, barely three seasons old. Blood dripped from his mouth.

"No!"

The gull squawked.

"What about me?"

"What about me?"

"What about me, Aras?"

There were more of them, eight in all, one for each window. There was a mouse, an owl, a wolf. They were all bleeding.

"No!" he stammered, turning about to encompass them all. "I don't remember you!"

They began to shout.

"You killed me!"

"You killed me."

"You killed me."

Sybil appeared, glowering. "You killed me."

Their voices became a clamor, with each one demanding that he recognize their deaths. And then, suddenly, there was silence. The images faded.

The blood-colored stone dropped from his pocket, and shattered on the floor. The shards melted, turned to blood, and the timbers drank them in.

"Aras."

In front of him was a white fox. She was young, beautiful. Her fur shone with a dazzling purity which made the snows of the Circle grey by comparison.

"Do you remember me, Aras?"

He stared into her eyes. They were black, black as night, yet they shimmered like the aurora borealis. And they were deep. Her eyes were like a bottomless crevasse, and he knew that if he were to step forward he would fall into them forever. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

And he had killed her. He had killed the rest, so he must have killed her.

Aras stared at the blood-stained floor, unable to meet her gaze. "I... I don't think I want to."

The vixen looked hurt. "Why?"

"Because..." The words seemed foreign, and they tasted bitter. "...I killed you."

A tear spilled down the vixen's cheek. "No, Aras," she whispered. Her voice was light, like a feather resting upon the newly-fallen snow.

"I killed you."

Aras' eyes snapped open. Thoughts peppered his mind, flicking him back towards consciousness. He was in the parlor. Pearl's place. Alone.

He had to go. Had to go... kill everybody. No. Not kill them. Save them. Save Evnakt by starting the war.

The vixen. She said she'd killed him. But... what... how? She was wrong, but dreams can't be wrong, can they? Because dreams came from within your head, and you can't tell yourself things that aren't true, can you? Maybe you can.

He tasted blood. Brull had mentioned blood, earlier. Blood on his teeth.

That thought had a sobering effect like an almighty slap. Aras' tongue probed at his fangs, searching for any last remnants. None. He was safe, again. For now.
In his mind the wolverine cursed violently. He'd held things together for so long, and suddenly, it was all crumbling to dust. Brull and Silisk had guessed him out, and the others probably wouldn't be far behind. He might as well go find the rest and announce his dietary complications.

Huh. That would be rich. I can see it now...

"I knew it from the start," Antonio would huff, obviously lying. Then he would probably preen. Pearl, of course, would gasp, and beg him to say he was only fooling. The dotty little vixen would probably stare at him quizzically for a bit, and then somebeast would have to explain to her what the word "carnivore" meant, and then have to explain the explanation, so that she wouldn't think he was a beast who went around eating meetings. And then things would be awkward, and conversation would be strained, and things would continue on continuing to get worse. No. Better to leave them in the dark.

This plan didn't involve them, by design.

Brull was on board. That was step two. Step one had been to convince Sarkleyet and Calderon that he was their only key to victory.

Step three... was a bit of a sticky wicket. Calderon was only one voice among the woodlander throng, and Aras rather doubted that the hare could rally all of the troops together on a Because-I-say-so basis.

Aras stared into the dying embers of the fireplace, watching the last tongues of flame dance across the blackened wood. War was a fire. Evnakt was the wood, Sarkleyet and Calderon the kindling. Brull and Aras were going to play flint and tinder: put them together, spark the kindling, and keep your distance when things get too hot. If the fire died out, they'd play fire-poker, too.

Yes, all of the ingredients were there. All they needed was the right spark.

Aras recalled the puzzle box they'd recovered from the apothecary basement. Whatever was in there, they could use, he was sure of it. Antonio hadn't been able to crack the thing, as far as Aras could tell, and he suddenly felt that it was high time to take a stab at it. After all, who better to solve the word puzzle than a scribe?

Easing himself off of the sofa, Aras trudged off in search of his spark.

====

"Antonio."

The stoat turned, looking mildly peeved.

"I need to see the lockbox."

It occurred to Aras that he could possibly have tacked a "please" on there, but he was sorely lacking the mental energy it took to feign politeness.

Antonio's brow furrowed. "No."

"No?" Aras was momentarily taken aback.

"No," the ermine stated flatly. "The box is in my possession, and I would much prefer that it remain that way."

One slash, Aras thought, drawing an imaginary red line across Antonio's throat. Just one. It would be like killing a flea.

Instead, he simply locked eyes with the ermine, and attempted psychically convince his obstinate head to explode. Antonio returned the stare for a commendable length of time before huffing, "Well, I am afraid that I must be going." Aras stared daggers into the ermine's retreating back, before a thought struck him.

Going... going where, Antonio?

Aras followed the ermine, who ducked into his sleeping quarters. Several moments later, he emerged, a pack of supplies slung over his shoulder. Antonio was indeed going somewhere. Doubtless his grandiose little mind had come up with an alternate plan for Evnakt's salvation.

Well, call me crazy, but if you're going to turn this into a race of factions, I don't think I want you to have a head start.

Aras looked at the pack. There were several noticeable bulges, but they were round, not linear. Importantly, not box-shaped.

He didn't take the box with him. Or did he? Aras tried to recollect the way that Antonio's pack had hung, the many thousands of times he'd looked at it during their journey. Antonio had kept the box near the bottom, so it couldn't fall out. The corner of it had poked Aras once. Antonio had stopped abruptly, and Aras had run into him. Antonio had given him a reproachful glance and made a direct point of loudly mentioning how breaking the box would probably result in disastrous consequences for all of them. The ponce.

Antonio rounded the corner, and was gone. Whether the box had gone with him... Aras didn't know.

Aras ducked into the ermine's room. A cursory glance revealed that Antonio hadn't been helpful enough to leave the box anyplace obvious. The room was largely devoid of furnishings – owing, no doubt, to the room's previous function. There was the bed, of course, with lavish blankets and dishevelled sheets that Aras didn't want to think about. In one corner squatted a chair, which Pearl had presumably provided solely to hang discarded trousers over. Antonio had turned it straight, square to the wall, so that each of the four legs was positioned in the middle of a floorboard. The end table had been similarly adjusted, so that no leg touched a crack in the joists. The bed didn't appear to have been moved, presumably because it was too heavy. Aras stooped. Sure enough, the left leg was square in the middle of a crack. That had probably kept Antonio awake for hours. The ermine's mind ticked with the precision of a pocket-watch, albeit one that had been wound too tight, and was liable to begin spewing little springs at any given moment.

Behind him, the door sagged open, supporting the weight of a bourbon-drenched Sherriff Brull. "Ellgamumbrugglingun," the bleary-eyed rat mumbled.

Aras smiled, despite himself. "Feeling rested, Sherriff?"

One red-rimmed eye twitched. "Do I look bloody rested?"

"No," Aras answered, honestly. Fates, but he's testy when he's had too much. "Haggard, if anything."

"Hag-what?"

"Never mind. Have you given any further thought to our plan?"

"Do I look –"

"A simple 'no' would suffice, Sherriff," Aras said, very meaningfully clenching a fist.

Brull caught the hint. "No. What are you looking for?"

"The lockbox we picked up in the apothecary. If my suspicions are correct, it contains something that we can use to heavily further our cause."

The rat's eyes wobbily scanned the room. "Not many places that box could be."

Aras sighed. "I know."

"I don't think we even need it, really."

The wolverine grunted, and pulled open the end table's drawer. It contained mostly dust, and something lacy Aras didn't want to hazard identifying.

Behind him, Brull droned on. "What we've got to do is capture one of those Felldoh's Heir nutjobs, someone significant, that they'll notice missing. We drag 'em back here, rough 'em up good, make sure there's lots of bruises and blood, and kill 'em. Then we string the corpse up somewhere they can't help but notice. They'll get all hot under their habit collars, be itching for a fight. We tell that hare, what's-his-whiskers, to send 'em to the city, because we know the Red Dusk is going to be setting up shop there. Then we tell Sarky that Felldoh's got an ambush planned, send 'em to the same spot. Boom."

"And whichever side is left standing hails us as their saviors. Well thought out, Brull. The bourbon does wonders for your mental faculties."

"Huh?" Brull looked confused.

"Of course, there's always the possibility that whoever wins the battle will conveniently forget what we've done for them, and try to have us eliminated. That's why we need a bargaining chip, and I think we'll find one inside the case. If it's here, that is."

Brull looked unconvinced, but nodded. "You touched the bed?"

There was a bawdy joke in there somewhere, but Aras let it pass. "What do you mean?"

"The bed. You touched it?"

Aras blinked. "No."

"Check underneath it."

The wolverine knelt and craned his head, scanning. It was difficult to make anything out in the shadows, but there didn't appear to be anything but dust. "Nope. Nothing."

"Really? Odd. You're sure he didn't take it with him?"

"Pretty sure."

Brull wandered over to a shelf, where Antonio had deposited the papers they'd collected from Nevyeer's laboratory. He ran a claw along the stack, ruffling the edges. "Huh," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Well, look at the sheets. They're rumpled. And if you didn't do it, that means Antonio did."

The pieces clicked together in Aras' head. "And there's no way he'd purposely leave the sheets like that, unless he was distracted. So you thought it was under the bed."

"Right. That stoat's tighter than the cork in a wine bottle." At this turn of phrase, the Sherriff looked dreamily upwards. "Try looking under the pillow."

Aras shifted the cushion, to reveal the lockbox. His eyebrows arched in bemusement.

Sherriff Brull smiled. "Oh, I'm good on bourbon, all right, but you should see what I can do when I've laid paws on a good glass of whiskey."

The wolverine examined the box. The four dials had been arranged to spell out a word which appropriately expressed Antonio's frustration at being unable to guess the combination. Aras changed it so it would read "L-U-C-K." He'd need lots of it, in the days ahead.

"So, who should we kill? Marcion?"

Brull looked at the papers, sniffed, and began leafing through them. "No."

"Why? He's their leader..."

The rat picked up a piece of paper and studied it. "Huh. 'How far can I walk into the forest?'"

Aras shook his head. "It's a riddle. Took us to a place in the forest, ultimately a dead end... Wait, there's some writing on the back of the paper. What's it say?"

Brull examined the spidery scrawl. "Says, 'Remember why i seek you.' Mean anything to you?"

Aras repeated the head shake.

The Sherriff shrugged and replaced the paper. "Me neither."

"Something to do with the box, maybe? Like a clue?"

"Pretty ruddy useless. Who knows why Nevyeer's seeking the Brandy?"

"Wealth? Power? Because he's a nutter?"

"None of those have four letters. Besides, we don't even know that the "you" is the Brandy, or who the "I" is. It might not be Nevyeer."

"It's somebeast without an education, that's for sure. The 'i' wasn't even capitalized."

"Maybe they had low self-esteem. So, why not Marcion?"

Brull snorted. "Because he's their leader. We're going for shock and awe." Aras couldn't help but notice the patronizing tone which subtly underscored into the rat's words.

"Umm... yes. We'd get that from killing Marcion." Aras' large claws fiddled with the dials. He tried to think of reasons why a beast might seek something. Love, maybe?

"Marcion's a radical," Brull said, holding up an educational paw. "And a bloody nutbag, but everybeast knows that by now. There've been enough casualties that Felldoh's Heirs will have lost their ideas of a glorious thrashing of the vermin, and probably even to start suspecting that victory is impossible."

The dials clicked until they spelled L-O-V-E. The box didn't open. "I don't follow you."

"Marcion's death wouldn't come as a surprise. They've been suspecting he'll die for a long time now, consciously or not. Same thing with any of his lieutenants, anybeast that's done time as a soldier. Nobody's surprised when a career fighter gets killed."

L-U-S-T also didn't work. "So what are you suggesting?"

"We kill somebeast that they're not going to expect. Somebeast that doesn't belong in a place like this, and doesn't deserve to die."

Aras raised a quizzical brow.

"A maid would probably be the best. A nice innocent one, who smiles, makes all the lads feel lovey-dovey inside, reminds them of their momma. Except pretty. Has to be a pretty one. Nobeast ever expects anything nasty to happen to the nice, innocent, pretty ones."

Aras remembered the vixen from his dream, the horror and shame he had felt, thinking that he might have killed her. A knot of revulsion twisted in his stomach.

No.

Brull capitalized on the silence. "We take an innocent maid, do some horrible things to her, kill her, and string her up for all the Heirs to see. I guarantee you, that'll outrage them more than a thousand dead Marcions."

The wolverine grimaced, his enthusiasm suddenly waning. "That... that's..."

"It's pretty bloody horrible, is what it is. Don't get me wrong. Makes me feel like vomiting. Takes a real rat bastard to even imagine something like this. But it's the right thing to do. It'll save lives. Innocents got killed here, Aras. The Heirs cut 'em down like chaff, because they thought it was right. Don't forget that. None of those woodlanders is innocent, deep down."

Then again, neither are we.

Aras nodded slowly. Lockbox in paw, he followed Brull out of the house. As the pair headed down the street, Aras slowly turned the letters, until the box read E-V-I-L.