Prologue II

The Eastern Coast

A few weeks later

With the autumn season half over, winter showed its ugly head early by unleashing a fierce storm over the Eastern Coast. The wind howled like thousands of screams. Trees were bent backwards and completely bare, stripped of the last of their leaves. The sea boiled and foamed, waves higher then the tallest ship rose up and crashed upon the shoreline.

Sheltered among the barnacle encrusted rocks where the cliffs met the sea, a black ship with dark-colored sails, furled and tied down to protect them from the wild torrent, had been anchored there out of the storm. The deck was deserted, as its occupants were down below to wait out the freezing tempest, catching up on sleep. A warm, yellow glow shined in the small, circular windows of the captain's stateroom. Evidence that some occupants of the ship were still awake.

The ship's well-furnished stateroom was occupied by three beasts. The first was an old, emaciated rat, wolfing down the sickly green seaweed grog that corsairs preferred along with a roasted shorebird caught earlier that day, tearing the tough flesh off of it greedily with what was left of his rotting teeth, his scraggly beard soaked with saliva and spilled grog. The dinner was his reward for giving some much needed information. He had been caught trying to steal from the corsairs who now hosted him.

Seasons earlier, he had been shipwrecked and left for dead, struggling to survive and stealing what he could. Stealing from this particular ship had nearly cost him his life, but the old rodent redeemed himself from execution by telling a strange tale.

Another rat, much younger and more heavily built then the first, was leaning back in a chair, his footpaws resting upon a nearby desk, sharpening a spearhead. Unlike most rats, he had more handsome features. The last was a big stoat with fierce yellow eyes, leaning against the same desk opposite the rat and staring intently at a map that had been pinned to the wall with knives at its corners. The map depicted the Eastern Coastline itself.

He tapped the butt of a silver hilted dagger, studded with a bright red ruby, against his chin, his eyes narrowed in thought. His clothes were fine corsair silks compared to the earth-colored rags that many of his crew wore. It was obvious that the ship and its crew was in his command.

The worn map was falling apart and covered in holes where the dagger's sharp blade had been tossed into it multiple times, marking the sites along the coast that the stoat had already searched. He had been about to give up on the whole journey and return home to the Northern country where he'd been raised- had it not been for the old rat and his strange story. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the nauseating sounds the ancient rat made as he ate and drank his fill. Though he was considered vermin, the stoat took pride in his own table manners and found the rat's lack of them atrocious.

Aiming the point of the dagger at the map, he gave it an expert toss and it embedded itself into the far right of the map, right where the words "Fort Marshank" had been scrawled onto it with red ink and marked with an 'X'.

The younger rat broke the silence between them, without looking up from sharpening his spear. "Staring at it won't make the answer magically appear, Vile One."

The stoat turned his head and glared at the rat over his shoulder, annoyed by the use of his nickname. "Well," he forced a smile. "If you hadn't sent those two dimwits to check it out-"

A revolting noise from their feasting guest cut him off. They stared at him in disgust for a few moments before continuing their conversation.

The rat continued sharpening his spearhead, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Couldn't spare anybeast else. It was either that or-" he paused and looked up at the stoat knowingly. "Watch duty." What the stoat didn't know was that all the crew refused to undertake a task in weather like this. It was only by bribes that the two so-called dimwitted weasels even took the job.

The stoat rolled his eyes and turned his back to the map, plopping himself down in the chair opposite the rat and rubbed his forehead. "Clamjaw, how did those two idiots make it past examinations?"

Clamjaw stopped what he was doing again and snorted, slightly annoyed and pointed the spearhead at him. "You told me to hire them no matter what, remember?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Because you wanted to quickly swell our ranks?" He grinned teasingly. "Don't tell me you've forgotten your master plan already?"

The Vile One dropped his paw from his face and glared at him. "Don't listen to me so closely next time!" He snapped. "And no, I didn't forget!" A loud rumble of thunder erupted outside, making the ship tremble.

Clamjaw fought the urge to roll his eyes at the stoat's remark and looked up at the ceiling instead. "Them weasels might not make it back till morning the way this storm is, Verang."

Verang the Vile, as the stoat was formally called, glared at the old rat, still stuffing food in his mouth like it would disappear from his plate if he didn't eat it fast enough. "As long as they do come back with evidence to back up this old wretch's story." He scoffed irritably. "Preybeasts conquering a horde of trained soldiers. What a load of codswallop!"

The two scouts in question were fighting the fierce gale, keeping their heads low and their eyes half open to avoid getting sand in them. Their fur had grown thick for the winter months but the corsair rags they wore gave them little to no protection against the biting cold, not even their winter-thick fur. The walls of Fort Marshank loomed above them on the rise, looking for all the world like a silent, hulking monster bearing down on its prey.

The pair of weasels were brothers. Foultooth was bigger and heavier muscled, with a diseased mouth that gave him his name. He was a vicious fighter, his skills quickly earned him a respected place among the Vile One's horde. Tac was the complete opposite of his brother. He wasn't quite as tall; he was thin and his fur was patchy. But he moved quickly. Though the pair showed promise in their abilities, they weren't the most intelligent vermin around. It was only by Verang's urgency to gather a large army that they were drafted at all.

Tac lifted his head and opened his mouth to speak but was given a mouthful of salty sand instead. He spit and sputtered, loudly cursing the world and everything in it, which caused Foultooth to pause and grumble under his breath. "I promised Ma I wouldn' kill 'im!" He turned around, paws akimbo. Tac spit again and stood there, shivering. "Whadda night t'do this! Why couldn't it wait till mornin'?" He spat again. "I'm gettin' sand in me mouth."

Foultooth narrowed his eyes. "Shut yer trap and it'll stop, ye moron!"

"But why are we doin' this?"

"Cause the Vile One ordered us to check that fortress out. What his reason is, I don' know!" He pointed behind them. "I'm gonna go do me job. You c'n go bouncin' back t'the ship and complain to His Lordship that it wasn't to yer likin'."

Tac gulped and shook his head fearfully. He had seen what happened if somebeast dared to disobey the stoat's orders. The Vile One would gut the offender with one of his fancy ruby-studded daggers and toss them, wounded and bleeding to his messenger seagulls. He could still hear the agonized screams as the fierce birds ripped into the unfortunate victims while they were still alive. Tac hurried past Foultooth, his fur standing on end with fright. "No, I'll stay wit' ye."

Foultooth rolled his eyes and followed at a much slower pace.

The weasel brothers were relieved when they found that the fire-damaged gates gave them a wind block from the raging storm. However, their relief was short-lived when they peered inside. Standing amid the ash and debris in the entrance, they gazed about in horror. The entire courtyard was covered in decaying bodies. Bodies of vermin much like themselves. The scavenging shorebirds had found easy pickings, as the bodies were jumbled and some bones, picked clean of their flesh, were scattered across the sand. Tac recovered enough to voice his reaction to the disturbing scene.

"Right, we've seen it." He spun on his heel. "Let's go- OUCH!"

Foultooth had grabbed his brother's tail and dragged him back through the ash. "Where d'ye think yer goin'?" He sneered.

Tac glared at him incredulously. "I ain't steppin' a claw in there!" He shuddered. "That old rat wasn't kiddin' when 'e said this place was covered in death!" He yelped when Foultooth gave him a hard shove, causing him to stumble into the fortress where he fell into a pile of bodies, getting his footpaw stuck in the ribcage of some unknown vermin. Crying out in disgust, he scrambled away on all fours and sat down, trying to pry his footpaw free.

Foultooth looked upwards in exasperation. "When yer done messin' around, Tac, go check out the left side. I'll go t'the right." He pointed at the ground between them. "We'll meet back here." He headed off in his chosen direction, leaving Tac glaring after him.

Tac finally managed to tug his footpaw free, tossing the ribcage where it hit the wall with a loud clatter and broke. He stood up, dusting the sand from himself as he looked to the left where Foultooth had ordered him to search, grumbling under his breath. "Why does 'e always order me 'round?" He stomped off to the left side, still muttering about his misfortunes under his breath.

The compound where slaves had once been kept was one of the few remaining structures that had survived the battle and neglect in the weeks following, having been built that way to withstand anything and keep its captives from escaping, even though they had managed to do so anyway.

Lurking among the shadows, some unknown beast watched from between the gaps in the thick wooden slats as Tac stepped over the scattered remains, heading towards its hiding place. A low growl rumbled in its throat as a murderous glint flashed in its black, bloodshot eyes.

Foultooth put a footpaw tentatively on the single step that led up to the fire damaged porch of a long building. Most of the structure had burned down, the roof having collapsed into it. Only the front facing wall remained standing. The wooden boards creaked loudly under his weight as he stepped cautiously into the collapsed building.

He began to rummage through the blackened debris for clues; anything relating to the old rat's account that an army of preybeasts had done this. Anything that would be of interest to the Vile One.

Lifting the remains of a table out of his way, something caught his eye among the ash. Tossing the wood pieces aside, he bent down and pulled out a piece of paper, its edges singed black.

Being illiterate (as most corsairs were) he couldn't make sense of the words written upon it. He shrugged and stuffed it into his tunic before continuing his search.

Tac peeked between the slats of the slave compound, trying to ignore the freezing wind that pounded against him. The scent of rain was strong but it hadn't started yet. Seeing nothing but darkness inside, he turned away with a scowl.

"There ain't nothin' 'ere but dead bodies. What a waste o'me time!" He grumbled and stomped towards the gates where Foultooth told him to go after he was finished with his task. He hadn't bothered to search his side thoroughly, figuring there was no reason to.

If he had, he wouldn't have failed to notice that he and his brother were not the only living beasts within the abandoned fort.

He stepped over the scattered remains, wrinkling his nose as the rotten scent of decay was whipped into his face by the wind.

As he stepped over a particularly gruesome body, his footpaw caught on an arm bone sticking out of the sand and he fell forward, landing among the remains, the exposed bones breaking under his weight. Crying out in disgust, he kicked out at the remains and scrambled away, spitting sand and gunk from his mouth.

Free of the reaching skeletal limbs, he sat up and looked over where Foultooth had gone. He grit his teeth, annoyed that Foultooth was searching in an area free of rotting bodies.

Feeling something brush the back of his neck, he slapped at it and got to his feet. Feeling it again, he snarled. "Cut it out!" He spun around to confront whatever was touching him and yelped in surprise. He gulped, unable to look away from the maniacal face before him. Lightning flashed overhead, lighting up its features.

The beast smiled.

The same moment Foultooth decided he'd had enough and was heading for the entrance, a blood curdling scream from Tac spurred him into action.

With a sheet of rain beginning to pour from the black sky, he peered through the heavy drops half-blinded, watching in confusion as his brother sprinted for the entrance with a dark figure running and snarling after him.

Overcoming his shock, he yelled a battlecry, drawing a short sword from his sash and raced to help his brother.

Tac, blood streaming down the side of his face from his torn-off ear, didn't stop when Foultooth slammed into his attacker. He vanished outside the fortress walls, leaving his brother behind. The figure screamed in fury and slashed out at Foultooth with its claws. The weasel danced to one side and swung out again with his weapon, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of infection coming from his angry opponent.

The figure launched itself at him again. Foultooth leaped away but its claws scraped his ribs as he did so.

Snarling in agony, he flung his sword out, nailing the creature in the jaw with the hilt. The force of the blow sent it stumbling backwards before falling to the ground.

Taking this chance to escape, Foultooth sprinted after his brother, his fur standing on end with terror when he heard an angry roar from behind. Fearing it was right behind him, he put on a burst of speed.

Tac had paused halfway down the sandy rise and was staring open mouthed as Foultooth sped past him. Hearing the snarls, Tac stumbled over his own feet in his haste to retreat and fell, rolling the rest of the way down the rise. He picked himself up at the bottom and ran after Foultooth. The two weasels sprinted all the way to the tideline and crashed into the shallows where they finally stopped, standing waist deep in the tumultuous sea.

Gasping for breath, they shivered violently, staring up at the fort that was now barely visible in the rain. They hadn't been pursued.

Foultooth shot a glare at him. "I 'ope yer 'appy wit' yerself! Leavin' me after I saved yer worthless behind!" He snorted, pointing at himself. "Yer own flesh n' blood!" He wrapped his arm around his bleeding side. The wounds from the beast's claws were starting to sting as the salty seawater seeped into them.

Tac was too stunned to hear his brother's complaint, holding a paw against the bloody stump where his ear used to be. "Wot in hellgates was that?"

Foultooth's eyes darted back to the fortress walls and he shook his head. "I don't know mate, but I ain't stickin' around t'find out!"

Soaked to the skin by the sea and the pouring rain, they took off down the beach, desperate to reach the safety of the ship, constantly looking behind them as if the beast was still chasing them.

To the Vile One's chagrin, their elderly guest had drank himself into a deep, drunken sleep and was now lying across the table snoring uproariously, the remnants of his meal being cleaned up by Verang's personal servant Marshfoot, a growth stunted, disfigured ferret.

Marshfoot was hard to look at but he proved himself useful by doing tasks most beasts in the stoat's command would've thought twice about doing. He was also a talented healer- a rare trait among vermin that weren't foxes.

Clamjaw had gone about on his nightly rounds of the ship when the downpour lessened to a drizzle, though Verang figured the rat only left because he got tired of listening to him pace back and forth.

Verang sat upon his desk, his mustard yellow eyes fixed on the spot on the map where he had written "Fort Marshank" in red ink.

He had scoured the entire length of the Eastern Coast now. Nearly six seasons of his life had been dedicated to searching the beaches, marshlands and the fringes of nearby conifer forests for any clues. At least until they had found the old rat, the sole survivor of a shipwreck who had settled in the area instead of traveling North where most corsairs had originated. The rat knew the name of the fortress- but not the names of the ones who built it, which frustrated him.

What the scouts would hopefully find at Fort Marshank was his last hope of finding out what may have happened to his father, a well-known corsair and trader who sailed off when Verang was young and never returned. The answers had to be there.

The Vile One tightly gripped the handle of his dagger. They had to be.

Clamjaw was finishing up his solo inspection of the ship, shivering under his damp cloak from the icy drizzle when two shapes emerged from between the rocks that encircled the cove. Lifting his lantern in their direction, he recognized Foultooth and Tac as the soft yellow light lit up their features. Their sudden arrival puzzled him.

What puzzled him even more was the absolute look of terror on their faces.

Resting the lantern on the side, the big rat picked up the rope ladder and tossed it down to them. "I wasn't expectin' you two lads til mornin'." He hollered above the rain.

Tac was first to reach the ladder but Foultooth grabbed his brother by the tail and tossed him away before taking hold and scrambling up with Tac close behind.

Clamjaw stepped away to give them space to climb up, taking the lantern with him. He looked them over as they climbed aboard, scratching his head in confusion.

"Why are you bleeding?" He asked Tac.

Tac shook his head vigorously. "Don' make us go back there, Cap'n!" He begged, dropping to his knees. "Please don' make us!"

Clamjaw blinked, clearly perplexed. "What are you talking about, weasel?"

Foultooth, remembering his manners, saluted his superior officer, though he was still trembling with fear. "There wasn't jus' dead bodies in that place, sir. B-but... there's somethin' still alive in there... and it attacked us." He pointed at his brother. "It tore Tac's lug clean off." He pointed at the claw marks on his side. "And this."

Clamjaw glanced down at Tac who was still kneeling on the deck, holding his bleeding head. He looked back up at Foultooth and raised an eyebrow. "Did you see what it was?"

Foultooth hesitated, suddenly realizing that he didn't get a good look at their assailant. Everything happened so quickly, he didn't think to check. "I... I guess we didn't look." He replied guiltily, shrugging his shoulders.

Clamjaw rolled his eyes, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "This will go over well with the Vile One." He massaged his brow, not looking forward to telling his boss what information the scouts had brought back.

Foultooth gulped nervously. "What will ye tell him?" He asked tentatively.

Clamjaw dropped his paw and snorted. Why should he have to report? It wasn't his news to give. "Me?" The big rat pointed at his chest and shook his head. "I ain't telling him anything, mate." He chuckled dryly. "Yer gonna do it yerself!"

Just as Clamjaw had predicted, the Vile One didn't take the news well. Especially after Tac stupidly suggested that maybe a ghost had done this to them. Claiming them to be incompetent and idiotic, the stoat sent the weasel brothers fleeing out of the stateroom for their lives, promising to skin them alive and use their pelts as décor if they failed again. In his haste, Foultooth didn't notice that the paper he found in Marshank had fallen out of his shirt and onto the floor where he had been kneeling and begging for mercy.

Clamjaw stood behind the desk with Marshfoot, watching the stoat unleash his fury on the hapless pair. He and the ugly ferret flinched as Verang angrily slammed the double doors shut once the weasels had fled.

Verang's yellow eyes met Clamjaw's and he pointed an accusing claw at the slightly nervous captain. "I told you from the start I didn't trust them to do the job right! How stupid do they think I am?" He spat. Turning on his heel, he threw his paws up in the air in exasperation. "A ghost! HA!"

Clamjaw didn't know how to reply. He could only shrug as the stoat continued on his tirade.

"The least they could have done was bring this "ghost" in for questioning!" He snarled and stomped to the middle of the room where the old rat still lay sprawled across the dining table, passed out drunk. When Verang spoke again, he seemed to have calmed somewhat. "I suppose they did manage to confirm the old one's claims..."

Marshfoot lowered his eyes to the floor and the piece of paper Foultooth dropped caught his eye. He walked over to it and picked it up. As Verang continued to vent, the ferret read the words that had been written on the paper, eyes widening in surprise when he saw the signatures at the bottom.

"...but if those two morons screw up again, they're fishbait!"

Marshfoot raised the paper above his head. "Pardon me, Sire." He waved it. "Have you seen this?"

Verang glared, still furious. "Seen what?" He hissed. Marshfoot held it out to him and the stoat ripped it out of his paw. As the Vile One stared at it, Marshfoot shot a triumphant look at Clamjaw and sat down in the rat's chair. Clamjaw rolled his eyes. The disfigured ferret was always trying to find favor with the stoat, in order to avoid a squeezed neck. Too many times, he had been the nearest thing that the stoat could find to sink his claws into.

Marshfoot nodded at the paper in Verang's paws. "I think we may have found who built the fort."

Verang looked up and a grin slowly appeared on his face. "You may be right, my ugly friend." He turned to Clamjaw. "Pick out your best soldiers. At dawn, I want you to go get this thing and bring it back to the ship."

Clamjaw groaned inwardly but nodded his head. "Aye, sir."

Verang sat down in his own chair and propped his footpaws up on the desk, now strangely relaxed compared to his earlier rage. "Your best soldiers, Clamjaw." The stoat repeated seriously. "That creature won't leave its fort without a good fight. You'll need all the help you can get."

The big rat nodded and exited the stateroom, muttering under his breath. He was not looking forward to tomorrow's task.

Once the captain was gone, Marshfoot popped the cork off a bottle of barleywine and poured it into a bronze goblet for his master. As he did so, he stared at the fire-singed paper that Verang had placed on his desk. "Looks like some sort of treaty. Its hard to tell what it says but the signatures are clear as day." He handed the full goblet to Verang.

The stoat took a sip and sat back thoughtfully. "Only our mysterious friend can tell us more."

As ordered by the Vile One, Clamjaw led a small group of some of their best crew members and headed towards Marshank as soon as the pale light of dawn colored the sky, armed with weapons and coils of thick kelp rope. The storm had ceased its downpouring of rain but some clouds remained, proving that the storm was not finished yet and would come back.

It was still bitterly cold, come mid-morning, yet Verang stayed out on the main deck, pacing back and forth restlessly as the rest of the crew worked around him, making sure to give him a wide berth as they went about their daily tasks. Foultooth and Tac kept the farthest away, remembering the stoat's deadly threats.

The nameless old rat, wrapped in a torn cloak, sat on the stairs leading to the quarterdeck with a bottle of grog in his paws, much to the Vile One's chagrin. Verang wanted him gone, finding him a useless mouth to feed as he had already served his purpose. The stoat had given him the chance to leave but the grizzled wretch remained on the ship, seeming to enjoy being back on one again.

The rat guffawed drunkenly. "Should be back about now, unless them preybeasts came back and got 'em."

Verang stopped pacing and rolled his eyes. Turning himself about, he smiled at his overbearing guest. "You don't know preybeasts very well, do you?"

"Haharr!" The rat hiccupped. "S'pose yer right. Why would preybeasts want t'protect a place like that?"

Verang was about to reply when a strangled yell came from beyond the barnacle encrusted rocks that encircled the ship. It was loud enough that the entire crew stopped what they were doing, turning their attention to the landside of the cove. Verang pricked his ears to pick up on the sound, going to the side of the ship and leaning against it.

The screams happened again and more voices echoed after it. The old rat limped up to Verang's side and grabbed the stoat's shirtback to steady himself. Verang pulled away from him and watched as Clamjaw suddenly appeared from between the rocks, shouting orders and looking very disheveled. More of the crew appeared, dragging a screaming creature by its neck and paws with ropes, struggling with its mad strength to keep it from attacking them. Those on the ship watched silently and wide-eyed as Clamjaw's group dragged the enraged creature onto the ship. Once on the deck, tied by all four paws, the creature was stretched tight and forced to lie face down as Clamjaw made his report.

The big rat was out of breath, sporting a bruised eye and a few scratches on his arms. He saluted Verang. "Here's your ghost."

Verang looked down in surprise at the prisoner. It was difficult to tell what kind of beast it was. It was filthy and ragged from head to tail tip. Excess skin hung from its emaciated frame, showing that it had been overweight once. And the foul stench of decay emanated from it, making the stoat wrinkle his nose and turn his head away from the foul stench.

Verang signaled for the ropes to be drawn tighter to ensure the prisoner was secured before going to it and kneeling down to get a closer look at a safe distance. "I wouldn't bother fighting anymore, my wretched friend."

The creature looked up at Verang with maddened eyes. They were rheumy and bloodshot, its pupils dilated so that no color showed, only black. It grit its teeth and snarled. "I knew you was pretendin' all along!" It finally spoke in a harsh, corsair accent. "Damn yer eyes, Badrang!" It screeched in anguish. "Damn. Yer. Eyes!"

Verang could hear the shocked whispers all around him as his crew struggled to figure out what it meant. Smiling, Verang stood up and found Marshfoot standing nearby, wide-eyed with fear.

"Marshfoot, prepare your herbs." The ugly ferret gulped as Verang continued. "I want this miserable wretch lucid enough to be interrogated." Without another word, he headed for the stateroom, leaving his crew staring after him in confusion. The creature continued to curse vehemently, but allowed itself to be dragged down to the brig, exhausted after the trek from Marshank.

Clamjaw didn't relax until the cell door was locked tight and he could leave the disturbed animal behind.

Later that afternoon, Verang and Clamjaw headed down the stairs to the brig, having heard nothing from Marshfoot since their prisoner had been locked away.

"Do you really think that's who it is?" Clamjaw asked as they descended the dimly lit steps. They had been discussing their prisoner's identity before deciding to check on Marshfoot's progress and had come to a shaky conclusion who it was.

"Don't let the filth and weight loss fool you, Clamjaw." Verang paused on the bottom stair. "I'm certain its him." A raucous bout of singing met their ears and they both winced at the ear-splitting tones of a mad creature.

Clamjaw, his paws over his ears, shook his head in bewilderment. "Wonder what happened for him to lose his mind like this?" He paused when Verang shot him a glare. "Well, I mean... he's always been a little nuts but this is pure insanity!"

Marshfoot appeared out of the gloom, wiping his paws on a towel. The disfigured ferret's fur was standing on end and there was a disturbed look on his ugly face.

Verang crossed his arms and swished his tail impatiently. "Well?" He raised a questioning brow.

"He's as lucid as I can get him." Marshfoot replied, glancing behind him nervously. "He has a nasty skull wound on the back of his head. At the rate he's going, he'll be dead by morning."

Clamjaw narrowed his eyes. "He's survived all this time and now he's dying?"

Marshfoot shrugged. "I would keep your questions short and to the point, if I was you, Sire." Without another word, the ferret jogged up the stairs to the main deck, leaving the stoat and the rat alone in the dimness of the brig.

As they walked towards the cell, Verang could see a grotesque shadow reflected on the wall from the lantern glow, left behind by Marshfoot for his master to use.

Peering through the bars, they saw that the prisoner had torn his bedding of straw apart and was now sitting in the corner, muttering to himself and rocking back and forth. Verang watched him for a few minutes before stepping into the lantern light. His sudden movement made the prisoner look up and fall silent.

He grinned widely. "Badrang!" He cackled which only added to Verang's discomfort. The prisoner got to his bloodied feet, where overgrown claws had curled into the cracked and bloody pads. He limped over to the bars and leaned against them, still grinning ear to ear. "Hahar! Strike me but ye can't be Badrang! I saw that sword go through yer black 'eart meself!" He laughed. "Yer jus' a bloomin' ghost, ye are. Come to haunt ol' Clogg." He suddenly broke out into a bout of coughing, causing Verang to wrinkle his nose and take a step back. He was having a difficult time deciding if this wretched beast was really the infamous Tramun Clogg or not.

The younger stoat finally nodded his head in acknowledgement. "That's right, you old fool. I'm not Badrang." He replied sharply. Clamjaw watched silently, hidden in the shadows, eyes wide as the stoats continued their conversation.

Clogg narrowed his eyes and looked Verang up and down. "Then wot are ye, then?" He coughed. "I've never seen ye before in me life."

Verang smiled deviously and folded his arms behind his back. "The Tyrant is my father." He raised an eyebrow. "Don't you recognize me, Clogg?"

The old stoat looked Verang up and down several more times again before snorting in disgust. "Aye. Now I do. Yer that brat who set me tail aflame! Tis a shame you survived infancy!" His last words were filled with contempt. "Carryin' on yer father's work, are ye lad?"

Verang had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He remembered that memory well. He and Clamjaw shared an amused glance. He and the big rat were raised together and were always pulling pranks on the other corsairs, saving the worst ones for Clogg as both their fathers loathed him with every fiber of their being.

Verang turned back to Clogg, grinning widely. "You remembered." He crossed his arms. "I suppose if you can remember the events of the past, you can remember what happened a season or two ago?"

Clogg backed away from the bars. "Wot's it to ye?" He spat. "Everybeast is dead, 'cept me. If ye want that crumbling hunk o'rock, you c'n have it." He sank wearily to the straw-strewn floor and coughed. "I don' wan' it."

Good humor was replaced with irritation. "I don't care about the fort, misery guts." Verang stepped closer to the bars and glared down at the wretched old stoat. "I want to know why they're all dead and you survived!"

Clogg looked up from the floor, his black eyes filled with hatred. At first, Verang doubted he would answer any more questions- until at last, he snorted in disgust.

"Your father's own slaves did him in! I saw the whole thing from under me wheelbarrow. I saw that young mouse skewer old Badrang through the heart with his sword. Never seen anything like it in me life."

Verang glared at him incredulously. "A mouse?" The very idea of it was ridiculous. His father, taken down by a mouse?

Clogg shook with laughter. He grinned at Verang and shook his head. "He weren't no ordinary mouse either." He sighed wearily. "Martin, they called him. 'e was one of your father's slaves that rebelled against him. T'was him that led the battle against Marshank." His smile faded and was replaced by a look of seriousness. "If ye still think preybeasts is soft, yer foolish fer thinkin' so. Ye would 'ave turned tail and run if ye saw this young warrior comin fer ye."

Verang fought to keep his temper under control. "Where did they go after the battle was over?" He asked through gritted teeth.

"They left Marshank in ruins. Only botherin' t'bury their own dead."

Verang snarled with impatience. "But where did they go, Clogg?"

The dying stoat shook his head. "Yer a temperamental wretch aren't ye?" He paused for a few moments before replying. "Heard some of 'em say Noonvale." He snorted. "Then they 'eaded North."

"Did this... Martin go with them?" The Vile One had repeated Martin's name as if it was a disease.

Clogg glared at him in annoyance. "Well where else would 'e go?" He suddenly broke off into a painful bout of coughing, severe enough that clots of blood fell into his dirty paws.

Marshfoot was right. The old corsair was dying.

"One last question." Verang hissed, seething with fury. "Where's my father's remains?"

Despite his difficulty to breathe, Clogg grinned. "In the slave compound." He wheezed. "Tis fittin' isn't it? A master of slaves, now a slave of death!" He broke out into a painful fit of laughter, clutching his ribs.

Verang turned and met Clamjaw's eyes again. The rat didn't need to ask what the stoat wanted. He nodded and retreated up the stairs to prepare the crew, leaving the two stoats alone.

Verang had calmed somewhat but the identity of his father's murderer still enraged him. The thought of a mouse killing a powerful beast such as his father was absurd. "I guess your information earned you some food." He told Clogg grudgingly.

Clogg shook his head. "Don't bother, Tyrant spawn!" He spat hatefully. "You'll be throwin' me carcass to the sharks afore long. I don' want yer damned food!"

The Vile One returned the hate-filled stare and turned on his heel without another word, leaving Clogg alone to await his impending demise. As he ascended the stairs, the fur along his spine stood up when Clogg suddenly broke out singing again. Something disturbing about death and being buried at sea. Verang breathed a sigh of relief once he emerged onto the busy main deck.

Searching for something to put his father's remains in, Verang dumped the contents out of a blue-painted trunk that was kept in the corner of his stateroom, reasoning it would work well as a coffin.

On the way to Marshank, the Vile One still fumed from Clogg's account of Marshank's downfall and the mouse who caused it. The empty trunk was carried between the two weasel brothers, Foultooth and Tac, who felt they had gained favor with their boss after their earlier mistake. The sun had come out briefly from behind the clouds, but didn't add any warmth to the freezing landscape. The wind coming off the sea was bitterly cold.

The sun was setting by the time they reached Marshank's destroyed gates. Ignoring the decaying remains of the Tyrant's horde and Clogg's corsairs, Verang led the way towards the slave compound.

Using discarded debris and their own weapons, Verang watched his crew batter the gate going into the compound until it finally gave way and crashed to the sand. Without a word, Verang stepped inside with Clamjaw close behind. He stopped dead, Clamjaw nearly running into him, when he saw what he had been searching for all these seasons.

Clamjaw remained silent as the stoat stared down solemnly at the decaying remains of what used to be Badrang the Tyrant. The fine silks that had once clad its body had decayed quickly. Most of the remains were nearly skeletal; only a small amount of flesh and fur remained. The skull's eyeless sockets were facing upwards, its jaw open in a silent scream. The Vile One knelt down next to the body and stared into the skull's sockets as if eyes still remained.

Slightly uneasy by the strange scene in front of him, the big rat poked his head outside the compound. The crew were quiet, not even daring to whisper. They became alert when they saw that their captain's head had emerged. Clamjaw motioned for Foultooth and Tac to bring the trunk inside.

The weasels kept their mouths shut, following Clamjaw's orders silently. Once the trunk was where the captain wanted it, they quickly retreated.

Taking off the lock and lifting the lid, Clamjaw reached inside it and unfolded a creamy white silk cloth and spread it along the bottom.

The big rat turned around and waited for Verang's orders. The Vile One was still kneeling beside his father's bones, still looking intently into the skull's empty eye sockets as if under some enchantment.

It was some time before the stoat finally snapped out of his silent state and rose to his footpaws. "Well?" He said in irritation. "Don't just stand there! Get them in here and start cleaning up!"

He allowed half his crew to enter and to begin gathering up his father's remains to place them in the trunk.

Turning away briefly, Verang gave instructions to the rest waiting outside the compound.

"Gather the rest of the remains into a pile. I don't care where you put it. And once that is done..." He paused and looked at Clamjaw. "I want you to burn it."

Clamjaw blinked in surprise. "Burn it?"

"This fort may serve a purpose for me in the future. I don't want to come back to a boneyard." Verang replied with a growl.

Clamjaw exhaled and saluted. "Yes sir."

A large inferno glowed under a cold, starless sky that dark autumn night as the remains of the two hundred or so corsairs were burned to ash, orange sparks and embers dancing and spitting upwards. The yellow and orange flames reflected in Verang's amber eyes, matching the anger and hatred that also burned inside of him for the mouse who had slaughtered his father and destroyed the Tyrant's empire- what the Vile One deemed had been his rightful inheritance.

What puzzled him about it though was that he had never heard the name Noonvale spoken before. He couldn't help but wonder if Clogg had been mistaken; after all, he was in a bad state of mind and close to death.

Despite this obvious setback, Verang was determined to find out if such a place existed. And destroy the mouse warrior responsible for the death of his father. His agile mind began to put together a devious plot to add to his other plan he had been working on as he watched the flames dance and crackle. With Marshank in ruins, it wasn't a suitable place to start an empire. And part of him knew if he tried to settle here that the preybeasts who defeated the Tyrant may come back again as well as another curious horde like Clogg's. He would have to find somewhere else that he could start building upon that would be far easier to protect. But until then, his main goal was to find his father's murderer.

Verang the Vile made a deadly vow that night, his paw resting on the top of the trunk that held his father's bones.

Martin would suffer for his crimes, slowly and painfully, until he took his last breath on the blade of his own weapon.

A/N: In case there's some confusion as to the timeline, the prologues take place at the end of Martin the Warrior, then Chapter 1 and on will pick up after The Legend of Luke, so quite a few seasons have passed between them.

UPDATE (7/22/2023): I edited a little of both Prologues and updated the cover. The other one just wasn't vibing with me. New chapters are on their way.