Redwall: War of the Four Banners

by PepperDeadSworn

"Young as autumn, old as summer, from sea to forest the cries of war shall come Four armies, one outcome, in ruin you shall find the truth Look to the place of my rest, for friend shall be foe, and foe shall be friend." A epic tale of Redwall in which four great factions battle for the fate of Mossflower itself.

2. Time Skips and Other Painful Writings

Chapter 1: Time Skips and Other Painful Writings

'Dirt' had been playing a stick near the small pond below a great crevice of the main vermin encampment. It was a brisk day of spring, far off from the hustle and bustle of the small horde which moved seemingly every week or so. 'Dirt' could barely remember a time when the horde had only been a few Vermin and fewer slaves like himself, but seasons had passed and he was growing. He pretended to be a great warrior like his father, smacking at invisible enemies. He imagined he was fighting the vermin again, freeing the slaves of the camp, and leading them all far away from the life of misery. He enjoyed being alone at these times, it was the only peace had gotten. Where he had once enjoyed cooking and helping his mother with cleaning when he was but farmer's son, he came to despise it under Markem. His brother fared a bit better, mostly because he wasn't the one who purposefully took any and all brunt of Markem's anger. The rat had a cruel hand when he was frustrated and angry, which was rare but yet still put the fear of death into the younger otter.

'Dirt' smacked at a group of flowers with his stick, and came almost immediately regretting it. He sighed, as he swung his little stick around a bit more, feeling it as if it were the weight of a great sword. However, a single voice called out close to him, which made him nearly jump with terror.

"Yer terrible, ya know."

Markem stood over 'Dirt'. Usually, the Otter could at least hear the jingle of his chainmail, or the small brunt bashing of his wooden shield. Yet, Markem seemed to almost silently glide with a more simple, and cleaner brown set of clothes. The rat looked down, and guided his view to an empty bucket and gave a loud sigh. 'Dirt' looked down as he usually did, preparing himself to be reprimanded or beaten.

"I'm sorry sir, it won't happen again."

Markem shook his head "Ya get later an' later with the tasks I give ya, an' frankly it annoys me more then most other things."

'Dirt' remained silent, keeping his head faced to the ground. Markem however came over and picked up the stick that was abandoned on the ground and examined it. 'Dirt' found it cruel and ironic, expecting Markem to hit him for his laziness with his temporary toy. Yet the rat relented, even as 'Dirt' closed his eyes and expected the worse.

Markem grasped 'Dirt's' paw and placed the stick in his hand. The otter looked with confusion as Markem began to lecture him "Its a pet peeve of mine. Everyone always be swingin wildly at ya, but a sword be a tool. Shoulders up, stick forward, and stab forward." Markem showed 'Dirt' a little technique he had learned a long time ago, when he had trained under a different horde. 'Dirt' did what was asked, but when he messed up, Markem lightly slapped him upside his head.

"Again. Yer shoulders, boy. Yer shoulders are important, keep em up! Ya gotta be aware, which is why what yer were doin was terrible." Markem turned him from side to side, helping the Otter along with his pretend blade. He felt like he was training a young hordebeast, which was what he had been doing for about several weeks now. The Otter surprised Markem a bit, learning at least some basics very fast, but yet wanted to return to his poor habits. Markem eventually got annoyed and took the stick from him.

"I sent ya out to fetch water. Best do it."

"Yes, sir. Sorry. . .sir." 'Dirt' answered. He looked up with Markem looking back down at the growing otter. Markem sighed out "Maybe I'll show ya some tricks later, but only after ya are done with all yer tasks."

'Dirt's' curiosity got the better of him, peeking up to question "If I may ask sir-"

'Dirt' was cut off by Markem "I don't know, and nor should ya care. Look, I just find that form useless is'z all. I've been seeing worse all week, an' I'm sick an tired of it. Yer lucky I don't get ya lashed to that damn bucket! Now get a move on before I change me mind."

'Dirt' didn't question it, as Markem sat at the pond's edge to take a sip of water, with his slave gathering some into a bucket. Both would return to the busy tents and howls of vermin laugher as they prepared to settle in for the remainder of the day.
_

Markem had been busy since leaving Pelg's camp several seasons ago. The small group of vermin successfully raided some townsteads and villages along the Moss River, and crossed it without much difficulty. The group camped beyond the river and survived the winter on the food from their looting of Pelg's former home. For Pelg and his horde itself, little was heard, and it frightened vermin there. Some heard Pelg won his battle, others say he lost, and rumor of massacre spread around the camp. None would until spring when a vermin soldier of the army crossed by the camp, and joined them. The group learned that Pelg was defeated in an ambush, and was one of the first casualties of the battle, quickly slain by a sniper. The Long Patrol predicted easily of Pelg's march on their barracks, and set up an ambush a few days in advance, the vermin army surrendering fairly swiftly. The remaining vermin were scattered, the prisoners were marched out to the north without their weapons and exiled. The young otters which accompanied Markem were mortified to learn that the slaves had been freed from the camp, 'Dirt' never having cursed himself so fervently in his life had he simply tried to stay.

When spring did arrive, the group wandered southward more and more, with their numbers growing. Markem became a boss of the group, although he wished deeply he hadn't. He felt awkward giving orders rather than receiving them, and he began to mostly command his gang around like a common group of bandits, stealing and intimidating at the far edges of Mossflower country. Yet, Markem was different from other warlords the vermin knew, a creature who seemed more interested in the survival of his fellow vermin, rather then using them as tools.

Markem joined in the raids often, he and his captains Jarolom and Scarl trained their vermin in proper tactics, and Markem never beat his horde into line. He even refrained from demeaning them, which many of the new comers found weak. Yet, when they tried to challenge him, Markem was swift with his blade and justice. More than once did he put down ambitious fools, but what surprised those around him was that he also forgave some who humbled themselves in their attempt to save their own skins. Markem's horde of beasts grew from a meager 12 common creatures, to over 90 by the end of the season. As the season entered winter again, Markem had been more confident and re-entered north eastern Mossflower once again.

Markem was perhaps even more of an enigma amongst not only the common hordebeasts and bandits he recruited, but amongst his prisoners and slaves. Markem took it upon himself to keep all slaves as his own property, rather than divided up amongst the horde. Markem was specific on not trying to overwork his prisoners, keeping only a few, and not bringing horrific misery to those in his captivity. While most of the slaves still cooked, cleaned, and labored for their masters under the threat of the whip, Markem had been different and spared the rod more often than not. By the time of the 2nd summer had rolled around, Markem had collared most of his horde's slaves with ropes, keeping them identified to his horde.

Now, the horde was camped in the plains far beyond the sight of Camp Tussock, and had grown to 130 individual vermin soldiers, and was still growing. Yet, Markem now had ambitions, a discussion wrang up amongst his horde as he entered his main tent, with Scarl and Jarolom awaiting nearby.

"I heard there was a scuffle with Lagrog's boys yesterday?"

Scarl shook his head with disappointment and pointed to a map of Mossflower on a small barrel which has been the only table they could get their paws on. "Aye. Lagrog still doesn't like us. I fear we may have to fight him an' his band."

Lagrog is a stout who gathered 30 idiot bandits to declare him 'Warlord of Big Burrow' in eastern Mossflower, living out of a hole in the ground. The bandits preyed more on vermin then others, and had been raiding Markem for some time. Markem usually tried to be diplomatic first once he discovered that talking down and intimidating others worked a lot faster and easier then just killing them. Lagrog was a little bit different, being simply a lazy creature who really disliked Markem for his horde's growth, while he suffered for years trying to grow his own. Lagrog was more known in this part of the world for kidnapping a group of other vermin and forcing them to build his wooden fortress, a failure which still stands today as 'Lagrog's Refuse'.

"Then so be it. We know where his little hole is at least. Kill him, and we'll recruit his number."

"Why not kill em', more mouths to feed if we allow em' to live." Jarolom chimed in. Markem shook his head and reiterated what he had told the fox many times over "Nay. Killin every vermin we come across caus they fought us or some other fool reason only tells em' I am not different from every other wannabe king or boss in this wretched world. Were goin to be different, and as yer boss, ya will spare them. If they accept peacefully, we will let em' join. If they don't, they can go off for now. Now rally the horde, we march against our enemy in due time."

---

Swish. Thwack.

'Dirt' was having trouble keeping up as Markem bashed him with a stick over and over again, 'Mud' watched on with interest and worry as the two partially duelled in the large thicket outside of the camp. This whole ordeal was the few times Markem found peace in his duties, and the years began to grow in on him. 'Dirt' was older now, slightly taller then Markem was now, but still as poorly dressed and bearing his rope collar with discomfort as he dueled the rat with a meager stick. Markem feigned an uppercut which the otter parried. However, a swift kick of dirt into his eyes and a couple harsh beatings of the stick on the otter's head put him down into the ground.

"Hey! That ain't fair!"

Markem offered his paw to help 'Dirt' up and grunted in annoyance "Battle ain't fair. Ya use what ya got on ya. Besides, that stance was still terrible! Ya gotta stop usin it."

'Dirt' accepted Markem's paw and got back onto his two feet. The rat picked up the otter's stick and gave it back to him "Father used to say he used that stance all the time." 'Dirt' reminded Markem. Yet the rat was having none of it "Aye, good fer beatin up a coward bandit who can barely hold a stick themselves. Ya gotta be aware of yer surroundings, move to deceive yer enemy till ya get close an' personal. Then ya strike. Warfare from my experience ain't nothin but deception, if ya wanna win an' live, ya gotta learn how to fight like that."

The three were interrupted by the padding of feet upon the ground, as a fox brushed up along the trees and humbly bowed to Markem. The fox was skinny and caped in a red maroon cloak, constantly patting his paws together in an awkward motion. It was Karlgo, a fox who had joined Markem seasons ago when he slew the warlord Lagrog. Markem felt lucky to have the skittish and fearing creature in his ranks, for despite the creature's cowardice, he was very good at keeping tabs on internal matters in his warband. Karlgo helped him organize the horde better, and "advised" Lagrog, although the stout never took his advice to heart. The fox came by and spoke fearfully to Markem

"M-my lord. Yer mates were askin fer ya earlier. Scarl wants a word about the plan with Jusbrag."

"Tell em' I'll be there in a moment. 'Dirt'. 'Mud'. Follow."

The four creatures went away from the peaceful underbrush, with 'Dirt' hopeful they would find some peace shortly after the whole campaign Markem was planning was over.
_

Markem's horde was growing, and he now had over 400 vermin at his command. A number which would terrify even a Long Patrol garrison if they had been near one. The horde had settled northward, far from Mossflower, with a single motive in mind; to take the fortress of Jusbrag.

Jusbrag is a mountain fortress, built primarily by the slaves of several vermin hordes, but it acted as one of the more impressive settlements. It was built into the mountains themselves, with large and thick stone walls which protected a ring of smaller barracks, fields, and quarries which held firm. It was ruled by a grayish and elderly fox named Kaulak, and he held a firm and iron grip over the entire horde. He had been once a great conqueror, leading a valiant assault on the abbey of Riftguard. The attack cost him most of his sons and daughters, and for his bravery, earned him a lessened horde. Yet, the horde had stood tall and proud, resisting attempts to take it. Markem was now here, his sight not on Jusbrag itself, but its allegiance, and the key to that allegiance was within one of Kualak's captains, the fat and bulbous weasel Kylan Bignose.

Kylan and Markem joined as a partial triumvirate with another nearby warlord named Kostomar, who had been building a sizable warband in the north. Kostomar is an elderly rat, a gray rat from the far north who had pillaged his way down into the land to set up his own fortress. Markem had visited him once, met his family of graying rats and their meager sized horde. Kostomar held nothing but ill words of Markem, but agreed to aid him in taking Jusbrag in return for loot. The plan was simple; Kylan and his brother, Loc, would assault the gates from the inside of the fortress and unlock them for Markem and Kostomar. The armies would rush in and take Jusbrag, and reward the fortress to Kylan. However, keeping this alliance together was difficult for several crucial reasons.

"Yer an idiot, Kylan! An Idiot! Of course ya cann' keep the fortress without payin me fer the trouble!" Markem heard the loud, and elder voice of Kostomar from outside his own tent, a meeting place. Scarl's voice could be heard, trying to calm down Kostomar. Markem was accompanied by 'Dirt', who held a small plate of food for his master as they entered the tent together.

Kylan's size still terrified both Markem and 'Dirt'. The Weasel was large, fat, and dumb, but he mocked Kostomar to his face. "I'd like to see ya try, grayback! Any an' all loot be mine! When I rule Jusbrag, ya should be bowin to me, not stealin from me!"

"By every season in every land, I swear by me claws I'll rip ya limb from limb, ya overly fat and incompetent-"

Scarl spoke up at the two. "Hey! Hey! We are allies here, not enemies. Kylan, we agreed to this, remember? Ya were to share 50% of all loot in the fort with Kosto-"

"I ain't given a single amount of penny or ducat to this wretch till he agrees to call me King Lord Master of Jusbrag! That fortress be mine rat, ya hear that, mine! Any an all in it are mine as well."

Kostomar angrily placed his paws into his hands, the balding creature could barely stand anyone in the tent. 'Dirt' offered a plate of fresh bird to him, which the rat threw aside viciously, nearly kicking the otter over. Markem shot a vicious glance at Kostomar as 'Dirt' recollected the dropped food and left in a hurry.

"Trouble I hear?"

"You can be quiet, ya stupid wretch. Why ya agree to allow this water-brained weasel to lead this little incursion into Jusbrag is beyond me! Curse me and you for agreeing to this!"

Scarl reiterated "As I was sayin, Ya cannot just try to vassalize Kylan here, and Kylan will agree to give ya half the lo-"

"Damn the loot, who needs it! I want Jusbrag now!"

"Well ya cannot have it!" Kylan angrily shouted, struggling to swagger "An' ya cannot have me loot!"

Markem pounded the table in front of him, a 'gift' from a mouse family he had intimidated a season back. The three silenced themselves as Markem spoke with a vicious hint of anger. "Kylan, be silent. Ya agreed to give us half an' half, an to ally with me horde in return for us killin yer boss and giving ya the keys to Jusbrag."

"Jusbrag don't got ke-"

"Enough. Ya know these terms be fair for what we are doin, right?"

Kylan folded his paws and slowly nodded. He didn't like agreeing with Markem, but it was what he agreed to when they had met through Scarl. Markem turned his attention to Kostomar

"An as I said before, ya will get half of the loot itself. There will be no discussion on if Kylan or anyone else bows to another here. If ya want to leave this to me, then ya can pack yer horde up an' go."

The elder rat huffed and glared in hate at the two of them, but relented. Old age had caught up with him, and he had no strength to fight as he once did. Kostomar eventually relented "I'll continue on, but ya are still a stupid fool for thinkin this incompetent deserves that fort instead of me."

"We cannot even breach into Jusbrag without Kylan's aid. Just to let ya know." Markem reminded him "Now, can we at least all agree to strangle each other, after we take the fortress?"
_

The attack on Jusbrag had been well planned by Scarl in advance, the ferret taking great pride and joy laying out a vast web of intrigue, all for which to topple the frustrated elder fox who cursed Markem and his traitor captain at every turn. Scarl preferred to watch from afar, with everything falling into place as if on a timed clock. The siege of Jusbrag began when Markem and Kostomar encamped outside the gates and made their demands. When the fox refused, the armies waited till night when Kylan and his traitors opened the gates when the moon shown high. Once open, Markem personally led the charge of vermin into the stone fortress, swiftly slashing and fighting his way into the main keep. Markem was well guarded, and Scarl made sure of it. Only his best and paw picked vermin followed the warlord closely.

Scarl watched from some brush as the battle unfolded. Joining him was another vermin who had been crucial to all of his planning, a weasel in thick armor and a series of scars across his face and a split open nose. The creature sat next to Scarl as he watched the battle unfold, fastened to his back were iron tipped javilens, and to his belt a shortsword. The mercenary spoke up with some glee.

"All goes well I take it?"

"Yes Kudgel, it all goes very well." Scarl smiled.

"I don't understand ya Scarl. Ya could have just retracted them vermin guardin that rat an' get em' killed. Ya would be boss. Ya know that, right?"

Scarl produced a pouch of small silver coins and tossed them gently at Kudgel who swiftly took it into his paws. Scarl snickered a bit "An have the unfortunate task leadin this rabble? No thank you! This Markem, he different ya know. Different, fresh ideas. Some of them mine even."

"Heh. Odd creature. Kylan by the way sends his regards."

Scarl smiled. Kudgel was his beast on the inside of Jusbrag and had made the contacts with Kylan and his brood of ambitious traitors. Scarl even thought it would be amusing to have Kylan assassinated during this whole debacle, maybe poisoned, maybe thrown off the high walls. Yet, Markem seemed insistent on letting the fat idiot live. Scarl at first vehemently disagreed with trusting a traitor as a possible ally of their warband, but Markem seemed to come to a form of agreement. Kylan wasn't a sharp creature, but he could be made loyal if Markem could buy his loyalty. That loyalty was bought with granting him the fortress in the first place, and an equal partnership in being aligned with his own horde. Rather than subservience of a traitor captain, Markem would buy Kylan's loyalty with a beneficial relationship, a diplomatic maneuver. It intrigued Scarl enough to agree with it, and even if it didn't work out, he could just get Kudgel to return to Kylan's service and kill him through his own means. Scarl hoped that Markem was right, that Kylan was worth this time and effort, and if not, it would be a harsh lesson for them both.

"Good to hear."
_

The battle was over, and the battle won, but Markem and Kylan were tired. The plan work perfectly, but the battle was long. Fighting into the keep was easy enough, fighting in the close knit spaces without being crushed became difficult. Scarl's hand picked soldiers had to drag Markem from the battle and into a small alley to prevent his own soldiers from accidently crushing their warlord, and even later into the battle, Kylan jumped into a slave barricade and hid there when his own bodyguards were felled. The battle had been over quickly, and the warlord of Jusbrag was killed in his own stone hall, speared to death by Markem's soldiers. The head of the fox was presented to Kylan, who raised it on a pike and paraded it around in the fort in celebration of his victory. Many weeks of planning had come to fruition, and all Markem wanted to do was return to his tent and rest.

The warlord rat returned to camp along with his horde, allowing his new ally to enjoy his victory. Tomorrow would be a long day of actually dividing up the loot, a process which made Markem dread his decision. Kostomar would likely cause trouble that day, although it was well deserved. Kostomar's captains were able to use heavy shields to prevent grievous casualties as they assaulted the stone fortress. After dismissing his retinue for the night, Markem returned to his great tent and war room in the middle of the camp.

Awaiting in the tent was 'Dirt' and 'Mud', both younger otters had been playfully testing out a captured gameboard, but having no clue how to use it. It was one of many trophies in the tent. When Markem entered, the two quickly arose to their feet, not expecting him to return too quickly. Markem saw that his undone bed was still not well put to use, and his plate was empty. A quick sneer from the rat made the two quickly return to their tasks. Markem couldn't blame them too much, they may have been slaves for a long time, but they were still otter children at heart. 'Mud' collected a plate and glass and rushed out to grab some fresh meals, while 'Dirt' shifted himself over to the bed to organize the sheets and fluff the pillow. Markem however called to him.

"Not yet. First, help me get out of this damn armor."

'Dirt' reluctantly agreed. It was one of the worst jobs in his opinions, because Markem was never happy with how he helped him. Markem liked having armor, he just hated wearing it so often. He complains constantly about it overheating him in the summer, and making it too cold for him in the winter. As Markem finally was undressed, he began looking over the maps. He admired how far he had come since being a common horde beast to Pelg the Tall, and now he was assaulting fortresses.

"Today, Jusbrag." He mumbled to himself "Tomorrow Mo-"

There was a padding of feet at the edge of the tent, as a figure strode in unannounced. It was a ferret, but it wasn't Scarl, he was too big and too mean looking. He was well armored and carried a large spear in his paw, but held a sword to his side. Markem nearly recognized him straight away, it was. . .was. . .well Markem couldn't remember his name, he just knew he was a captain of Kostomar.

"My lord. Kostomar sends his deepest regards on the victory at Jusbrag this night."

"Aye. Yer lord be impatient, I'll meet with him tomorrow as soon as I-" Markem didn't finish his words, as the ferret captain quickly lowered his spear and jammed it into Markem's unprotected shoulder, fumbling as he did. He had aimed for Markem's chest, but the rat let out a pained shout. Markem grabbed onto the spear's handle and forcefully pushed it out, grabbing his sword and parrying another swipe. Markem flipped the table at his would be assassin as the ferret leaped over and tried to spear him again. The ferret was skilled and quick, but not quick enough as Markem smashed his sword into the spear and forced it to the ground.

The ferret drew his sword in anger and knocked at the head of Markem's face, forcing the rat to be downed. Years of effort felt wasted as Markem laid on the ground, bleeding and in pain. The ferret cruelly raised it's blade to strike down the rat, and was stopped when 'Dirt' grabbed the ferret from behind. With an arm over the ferret's throat and another arm holding for dear life at the captain's sword paw, 'Dirt' felt tiny claws from the beast's free hand as it attempted to grasp and claw at his own arms. In pain himself, 'Dirt' fell backwards onto the ground, still holding the vermin in the chokehold, hearing the pained gasps as the armored beast felt cheated of its life as it desperately tried to claw and scratch. 'Dirt' was strong, years of laboring under Markem tended to do that. The otter felt the body numb a bit, and then slump over, the ferret letting go of its sword. 'Dirt' let go and rolled the beast over, but he looked at the cadaver mortified with what he had done.

Markem arose, gripping his arm as he looked down at the dead ferret, and then at the shocked 'Dirt'. He had saved Markem this day, for what reason, Markem did not know. He wanted to ask, but he felt it was a bit inappropriate, for 'Dirt' gripped his arm in pain and looked back at his kill, over thinking what he was doing. Markem calmly put his paws on his shoulders in understanding. It would be a long night, but a longer day tomorrow.
_

The next morning, Jarolom and Karlgo entered Markem's tent cautiously, eyeing the dead ferret strapped to a wooden pole outside the tent which caught some curious glances. When the two entered, Markem and 'Dirt' faced Scarl across from each other from a damaged table. The tent had been surrounded with a small cadre of soldiers, all of them vigilantly watching as the camp was alive with rumors. Markem had to come out every once in awhile just to reassure his horde he wasn't dead. Despite Markem and 'Dirt' having bandaged themselves up, Scarl was the one who seemed furious.

"How?! How did we not have guards by the tent?! Did any of ya dismiss them?!"

"Don't beat yerself up too much, Scarl, this ain't a problem till now. Perhaps I have been a bit too trustin with the likes of Kostomar an-"

"He nearly had ya assassinated, and ya blamin yerself! I say we march up to his little fort an' kill em dead!"

"That is the plan."

"Now you w-what?" Scarl said a bit surprised.

"Yer right, we gotta go up to Kostomar an' just kill em. Playin these diplomacy games got us somewhere with Kylan, but creatures like Kostomar deserve to be hanged. He made his choice when he tried to have me gutted."

Jarolom coughed to announce his presence, both high command vermin turned to greet him.

"Ya doin well Markem?"

"Aye, but not well enough." Markem patted his wound, and angrily spat. "I need a good doctor, a better one then meself. Regardless, we were hopin you could help convince Kylan to join in me trip of vengeance on that damn northern idiot."

"I'll tell em, but I do hope our trust in that fat cretan was worth the effort."

"If it wasn't, then ya can lead the horde from now on." Markem was only partially joking. He felt if there was any more bad news today, he may as well just let Jarolom or Scarl take over.

"I'll go at once." Jarolom left to complete his duty, but Karlgo stayed and peeped up "If I may say, me lord, perhaps I should make a rather obvious suggestion."

"Hmmm?"

"I know it sounds silly for a strong, independent, and fier-"

Markem motioned the cowardly fox to speed up his speech. The fox complied. "Perhaps ya should consider gettin a bodyguard, perhaps? Scarl had hand picked some volunteers. Maybe they would do well."

Scarl interjected, although with an embarrassed look "I hand picked those creatures from. . .from members of Kostomar's warband. They were strong vermin who joined us at a whim. They are also likely conspirators who helped that assassin into yer tent I bet."

"Ya chose my personal guard from Kostomar's cretans?"

"It sounded decent at the time, that damn diplomacy an' all. A sign of trust."

Markem shrugged "Regardless, while that suggestion is good Karlgo, I've already made my decision on who will be my bodyguard from now on."

"Oh?" Karlgo asked inquisitively, and Scarl raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

Markem patted 'Dirt' on the back, the otter looking back at Markem with surprise. He had stood mostly silently at his side for most of these meetings, but he could only feel as if he was put on a social raft. The fox and ferret looked at 'Dirt' judging him harshly with their eyes. "'Dirt' here choked out his first vermin today, an' in the defense of me. Sounds good?"

"Well. . .its unconventional for a slave to do such things, but you are the boss."

Scarl squeezed his eyes and nodded "As ya say sir, but I am going to build up a list of possible recruits for ya."

The two exited the tent as Markem turned to 'Dirt' who looked back at him, but realizing that Markem did not like being looked directly at by the otters, he returned his head to a lowly bow.

"I'll have to make an actual soldier out of ya yet first, 'Dirt'. First things first, start tidying up the place. I'll be back shortly when I give ya yer new orders. Don't think of this as a promotion, otter."

The otter only gave a nod to the rat as he left the tent, leaving him alone to think and ponder. As 'Dirt' began to work on tidying up the tent and going about his task of cleaning, 'Mud' entered the tent in a hurry. He quickly came over to his brother and began to check him.

"Dak! Hey! I'm fine, i'm fine!" 'Dirt' said, nearly yelping in pain when 'Mud' touched his clawed arm.

"It's not fine, Jan! It ain't fine at all. I heard ya nearly died, ya killed that ferret out there didn't you! How, when. . ."

"It's a bit of a short story. I saved. . .Markem." 'Dirt' felt sick for saying that, but yet the slight warmth of comfort as well. It disturbed him. 'Mud' could see it, and he looked confused at his brother for a bit, not fully understanding. "You saved him? Why?"

"I don't know. I was just frozen there for a time you know, not sure how to react. I just reacted I guess. Then I thought, if Markem dies, what happens to us? We'll still be slaves at the end of the day, but with a less Markem-ish master."

"I suppose." The two otters had long ago gotten used to their captivity under Markem, broken in by their long years of service. The thought of running was always squashed by 'Mud' having to remind 'Dirt' of his previous attempts as children. They still held a personal spite for their family's murderer, but Markem had treated them better over the years.

"Well, I'm glad ya just got some cuts. How was Markem? They didn't allow me to even crest the hill till I got Jarolom to speak on my behalf." 'Mud' nearly spat at the fox's name, never having fully forgiven him since they were children.

"He got some wounds for sure, but you saw him leave in a huff? Hes going to attack that Kostomar rat. Ya know the one."

"I do, Jan."

The small nicknames the two otters shared with one another had been the last pieces of their former lives they still held onto. The two otters had not faltered away from cleaning and tending to Markem's tent and fetching what he needed, and it just felt good just to call each other by their real names when he wasn't around. However, 'Dirt's' face soured and he looked down at the ground, an all too familiar sight for him. 'Mud' could instantly know something was wrong.

"Jan. Did something happen?"

"It did. Markem said I am his bodyguard now."

"What?" 'Mud' asked, a confused look came over him. 'Dirt' would spend an hour just trying to explain what Markem had said. 'Dirt' began to regret pretending to be a warrior for the first time in his life, as he looked into the increasingly worried look of his brother.
_

Markem may have been injured, but he still led his army to Kostomar's small wooden fortress nestled north of Jusbrag. Past several small plains and placed between thick trees and several small forests, the small warband held firm as an ancient home to Kostomar and his brood. Markem had only visited the fortress once to even meet the elder rat, and even then, it was a fairly typical experience. Kostomar mocked and berated Markem every moment he had gotten, but trying to kill him was a bit too far for Markem to hold much mercy to. Markem outnumbered his horde, but what he had not expected was Jusbrag vermin joining him in short order. Jarolom swaggered to Markem as the horde marched, with a smile on his lips.

"I take it things went well with Kylan?"

Markem's answer came when Kylan himself bounded from the midst of his own horde and came up to Markem, looking him over, and smelling him with his large nose. "Ya don't smell of disease then!? Good! Ya lived to see another day, ya lucky mucker!"

"Kylan brought his whole horde, he wants to 'take half an' half' as it were."

"Well." Markem weakly smiled as he spoke, especially with how jubilant the weasel was as he crept closer to the warlord. Kylan was flanked by his thinner brother Loc. Loc meekly bowed his head to honor Markem, which was returned by the injured rat. Kylan practically hugged the rat, causing Markem some pain, and fear from Jarolom and Scarl.

Kylan, as Markem would learn, was bombastic. He swayed with the horde, singing poorly which the Jusbrag vermin sang along to. The warlord was truly happy to be in 'true command' which he had long complained about. Yet their new commander had severe mood changes. If he didn't like the way his horde stepped into formation, he would let off the crack of a whip and curse them with his sword. Yet, what had perhaps distrurbed Markem a bit more was that Kylan held tightly onto his belt the head of his previous warlord, which had been rotting for about a day. The weasel was either too lazy or unskilled to actually remove the flesh from the skull of his new found trophy. The march to Kostomar's fortress was loud, with some woodlanders who had been passing through actively avoiding being accidentally dragged into the main host.

One event perhaps nearly shifted that friendly relationship between Kylan and Markem, when during their march, a group of mice had been camping outside their hovel when the vermin marched on through. Kylan was quick to try to ransack the hamlet of valuables much to the pleas to stop the mice, and for their efforts, Kylan had threatened to enslave them. Markem stopped Kylan from doing so.

"It ain't worth the effort, just take what ya want and leave the dumb creatures be. We have more important things to do today."

"An' leave potential laborers to just wallow in poverty, me fortress needs some refurbishment ya know!"

"Aye, but Kostomar isn't exactly in poverty himself. Ya get to keep what ya want of his slaves, likely strong in years of captivity under em'. These mice barely got meat on em'. Save yer effort for Kostomar."

Kylan had to think a bit long on this, but ultimately agreed with Markem. The Mice watched as their home was ransacked, with Markem giving them a pack of vittles, telling them to head southward and to not cross their paths again. Once Kylan had been satisfied with his newfound loot, the group was off again, and reached Kostomar's wooden palisade in due time.

The siege lasted for less then a few days, Kostomar's palisade held firm against the tide of Kylan and Markem as both worked well together in assaulting the weaker points of the fortress walls. Kostomar, the warrior that he was, tried to rally his forces to battle, but his vermin slinked back to their barracks and fled from the walls in short order. Markem was quicker when it came to assaults then he wished to admit, as his vermin scaled the walls with ropes and overwhelmed the fortresses's defenses. Kostomar was injured when he tried to battle Kylan's own forces, and fell from the palisade, and was dragged back inside by his son, Pelchovmar. Markem eventually was even able to strode through the gates of Kostomar's home, as the horde secured their place.

Little did he know, as Kylan, Markem, and their battle guards began to walk into the main hall of the settlement where the elder warlord and his brood lived, they found the elderly rat was dying, his fall having had broken more than just a few ribs it seemed, and he was in pain. He barely held onto his sword, cursing madly as he was tended to by his daughter. Only his son Pelchovmar stood in Markem's way. Markem may not have looked the warrior, his arm in a bandage sack and having to partly limp from previous injuries, but his warriors he surrounded himself with could have easily killed the gray rat who valiantly held up a spear and shield to protect his doomed family.

Kylan came forward, a devilish look in his eye "Let us end this, and end this quickly."

"Wait, Kylan." Markem ordered. The weasel stopped as Markem came forward and spoke to the gray rat in front of him.

"Pelchovmar? I believe we met not too long ago."

"Aye, Markem. Ya got yer fortress, now leave us be." Pelchovmar said, with a hint of fear in his eyes. His father behind him mocked the rats relentlessly as he shooed away his daughter in anger. "Get out of the way, you fool boy! This be my kill! My kill! Markem you wretched, muck covered, sea slime! I will gut you, an hang yer coat over me door!"

Markem looked at Pelchovmar, making him an offer that the rat could hardly refuse. "Ya got two choices, Pelchovmar. Ye can die defending this creature, along with yer entire brood. Or, ya can step aside and join me as ally an' friend. Be quick of it."

"Ya think blood is goin to just give me up, you damn creature!" Kostomar shouted, but pain prevented him from moving as he grasped his form. Pelchovmar was surprised, and so was Kylan. Kylan watched, wondering if Markem had gone mad and asked. "Markem, friend, whatcha' doin. This rat betrayed you, nearly got ya killed."

"One of them did, Kylan. For that I shall have vengeance. I'm not askin for vassalage, I am askin for partnership."

Pelchovmar thought of his choices. He could just downright die here and now, defending his father to the bitter end and watch as his family is exterminated. Yet here Markem was, offering something even better. The gray rat lifted his spear, much to the horror of his own flesh and blood and gathered his sister and pulled her away. Both watched as Markem and Kylan drew close as the defeated elder gave one final look of despair and fury as his brood as the hordebeasts speared the elder to death on his throne. The hall drew silent, as Kylan cut off Kostomar's head and admired his new trophy.
_

Markem had stayed for over a week in Pelchovmar's home, which the gray rat didn't really know how to think about. Pelchovmar remembered fondly of when his father took his mother and sister down from the lands of Ice and Snow, the great gray rat having butchered and stole their way into becoming a feared warlord in their own right. As much as the newly made boss of the horde seemed content with his father once, old age and ambition ultimately doomed him. Pelchovmar was worried constantly, with Markem having packed his entire horde into the small and cramp wooden fort which had been the gray rat's home for several seasons.

Pelchovmar expected the absolute worst, he expected Markem to move in and lock him up as a prisoner, or poison him with a drink. This had been a tactic his father both used and fought against before, and most warlords he knew did this. Yet Markem didn't use any such tactics. The gray rat came to know Markem's favorite spy, Scarl, a bit more, who seemed to keep a good watch on him and his sister. The ferret knew these tactics, constantly checking Markem's food, and endlessly berating vermin of the camp who tried to get too close to their boss. Markem may not have been paranoid now, but his chief spy was.

Markem was weird to Pelchovmar, and the rat wasn't sure if he should be unhinged or thankful. The rat had murdered his father, but Markem seemed almost regretful about all number of things. When he was told of the casualties from last week's battle, the rat gave loud sighs and threatened his own captains. What kind of real rat cares about the lives of his soldiers this much? A common mucker is replaceable, but this rat seems heartbroken over the loss of one. Markem ordered his captains around, discussing with them on matters of improving tactics, and while quick to anger in one instant, the rat was quick to pull back and act the diplomat.

Kylan had perhaps become Markem's greatest prize in this whole debacle, a fact which annoyed Pelchovmar to no end. Jusbrag, once an independent fortress of the vermin, now was in Markem's hands in all but name. Markem may not have been Kylan's master, but he was the weasel's 'good friend', and their alliance held strong. Not in part due to Markem being diplomatic at all, but more for Kylan being numb headed. Kylan was eager for conflict, already plotting raids and campaigns across the north to improve his stature and wealth, but yet he remained a firm ally to the rat. The fat weasel even visited, often swinging the skull of Kostomar on his belt. It humiliated Pelchovmar, but while Kylan tormented him over his own failings, Markem did not. Pelchovmar felt he could respect Markem at least for that, and perhaps that is why he didn't plot against him. That, and of course Markem held an entire army within his fortress.

One night, as Pelchovmar returned from a long day of commanding his horde to cut up some wood for repairs, he entered the main hall, only to find his sister Sheera and Markem, locking their eyes awkwardly to each other. Pelchovmar's entrance unlocked their heads to his direction, where Markem was sitting at a desk, drawing up plans on his maps and looking over several captured journals and written scouting reports.

"I-I am sorry, my lord. Forgive me." Sheera gave a low bow and exited in a hurry. Markem tried to call out to her, but failed to do so in time. Pelchovmar was confused.

"My sister I imagine gave you your dinner, tonight?"

"Umm, yes. Yes, of course." Markem blushed a bit, but returned back to his usual state. "Pelchovmar, I had a couple questions I had to ask. Me horde expands, and my allies grow. I plan to return southward to Mossflower in due time, buildin me own fortress for me self. Ya said ya captured a couple masons awhile back, a group of spike backs?"

"Oh. Yes, some hedgehogs. They were from Noonvale, headin to the abbey of Redwall to help with some repairs. I had them put in the fields."

"I'd like ya to give em to me. Useless to have em in the fields, I think. Need decent masons when I got nothin but beasts who only know how to use a spear an' axe."

Pelchovmar relented and agreed meekly. However, Markem longingly looked out at the doors which Sheera had gone out of and asked a rather interesting question. "Yer sister, Pelchovmar. She. . .she hasn't been given yet to another, has she?"

---

'Mud' sat beneath a tree, watching the duel unfold. He studied from afar as 'Dirt' rolled and tumbled from side to side, expertly avoiding Markem's big stick which they mockingly dueled in the open field. It was far enough from camp that the noise of the vermin host could not be heard, with 'Mud' watching intently what unfolded. 'Dirt' had changed in the many seasons, he had grown more serious, more adult as he began to even challenge Markem's skill in battle. The otter wore a cleaner garb then what he had worn seasons ago, a nice brown shirt with baggy cloth pants, held together by a belt. The otter's only garb which still remained old and untorn was the rope collar on his neck. 'Mud' himself had not been worse for wear himself, although he preferred to hide his shameful neck rope behind a piece of cloth.

'Dirt' swung with the stick, catching Markem in a swift fury. The otter got in several hits and nearly knocked the branch out of Markem's paws. Markem swung in a wide berth in response. This kind of training was rather normal, and often took place weekly. 'Dirt' and Markem had been doing this for a while, and it only intensified when Markem had made 'Dirt' his bodyguard. It was a rather awkward position, as 'Mud' thought, as 'Dirt' days were filled with just looking both intimidating and meek at the side of Markem, not even carrying much of a weapon besides a tree branch or a stick. 'Dirt' was growing more skilled, and with a swift blow on Markem's head, 'Dirt' had achieved something he thought near impossible.

Markem stopped and touched his head, a bit surprised "Huh. Ya actually did it. Ya struck me." 'Dirt' looked shocked, near frozen. He didn't even believe he had really done it.

Markem patted his head and smiled "I'll make ya a warrior out of ya yet, 'Dirt'. However, ya still got a lot to learn." Markem prepared his stance again, and 'Dirt' prepared his. The two were back at it again, with 'Mud' intrigued by what he saw. He was soon disturbed by a figure plopping beside him, giving him a short fright.

Scarl launched himself to sit next to 'Mud', watching the two fight in their mock duel. The ferret looked at 'Mud' in a harsh manner. 'Mud' knew this look well, it was Scarl's 'tell me something' face, and he didn't like to be kept waiting.

"They are doing their training, sir. If ya must know, my bro-"

"Don't know, nor care, 'Mud'. Markem promised he would at least meet to formalize our plans for Veekun's Burrow." Scarl was annoyed, he had been planning this whole operation for a season, and his contact did not like to be kept waiting, and for several good, but mostly bad reasons.

"Markem thought he had some time."

"Ya, well, we have little. Hazul is. . .well, Markem will have to meet em' to actually understand. That warband has a weird time table."

"You do know you can just go down there and summon him at any time?"

Scarl shrugged "I could, but I prefer he realizes I am annoyed. It makes him double think before doing this kind of thing again."

Markem noticed Scarl eventually, and the two stopped. They came forward to Scarl who proceeded to herd Markem away, with 'Mud' and 'Dirt' lagging behind.

"Do you know anything about this burrow? I heard some stuff, but. . ."

"Its a small castle or something in the deep woods. Markem said he wanted me to stay back from the whole thing today. . .and that is partly because I asked him."

"Why? The last few times, you were jubilant to bash some vermin bandit skulls. Remember that weasel that thought he could steal from the main tent itself?"

"I do. . .but this is different, Dak."

"How so?"

'Dirt' looked worryingly at his brother, with regret in his eyes "Cause. Veekun's Burrow is a woodlander settlement. Veekun is a mouse."
_

Markem and Scarl walked into his pavilion, which sat an even larger table filled with maps, reports, and even some small figures. Markem's horde had grown to over 700 vermin and their families in the following seasons, and more joined almost daily. The main horde subsisted off of raiding, but had gained even more from tribute. Markem had taken advice from Karlgo when it came to food, that intimidating the farmers of Mossflower produced a steady income of food for his horde. Weapons could be raided from the other settlements, or from attacking or trading with other vermin. The only major issue had been getting and keeping slaves, an issue which troubled the warlord to no end. Markem had been building a fortress in eastern Mossflower, far in the woods, practically near the coast itself. He had two hedgehog masons in his forced employ, advising and helping him plan out his new settlement. Yet, even with their help, whipping the current lot of slaves was not producing his results, and vermin made for poor laborers.

That is where Hazul Leffer came in, a small, thin water rat who stood with his paws firmly grasped behind his back, in a mixture of tribal toga and black painted leather. The rat was a warlord which had been skulking in Mossflower for less then a few seasons, a sea raider who had come to shore looking to settle in. His horde, his tribe of water rats, had set their eyes on Veekun's Burrow, a household of some noble mice and their servants. The mice lived fairly alone as the only major settlement in that section of Mossflower, which remained far from the watchful eyes of the Long Patrol.

Hazul eyed the rat coming into his view, smirking as Markem brushed himself off and greeted the water rat. He was flanked by his armed brother Kajam, who stood tall and vigilant over the meeting.

"Is everything in order for the assault, Markem?"

"Me horde is mostly ready, although I still do not understand your insistence to attack before the. . .the. . ." Markem motioned Hazul to answer, not exactly remembering Hazul's general concerns.

"Before the full moon, yes. The spirits of this land will grant us defeat if we do not attack within a few days. My shaman has foreseen it! Veekun's Burrow must fall, or we cannot hope for victory till winter's curse removes itself."

Hazul was well spoken for a tribal rat, but Markem was more uncomfortable with something else the rat was. Religious. Hazul was a true believer, but yet, it was Hazul who seemed to suggest to Markem he could get rid of his labor shortage by aiding him. Hazul knew much, a fact which disturbed Scarl.

"Uh. Sure. Regardless, I hope ya can appreciate at least what I am doin for ye. Takin a keep ain't no easy task ya know. Veekun's Burrow is a motte an' bailey. The bailey is likely ill guarded, but that keep from what I hear is made of stone. Ditches an' all, it will not be an easy fight."

"Have faith, Warlord Brownnose. The spirits of the land fight with us so long as we do so before the full moon."

Markem cringed a bit at the statement. He had faced mad creatures, incompetent warlord, skilled assassins. Religious zealots however, that was a new one. Hazul pointed to the crude map of the castle they were to assault "I will lead the main assault up the hill, with shields an' spears. I'll need some rope and ladder. Yer horde can distract the main defenders at the bottom, right?"

"That's if they don't all crowd into the castle as soon as they see our armies."

"Not unless we attack at night."

---

The battle had gone well, but not without a dangerous surprise. Markem's horde assaulted the main village as the mice and other woodlanders fled inside the keep, only to glance in their escape to safety as Hazul and his water rats were done murdering the main defenders. Having sustained casualties, Hazul waited for Markem's horde to secure the rest of the settlement itself, with Jarolom as his battle guard. The fox, true to his own belief he was a terrible warrior, often fumbled when they fought the mice of the small settlement, desperately trying to hold off the immense tide of vermin streaming over the walls and through the splintered gate. Markem was well prepared, but what he wasn't prepared for was a Long Patrol group of hares to throw a well aimed group of javelinas into his mass of vermin, and retreat back up. The volley killed several, and injured Jarolom, but Markem had hid well behind his shield and was already advancing against the remaining defenders.

Markem only chose a few vermin to join him, fellow shield bearers as they crested the hill, receiving fire from bows and javelins. The Hares were growing more frustrated, as they found themselves fighting both Markem and Hazul. Once one Hare had been downed, the group attempted to shut Markem out of the main gate to the castle's exterior. This distracted the rat for only a moment, ordering his army on the slope into the castle to begin hauling ropes to smash down the gates. He heard the battle grow more intense on the other side, screams of rats filled the air as the Long Patrol unleashed their fury on Hazul's elite cadre. Once in place, the army helped pull down the gates and allowed Markem to enter, looking on as the main wooden gates slid down the slope and crashed into some vermin down below. He called out to them "Tend to the wounded, the rest of ya, join on in!"

Markem and his guard rushed in first, finding Hazul struggling against an injured Hare who slit and slashed at him with a sword. The brightly colored hare turned to meet the new challengers, but not in time, as Markem pushed his sword into the Hare's back and into the ground, killing him.

"Are ya alright?"

Hazul looked around a bit surprised. "Aye. Ya saved me, thank ye."

Markem only gave a nod and commanded the vermin around him, bursting open the doors and windows of the squarish castle. The vermin would overrun the castle shortly, with Hazul and his water rats already getting more comfortable with their new home. As Markem and Hazul entered the main court, the last defenders and their leaders all gathered in the room. Markem noted the lack of civilians, women, and children almost immediatly, wondering where they had gone to. Once Jarolom limped his way next to Markem, the rat gave a quick order.

"Go get some lads, an' find the basement. Likely we will get a lot of prisoners from this, an' I don't wanna be left out."

Jarolom smiled and limped off, much to the anger of the diverse defenders. There were mostly mice in the room, but a scattering of squirls, hedgehogs, voles, shrews, and otters all held onto weapons. One injured Long Patrol was in the back, looking angrily at Hazul in particular.

"Wretched vermin!" Screamed an older mouse from the back. Markem noticed the creature, in finer clothes and sporting a grayer then normal coat of fur. The mouse wore a headband of shining stones and rimmed with silver, and next to him was his wife and warrior son who stood valiantly at the back. Hazul called out. "It is over, Veekun! Yer entire castle is mine now. As the spirits said!"

"Delusional rat, you will be silent. You and your allies will never get away with this, and I'll see to it. One way or another."

"Delusional yerself." Markem snapped back. "Yer surrounded on all sides, an ya don't got a lot. Lay down yer arms, and ya won't be harmed."

"And surrender ourselves as slave?! I think not."

"Aye, but ya will live." Markem shouted back. He looked over at the elder mouse, standing on his throne, and behind him were two smaller mice looking terrified. They reminded Markem of 'Mud' and 'Dirt', with Markem's ever stoic look becoming a frown.

"We can negotiate." Markem quickly changed his tone. "I only need me fortress built, and Hazul his home. Ya don't have to do this, just put down yer arms an-"

"Enough of this!" The mouse shouted back, lifting up his sword with rage.

"No! You don't understan-"

It was a bit too late. With a shout, the soldiers charged into the vermin mass, some cut down very quickly against the tide of vermin. Blood spilled on the ground, shouts and pained cries rang out. The battle went on for a time, as Markem dueled the charging guard, as Hazul slaughtered his way through to challenge the king. Swords clanged, blood spilled, and screams were heard. Markem dueled a mouse who tried to stab into him and slew him with ease. The rat looked on at the middle of the court as Hazul thrusted his sword downward into the body of the mouse prince who tried to defend his father. Hazul was a strangely impressive fighter for his size and weight, he was quick and nimble. His water rats closed the gap, and from then, the battle was over.

Hazul however was not done, as he thrust his sword not only into the king, but also his wife. Markem was busy, putting the last of the woodlander defenders into submission or killing them, but screamed out when Hazul had gotten hold of the younger mice, terrified and shocked at the death of their entire family line. Hazul raised a knife to one, and cut their throat on the spot. The squeaking and mortified screams equaled Markem calling for Hazul to stop, but it was far too late. The battle was over, and most of the valiant defenders in the room were dead.

The defenders, what remained of them anyway, looked on with horror and rage at Hazul, who carefully let down the corpses of his young victims and seemed to close his eyes and grasp his paws, giving thanks and prayer. Markem charged into Hazul and grabbed him by the shirt's collar, hoisting him up and screaming

"What was that about! You damned, idiot, why did you do that!"

Hazul looked down a bit surprised, and a bit frightened. His rat lowered spears to Markem's horde, but dared not move out of fear of what Markem would do if any of them reacted. All eyes were on Markem and Hazul as the room became silent, even the new found prisoners, plastered on the floor with vermin boots over their backs and necks, looked up at the two.

"I killed this enemy, as the spirits wanted."

"Yer spirits wanted these children dead?! Ya useless baggard, I didn't want them dead!" Markem shouted, but it wasn't something he fully believed. He didn't know why he wanted to spare them, but seeing the pained faces of the young mouse children, stricken in their last moments of fear, drained upon the floor had brought the rat to a limit.

"Aye. The spirits demanded all of their deaths, it was the only way to secure victory! Believe in the flow of the seasons, Markem, it was necessary."

Markem shifted his gaze back to Hazul, seething as he did. "How. How was this necessary, an' if ya give me a good answer, I'll leave on good terms."

"The spirits tell me that if one were to survive, they would be my bane. It is as old as the tales of yore. Their deaths secure my tribe's victory today, and tomorrow. If they survived, they would escape regardless of what you do, and will call upon a bane of your own. My shaman foresaw it. Believe me, I take no pleasure in this murder, but it was necessary."

Hazul was let go as Markem slowly exited the room. The two warlords would not speak for the rest of the night, as the mood of both had soured. Hazul was surprised by Markem's odd shot of empathy. It wasn't a trait he admired, but it was interesting to see come from a fellow chief.
_

The next day was a miserable day for the inhabitants of Veekun's Burrow, who had gathered in the basement below the castle, awaiting a victory they had no hope in. Dibbums hugged their mothers, the gentle wives kept their children close. When the door to the basement opened, and Jarolom walked inside, the inhabitants of the Burrow knew all too well what this meant. They would either be slaughtered or enslaved, and the fox made his intention clear when his vermin swarmed in and began rounding up the creatures, putting chains on them and dragging them outside.

The long line of slaves were hauled out, as Markem watched from the sideline. He had not slept for the night, and the gathering of slaves made him depressed. He knew full well what he was doing was in some ways wrong, that he was doing a great evil, but he had no strength or will to challenge it. He swore at Pelg's camp those many seasons ago he would make a better world for his people, but at the cost of putting these miserable creatures so low.

Hazul came up to his side, looking about him and shaking his head. "You should kill half, starting with their women. It shows the rest how to get into line."

"I ain't doin that, Hazul."

Hazul looked at him, giving him a queer look "And, why not? I tell you this from experience. Showing mercy now will make them think you are weak, and if your slaves think you are weak, your horde will as well."

"Not. . .necessarily." Markem turned to him. "A warlord only needs to worry about weakness when they aren't strong enough ta lead. I'va lead this horde not by fear, but by just helpin others like yerself. It ain't my place to tell ya what ya do in yer own conquest, and I apologize for the way I snapped at ya. I came here for slaves, an' little else."

Hazul sighed and scratched his snout. "Perhaps then it can be a bit more. I'm not necessarily new to this land, my tribe will make a home of this place. Maybe perhaps we can be partners. Ya horde is big and' strong, and so is mine."

"Maybe, but I'll have to think about it Hazul."

One slave, a mouse who had been a defender in the keep, fell on the slave train. He was helped up by a skittish looking rabbit who looked awkwardly around. Markum looked at the rabbit, seeing his dusty red and white uniform. It was a member of the Long Patrol. Markum approached.

"You there. Yer rank. Now."

"T-the name is Trejan, sir. Long Patrol. . .erm. . .healer." The rabbit was slow to speak, and frightened, lowering his ears as Markem looked him over. "Healer, eh? Guard, grab this one. I needed a healer for some time now."

The rabbit was unlocked from his shackle and escorted by the vermin. Markem was pleased and began to think long and hard. I cannot make them happy, nor free. I can make them useful however.
_

When Markem returned to camp, it was a sad sight to see for 'Dirt' and 'Mud' who watched from the main pavilion of the camp, which was stretched on top of a grassy hill overlooking the main bulk of tents and cottages of the horde's war camp. Many woodlanders of Veekun's burrow were dragged on a chain lead, led to the slave pens of the camp and thrown inside, awaiting to be processed by Markem's taskmasters. Markem had gained an odd reputation, and a small tradition at that, when it came to slave taking. Markem essentially made it that all slaves in the camp were owned by him rather than the entire horde, and as such, most were given rope collars. Markem was considered weird when he began taking advice from a strange taskmaster who had joined the horde a season ago, a slaver named Gutan Seawhip. Gutan was a former corsair who had been extremely unlucky, being once an oar slave taskmaster under a minor pirate, but was captured by another and made into an oar slave himself which he spent many seasons in misery. 'Dirt' had come to know him well, for the creature had many odd ideas which Markem appreciated.

Gutan would always introduce himself to the slaves individually, get to know their names, and have fat and easily bored rat assistant Jugar Blacktail, write down the names and occupations of the slaves. No one knew Jugar very well, all 'Dirt' knew about the fat rat was that he was content and could read and write. How he had gotten that important skill, 'Dirt' could only guess at. From there, Gutan divided them up into different crews, being sure not to separate families. Gutan didn't use the whip he carried often, but he did make use of it to make sure the slaves of the horde knew their new lot in life. 'Dirt' knew many of the slaves in the war camp, some having been with Markem since the start of his wild and strange quest. A mouse in the camp acted as the warcamp's favored water carrier, who was captured and tortured by Pelg the Tall, and who had gotten to know his captors very well. There was a hedgehog who helped set up tents, but also sang songs of forlorn freedom in his spare time. A squirrel who lived in the armory helped fix spears and sharpened stakes, who was a good drinking companion when 'Dirt' and 'Mud' was bored. New slaves being brought to the camp depressed the two otters, but bringing so many at once disgusted them.

"How many do you think? 40? 70?" 'Mud's' heart sanked, trying to count them.

"About or over a hundred." 'Dirt' replied.

"How do you know?"

"The shackles that Kylan could hold about 90 beasts all together. The ones in the back, you see? They are roped together."

"All to build that stupid fortress." 'Mud' folded his paws, angry at the whole situation. Both he and his brother knew they were powerless to stop any of it, having lost the will to fight Markem long ago. 'Dirt' felt the most sickened by this, he was now Markem's protector, and for his brother's sake, he followed Markem like a meek child. It was perhaps wise that Markem didn't lead the otter into the battle today, he felt he would have tried to stop this tragedy if he could, but even then, 'Dirt' was not sure.

Markem was cresting the hill to the pavilion, alongside Scarl and Hazul's brother Kajam. They were talking about something, but as soon as Markem reached the hill, he turned to them "We will discuss these matters later, I wanted to do something before we returned to Gholand."

Gholand had been the name chosen as Markem's new fortress he had been building in the main woodlands. It was where he wanted to call home.

Scarl and the water rat gave a bow to Markem and headed off as Markem faced the two otters. He first turned to 'Mud'. "Go an fetch me a couple drinks. Hop to it." 'Mud' was off, and 'Dirt' nearly joined him, but the rat held up his paw to stop him.

"Not ya. Come with me."

Markem and 'Dirt' went inside the pavilion, and Markem had got to work, rummaging through a small chest of valuables. 'Dirt' waited patiently, keeping a pose of keeping his head looking down upon the floor and his paws held behind his back. Markem arose from the chest and produced an old and rusted looking blade. 'Dirt' recognized it immediately, the scabbard was a bit old and worn, but he knew exactly what it was. It was his father's sword.

Markem had kept the blade for a long time, 'Dirt' had once crept close to the blade's rummage for comfort in the long nights. His captivity had taken much from him, his dignity and will wasn't even his own. The blade was the last vestige of his old life, as Markem slowly put his paws to gift the blade over to 'Dirt'. "Ya are competent enough to me to hold a blade, an' ya haven't tried to run in some time, so I am makin a big risk just handin this over to ya. It be a bit rusty with time, but I think we captured a smith who can shine it up."

'Dirt' grasped the blade in his hand. It was a bit heavier than he thought it would be, and he liked it. A smile crept over his face, as if the world was brightened in that small moment of time, but Markem grasped the rope collar around 'Dirt's' neck and yanked it to his level. "Just remember, 'Dirt'. This ain't freedom, ya still in me service. Got it?"

'Dirt' didn't struggle, he was fairly used to these kinds of threats and blurted out "Yes, sir."

"Ah, good. We can finally go home. Start packin up."
_

The horde returned to Gholand, a journey which took several days. It was just starting to turn fall again, as leaves from the trees began to fall, but were wet enough and uncolored to not make a crunching sound as the army marched. When the army entered Mossflower's far eastern half, they set their eyes upon the construction site of Gholand, with several vermin hastily trying to raise a single peg of the palisade. Markem set his eyes upon the home, a work in progress, but it made him smile to know things had progressed in his absence. Even 'Dirt', who slowly moved to be at Markem's side was impressed at the work being done. His attention turned to gaze at the forlorn slaves being led along to new work stations and pens of the main vermin encampment, as the new workers were quickly being put to work to sow fields, chop lumbers, and roll in stone slabs from a makeshift quarry in the northern territories. Sitting in the middle of the settlement was a large and permanent pavilion, which Markem would have considered too luxurious for himself, but it acted as a decent home for his family. Markem was happy to be home as his horde moved in to settle down, but not for the same reasons.

Markem crested through the camp, with Jarolom and Scarl being dragged away by other duties, as Markem, 'Dirt', and 'Mud' crested the small hill and entered the main pavilion. When Markem had left, Sheera was with child. When Markem entered the grand pavilion, he froze to see Sheera looking over a crib, sitting near her sleeping infant. The rat pup slept soundly, having a tuft of light brown fur and had its eyes shut. There was a silence like not other, but one which soared the hearts of those who were there. Carefully, Markem slowly came over to the crib, gripping the babe in his paws and lifting it to see him. 'Dirt' never seen Markem smile this wide before, and he hugged the sleepy babe close to his shoulder, touching his chainmail armor and giving a low sounding squeak. Sheera took the child and cuddled it in her paws.

Sheera then looked to her husband, giving a faint smile "I waited fer ya to come home, to name him."

"Is it a boy?"

"Tis is." The babe's eyes slowly opened and gave a silent yawn. Markem was happy, and no moment from here to the day he died, could ever steal this away from him. He waved to his offspring, who gave a faint wave back. 'Dirt' and 'Mud' looked on, for once in their own lives, despite what had happened up till this point, was happy to see their captor happy, taking in all the joys of his fatherhood. Markem began to slowly work up a song, one for which his mother had once sang to him when he was young, and now he shared with the babe held calmly in his paws.

"In days gone by, to where we come from

May yer beds be warm at night,

May ye have good dreams, with no night to bear

May ye seasons give ye strength, and fairer fare

Let yer feet be quick, an yer paws strongboned

May ye freely give, and ye freely take

May ye seasons give ya strength

And give ya fairer fare."

---

Cling. Clang.

Markem and 'Dirt' were outside of Gholand in a small grove, the two in fair combat with their weapons. Markem was growing more impressed as the seasons marched on, as 'Dirt' was no longer the young otter who barely knew how to handle a sword, but a nearly mature beast who now could equal him in a duel. The rat and the otter had dueled for most of the day, as it was the only day off in a long season. It was too a point where Markem and 'Dirt' enjoyed the peace and quiet of the woodlands, practicing their move sets. Markem was skilled, but his bodyguard and slave had become quite skilled himself. The otter still wore his getup of clean brown clothes, but he came to be wearing a dark green cloak and padded armor which distinguished him. The days were growing colder, as winter was just around the bend in Gholand.

Markem tried to trick 'Dirt' with a swipe of his sword, but feigned to instead slash at the otter's face. 'Dirt' had predicted this move quickly and slashed the sword away, following up with a headbutt, which did take Markem by surprise. The rat paused and grasped his head.

"Huh. Yer growin good at that. Not sure if it'll trick others though."

"It works doesn't it?" Smiled the otter. Markem smiled back and gave a cold chuckle. "Heh, it does."

The two were interrupted by Jarolom who appeared from around a bush. The fox knew where the grove was, and brought up some drinks for Markem and himself. 'Dirt' didn't mind being left out, as he had gotten used to being left out of the good vittles for so long, he simply excused himself from frowning or asking. Markem took a drink and his eyes widened with delight as he gave a loud "ah" to the spectacular drink.

"Jarolom, this is damn good. Wher'd ya get it?"

"Stole it of course, Markem. Stole it from right out under the nose of some hedgehog further west, thought ya like it."

"No chance ya stole the hedgehog that made it, right?"

"Sadly no."

These kinds of conversations would have disturbed or made 'Dirt' angry back when he was younger, but now they felt hollow to him. He heard them so often he couldn't feel anything when they spoke in such ways. He privately hoped in his mind Jarolom was unlucky.

"All the preparations are made, right? Are we finally ready?"

"Aye. Yer captains await as well. Luzgot is in for a surprise."
_

Markem re-entered the settlement of Gholand, looking about with pride as his vermin went about their day. Most were preparing for the coming winter, as they busily sang shanties, repaired roofs of their hovels, and played small gambling games for vittles. The Horde was bored mostly, awaiting their warlord's orders. Markem was passed by squeaking vermin children, playing with one another only to realize they had passed by their chief. Markem was never worried for his safety within the walls of Gholand, especially with 'Dirt' close by his side wherever he walked. Markem smiled and gave a humble nod to the vermin children. Markem appreciated how diverse and happy his horde was, with rats and ferrets, weasels and stoats all congregating together in the fortress, rising to the path of their chief to wish him a good evening. It made the rat warlord proud to know that as he did so, the vermin did not show fear in their eyes as they did this, but with true admiration. Most had come from other warlords, seen friends torn asunder in fool battles, lost loved ones to cruelty. Yet Markem to them was a lucky catch, a warlord with weird ideas and weirder ways to run his horde, the warlord was a fresh breath of air.

'Dirt' however knew the secret to that admiration, for when he walked the paths of Gholand with his captor and chief, he saw things a bit differently. He saw the faces of vermin, sure, but he also saw the diverse and dejected faces of many slaves. Mice were busily gathering food in sacks from the farmsteads outside of vermin settlement, hurrying along to finish up loading in their harvest into the horde's granary. Markem never knew it, but he loved building, watching building arise and begin a new usage. Squirrels gathered sticks and branches from the woods, and even a fellow otter who had come from Veekun's Burrow as a young teen soon found himself under the punishing lash of his master when he tried to run a day ago. 'Dirt' was used to the sight by now, and knew all too well how well Markem and his horde held a firm and iron grip over them all. In recent days, 'Dirt' rationalized to himself that it was better for them to be slaves to Markem, then to be slaves to another warlord.

Markem however was unique in many senses to the woodlander captives he held. Some had been masons such as the hedgehogs who helped plan and build Gholand, and now acted as the captive stewards of it. Markem made his rounds before meeting his captains, speaking to them about mundane things such as repairs and supplies, but as they did so, 'Dirt' spotted a sight he had not wished to see. One of the mice, and older creature, struggled to carry in a sack of grain through the door of Gholand's gate. He slowed down, and fell headfirst into the dirt, spilling the grain on the ground with a thump, causing several faces to look at him with concern. Another mouse, a smaller one, tried to bring the older mouse to his feet, but the crack of a whip from the overseer nearby made them turn in terror.

"Ya wasted all this grain, ya useless slavebeast!" The overseer cried out. The two begged for mercy, as 'Dirt' looked on. Markem took notice as well, being fairly annoyed. He approached, his smile and optimism of the day fairly gone. The overseer had not noticed the two approach, ready to bring down the lash in a fury on the two captive creatures.

"Taskmaster, lower yer whip before ya hurt yerself."

The taskmaster turned, recognizing the voice and his eye widened. He stumbled his words "M-m-y c-chief! Th-these slave beasts dropped our grain! I-i'm punishin them f-"

Markem silenced him with a glare "I noticed, but not all of it was wasted. From the looks of it, this creature barely has the strength to stand let alone carry a sack of grain into the granary."

"I-i am sorry, sir. Please, I don't gotta lot of-" The taskmaster was silenced again, this time by Markem motioning him to stop.

"Yer forgiven, just ask Gutan to find ya another one from the pens." The vermin looked on thankfully and was off, relieved he had not incurred the chief's wrath. While many here respected Markem, the rat knew all too well he was still the boss of a horde, and had to earn a lot of his respect through battle. Markem didn't like acting tough, and was relieved when Karlgo suggested he simply boomed out his voice to get his lower subordinates to obey. The fox may have been very skittish, but he was still very well informed about things. Markem looked down at the two mice and sneered.

"You. The smaller one. Get yer grain bag an' start movin, or I will personally see yer rations are halved for the winter. An' you." Markem pointed to the elderly mouse, struggling to get up "Leave yer sack there till the taskmaster comes back. Sit there till the taskmaster comes back an' escorts ya back to yer pen to rest. Understood."

The two mice gave a nod, although both looked at each other confused. They had come from Veekun's Burrow seasons ago, but never met Markem personally till now. They obeyed, fearful that the rat would change his mind as he loomed over them till they continued their tasks. Markem walked out of the gates of Gholand, admiring that settlement was nearing completion. Several of the western walls needed to be finished, and the hedgehog masons he met with were still planning on a larger barracks for his warriors. They had watched, happy that things did not escalate.

Markem exited and met with a sizable host of 100 vermin warriors, which were tattered in various cloth and even fur clothes. There were 50 spearbeasts, and 50 archers, both in their own divisions and commanded by only two vermin. One would be led by Jarolom, the other by Markem himself. He recognized that some of the archers were water rats, volunteers from Hazul's horde. Scarl was enjoying the alliance with Hazul and his tribe, the water rat had many competent bowbeasts. Outside the gates, the empty fields of several farmsteads and the forests of Mossflower could be seen, the change of the seasons was happening fast, but Markem was preparing for something that was unusual.

"Me beasts, as ya know, all negotiations with that wretch and ill cretan Luzgot has been in vain. Despite all attempts to even meet with him, he still hides in his little fortress on the coast. Normally I wouldn't mind, as ya all know, but hes gone far enough to raid me tributaries, enslave even some of ya, and mock me openly. Any of ya goin to stand for any of that, lads?"

"Nay!" cried the small host

"We move out now, but remember. We attack em' in winter. Make sure ya vittles are all good, cause what we are goin to be doin, is bold. Risky. An hopefully, rewardin."
_

The group left Gholand and marched eastward, the vermin settlement of Luzland. Luzgot is a rat much like Markem himself, but unlike Markem, Luzgot and his brood had earned a different name for themselves.

'Old blood'.

It was a name they despised, and for good reason. Some warlords had laid down foundations many seasons ago, tortured lands for generations, and held a great deal of power and admiration of their hordes. The Marlfoxes were one such example, an old and secret family of foxes who lived in southern Mossflower. There were the Greeneyes who used to rule all of Mossflower itself, and then there were warlords of Luzgot the Lesser, a wretched and pathetic creature who ruled not by his own strength, but by being a conniving, overly ambitious, greedy, content creature. Markem had been trying to bring many of the eastern warlords into the fold, uniting the warbands one by one through diplomacy and strength, but Luzgot was special. He had been gathering a host to defeat Markem, and could likely do it, if he had more allies. Markem worried that if Luzgot gathered a large enough force, his own allies would abandon him, all except Kylan Bignose. Kylan still ruled Jusbrag, and remained in the good graces of Markem, and would have likely suicidally marched his entire horde into Luzland just to bully the rat into submission, and kill many vermin doing so.

Markem and Scarl had a plan however, one for which only they knew of. 'Dirt' only heard part of it, but involved some grappling hooks, some well trained marksbeasts, and several very intimidating tools; a fox who trailed behind, a hooded creature carrying a large halberd and looking fairly grim. Karlgo had suggested him to Markem a season ago, and had been one of Markem's favored minions. His sheriff and executioner, Vake.

The vermin band moved silently and slept on the cold ground in their large furs, carrying their armor and more cumbersome weapons in packs. Vake growled at any vermin who tried to drop their packs onto the ground, causing noise. Vake may have been the overseer of the vermin, but he needed no whip. As Markem's personal executioner, his presence kept the small band in line. Markem, Scarl, and Jarolom crept close to one another, planning out their next move.

"Luzgot isn't a fool, he'll think we are mustering our own forces. He is however predictable, so we can rely on him being blind to our little plot." Scarl began scrawling in the dirt with a stick, drawing out the fortress of Luzland. Markem watched, sneering at the name.

"I believe ya Scarl, but I know ambitious sons all too well, brave at first when they kill their ol' pa, but cowardly and short sighted on everything else. One warlord I served before I bounced from his horde was killed not by the Long Patrol, but by his own brother. Ended badly for the horde in general."

"Aye, but let us not be hasty in thinkin that Luzgot is harmless. He still has a lot of allies, and the attention of most of far eastern Mossflower. The Long Patrol haven't even been able to dismantle him fer seasons. Likely because they all focused so much on Kasg."

Markem had not seen Luzgot's home of Luzland, an odd name for an ancient fortress. The fortress was old, built primarily of stone and wood, and was situated near the coast rather than on it. Markem wondered if the warlord was named after the fortress, or if Luzgot renamed it after himself. It sounded silly to him regardless how it was put. The fortress's walls was connected to a larger elevated castle made mostly of wood, with a lower courtyard of barracks, a slave pen, and storage silo.

"This plan, Markem. I hope ye know what you are doin." Jarolom pointed to the dirt picture, pointing at the southern wall. "Even if we do climb up into the keep with the grappling ropes we got, we will be fightin our way in."

"Not if we do it at night. . .and on the right day. The horde often retreats to their barracks at night. All we have to do is get inside before the sentries notice us."

"Kidnappin Luzgot will be difficult itself, he likely haz guards all across his home. I say we just stick em with a knife an' be done with it."

"Nay. Luzgot may be deservin of death for all the trouble hes given me, but I'd prefer his surrender first. I need his aid if we are to get his horde's attention."

Jarolom was a bit annoyed when Markem got like this, his pity and mercy to the common soldier and thug of a horde may have worked well with smaller hordes, but this was a different scenario all together.

"Damn them I say. These hordebeasts all owe their loyalty an' loot from Luzgot. They will not turn easily, an' if they do, they will turn on us if given the chance."

"Then we won't give 'em the chance."

Jarolom may have been annoyed, but he followed Markem's orders. Many times the fox disagreed with him on policy. Sometimes he was right, sometimes he was wrong, and Markem respected his old friend for it. The warlord had come to expect Jarolom's loyalties laid more in Markem's popularity and power then their actual friendship, but many times that belief was put to the test, and Jarolom seemed to always side with the rat on many things. No adjustments were made to the plan, and the three agreed on the course of action. The infiltration of Luzland was about to begin.
_

It was a cold night in Luzland, a grand fortress of stone and wood, which stood triumphantly as a beacon of oppression to all of eastern Mossflower. Luzgot snored loudly in his personal room, the room of his fool father, awoken by a pounding of his door. Luzgot licked his lips and got up, the rat looking about his surroundings of ill gotten treasures and drapery. He called out "Yea? That better be a damn good breakfast, or I'll have ya thrown out the window!" There was no answer, a murmur in the dark, before a voice called back.

"My lord, we must talk! I have news from Gholand!"

Luzgot cursed under his breath. He grabbed a candle and lit it, and opened his door with caution, looking at the slunk over form of a ferret, his personal spymaster and captain Garzlo. The ferret wore a black hood, and some poor rags, unfitting of a captain. However, this was mostly unintentional, since Luzgot hated giving away clothes to even his higher subordinates. The rat sneered at his captain with visible disgust.

"The last thing I want to hear, numb nuts, is news about Markem Blackeyes and his gaggle of misfits. You better have a damn good report, or I am going to throw you from an even higher point!"

The ferret spoke up, terrified. He knew all too well Luzgot had anger issues, and was more then willing to unleash his hatred on lower creatures.

"I heard that a part of 30 to over a hundred vermin soldiers left the fortress, with Markem himself at the helm! My scouts report they were headed deeper into eastern Mossflower."

Luzgot angrily shook his paw with the candle in hand, and with his free pw he grabbed the ferret by the collar of his ragged shirt "You wake me up for this! That dumb fool is probably slave hunting again, scouring all of Mossflower since his slaves escape every minute of every day! Not a single cruel bone is in that rat's body, likely tryin to recover his stock."

"What if it isn't a attack party?" The ferret asked, giving a frightened smile. Luzgot let go his subordinate and flew him farthest from the door in the hallway. Luzgot threw his candle at him in anger, the ferret ducking down as the candle and its holder crashed into the wall and fell in pieces onto the ground.

"Attack? Attack who, with less than a hundred vermin at that?! Think with that tiny brain of yours! I have nearly a thousand vermin I command myself, a fortress with high walls, and a bunch of idiots who I have to call 'allies' to call upon if things get messy. Now get out, an' if you disturb me again, I'll. . .I'll." Luzgot froze as a small fire began to appear in the hall, the candle's wick started to singe the floor.

"Put it out! Put it out!" Luzgot and Garzlo began to stomp the fire with their feet, the two stomping away into the night.
_

When the large group reached the outskirts of Luzland, Markem had perched his horde far off and only took little more than seven other hordebeasts, Scarl, Jarolom, and 'Dirt' with him. Luzland is large, it is cramp, but it was impressive. Many seasons of slaves toiling away in quarries, chopping down trees, and vermin inscribing graffiti into the stone walls of the fort made Markem impressed. The walls encircled a larger settlement, mostly made up of small barracks, cottages, and even a small inn. The small slave pen was snuggled next to the grain silo, with Scarl having once pointed out that the fortress had a second lair underground, which held burrows and even more structures. The main, but very small, square courtyard had stone stairs which led up to the main attraction of the fortress, a large stone and wood castle which was connected to the walls, where the warlords of Luzland lived. Luzland was not a coastal settlement, but it was very near it. Several miles a bit northward was a beach, which laid the rotting remnants of old vermin ships, one of those ships acted as a roof to the grant fortress itself, with vermin often repairing the fortress from the ships themselves rather than cutting down the lumber for it.

Markem was impressed by the fort, had he known of it when he was younger, he may have just ended up in Luzgot's service instead of Pelg's. However, knowing what he did now, he was glad he didn't. Luzgot was a predictable and idiotic warlord, who had done nothing but harass Markem the moment they even knew of each other. Luzgot had even gathered his army to challenge Markem, but Markem won those battles with ease. Luzgot as Markem could tell, was cruel to his horde, often promoting and demoting captains at will, and worse yet, had earned his position by murdering his father in a blatant way. This wasn't an uncommon trope warlords had, their ambitious and abandoned sons returning only to claim their birthright. What offended Markem was how he had done it, having lived his entire life with a silver spoon, and then using it to kill his chief relative in the middle of the night.

A light snow began to drip from the sky, as Markem had come to suspect, which was why he had brought such a well armed and small group with him. In order to keep secrecy, the vermin would not be able to build campfires, and would have to survive in the snow without them. Markem was patient enough to wait for an opportunity to strike, but he couldn't stay here all winter.

"Look. The southern wall is still fairly unguarded at least." Scarl pointed, noticing only several vermin guarding it. Markem was still displeased. "Aye, but even if we sniped from up close, the others would notice. We'll have to see how well disciplined they are. One sleeping sentry will give us entrance."

Scarl looked at the fortress, and then at the large wooden and stone castle which was Luzgot's home.

"Look. At the edge of the wall, not even a single sentry!" Scarl nearly shouted in excitement, but caught himself. "The damn fool! Look Markem, that's our ticket in!"

Markem had to squint his eyes to see what Scarl was seeing, it was a small corner between the main wall and the castle's own walls along the wall. It lacked a torch to be burned, and the distance between it and the other sentries were far in between. Better yet, the grounds were perfect for infiltration, but there was a problem. The actual height of the wall was tall and the palisade ramparts were thick. It was no wonder it was poorly guarded, there was no point guarding something that couldn't be so easily assailed.

"Our ropes, Scarl. They are long enough?"

"They should be, brought an extra length one too for situations such as this."

Markem smiled, devilishly looking about Luzland. "We attack tonight then, before the snow hits."
_

Markem left half of the vermin with Jarolom in a clearing of the camp, taking only half of his soldiers with him on this daring raid. To the vermin who came with him, this was a surprise. Most warlords were lazy, sending underlings to do their dirty work. Markem always preferred joining in on these dangerous missions and stunts, and it never really bothered him. He was fit and skilled enough on his own, and often walked and talked to his lower subordinates. The vermin snuck quietly by, with Markem having abandoned his armor in the camp to be more stealthy. Scarl had hoped Markem would stay behind and wait for him, but the rat wanted to 'see the look on the damned fool's face' when they ultimately captured Luzland with less than 50 vermin.

Scarl swung a rope with a hook attached to up into the air, and caught onto the wood of the ramparts. With a tug, the group waited in shadow to see if any of the sentries on the other walls had noticed or heard anything, and when the night remained quiet, Scarl shoved 'Dirt' forward. "You first, tell us if there be any sentries on top, an' we'll follow."

'Dirt' obeyed, although in his mind he had a lot of cursed things to say to the ferret. He began climbing the rope, and peaked his head over the rampart walls, and saw nothing in the dark corner between the wall and the castle. He slid into the rampart wall and jangled the rope a bit to single the group to advance. As Markem and Scarl began to climb up next, a patrol of drunken vermin began to approach from one end of the walls, and toward them.

Markem was quick to see this as well, noting that down below, the horde was drinking and preparing for their winter bunks. The vermin army knew that winter conflicts was foolish, and no warlord was dumb enough to do anything in the snow, so the horde enjoyed its time off with games, drinking, and eating. The first snow was a holiday to most vermin in hordes, one which Markem wished to enjoy himself once he returned to Gholand.

The patrol approached a bit more with Markem and 'Dirt' growing a bit concerned, what they did not expect at all was them stopping to bully another sentry, ripping a leg of bird from his hands. It gave them only limited time.

"Gotta get rid of them somehow." Markem whispered to 'Dirt'. Scarl was over the walls, although with some trouble. When he was over, he saw the patrol approaching as well. Scarl was thinking, but as the Patrol was done bullying their fellow warriors for food, they began turning around. The crisis was avoided, but it frightened the three.

"If we get caught, we'll have a lot of creatures to kill." Scarl warned.

Once 10 vermin were up and over, Markem ordered them to advance. One vermin would stay behind to look out for the patrols, while the rest advanced along the main route to the castle. While brightly lit, many of the sentries were still drunken and lazy, some even downright sleeping. When the group peered around, looking into the main courtyard, they saw only more vermin soldiers, and one enslaved squirrel lighting torches. 'Dirt' pitied the creature, seeing the visible marks of beatings and lashes on his back and bushy tail. Markem was ready for a fight, but 'Dirt' held him back and pointed at the squirrel.

"Maybe he might help?"

"How?" Markem asked, and Scarl echoed.

"We want to get inside silently? These poor beasts been here for awhile, right? They might know a thing or two."

Scarl nodded his head "Aye, the slave got'a point Markem. I'd have even suggested it."

Markem thought it over and picked up a loose stone on the ground. As the Squirrel bent a corner to nearly face the group, Markem threw the stone gently at him, hitting him on the arms. The squirrel turned, seeing the 12 would be assassins looming in the darkness. Markem motioned him over. It was a risk, a terrible risk, but it worked. The squirrel pretended to struggle lighting a torch near the side of the main courtyard leading into the main palisade wall.

"You folk from Gholand?" He asked. Markem only nodded his head. The squirrel looked them over, looking fairly tired and soulless himself.

"I need ya to help us, an' we'll help you. Can ya get this gaggle of misfits outta here, so we can enter?"

The squirrel nodded, but spoke up, just loud enough to terrify the group, but low enough to not attract the attention of the other vermin guards. "Only if you promise, swear on your heart and fur, that you will let me and others free from this place."

Markem breathed through his nose and gave a reassuring nod "The slaves here will go free, I promise on me heart an' fur."

The squirrel was taking an awful risk himself and looked around. He waved his torch and shook it to cinders and went over to a group of drunken vermin, trying to re-light it. Once it was re-lit, he purposefully smacked a vermin with his tail. The vermin got up and angrily began shouting at him, and shoved him. A torch flew into the camp below, directly on top of a small barracks. Several loud cries rang through the camp as the vermin realized rather quickly what had been done. Grabbing themselves, they began making their way down into the main camp, trying to put out the spread flames before the damage caused their captain to arise from their slumber. The squirrel lifted his paws to give a thumbs up, with Markem smiling from the darkness.

Once clear, another 10 vermin made their way up onto the walls, with Markem and his crew bursting into the door. The hall was surprisingly empty and unlit, a ramshackle of trash around Luzland's hall. "Move out, an' quickly. I wanted Luzgot before me in the hour. Scarl, begin finding a way for the others to get in, an' bar the door!"

The vermin got to work, but soon echoes of battle began to ring across the castle. The several guards stationed inside found themselves being speared and gutted by Markem's hordebeasts. Archers from the top windows smashed them open and fired down warning shots at patrols trying to investigate. Soon enough, Luzgot was being dragged out of his bed in his nightgown and thrown at the feet of Markem and Scarl. Luzgot looked up terrified, seeing Markem for perhaps both the first and the last time.

"Luzgot, I take it." Markem sneered.

"I don't know what cretan sent ya, but please spare me life!" Luzgot blurted out. The rat fumbled a bit while standing up, holding out his paws in surrender. Markem extended his paw to help him, but doing so had been a terrible mistake. Luzgot grabbed onto his paw, but with a free paw rushed to grab Markem's sword, pulling it from its sheath. Markem kicked Luzgot off of him before the rat could skewer him as he stood up and began waving it around at the rest of the vermin.

"Any of ya beasts try to get me, I'll rip ya stomachs an' lungs out of the hole I'll carve in your chests!"

Markem stood back as Luzgot got his room, 'Dirt' drew his sword and took a defensive stance in front of Markem. Luzgot saw 'Dirt', was at first confused, not being sure if he was a slave of his horde, or just a part of the assassins. It wasn't a common sight, that was for certain, and he took his chance by trying to slice at the otter. To Luzgot's unfortunate surprise, the otter parried his blow expertly and disarmed Luzgot with a quick smack of his blade upon the rat's paw. 'Dirt' charged forward and grappled Luzgot and held him, the frightened rat squeaking out for mercy once again.

"Mercy! I'm sorry! Mercy!"

Markem drew his own blade and began walking forward, ready to cut Luzgot down, but Scarl stopped him. "If ya kill him, the horde outside may involve themselves. We gotta use em."

"He may just as well call them to kill us regardless."

"Maybe, but we are here for his horde, not to get killed by them. Lets try to calm them down first."

Luzgot looked about the room, trying to find a means to get out of the situation he was in, but the otter held him firm despite his struggling. Markem snickered as he put his sword back into its sheathe "Consider yerself lucky, Luzgot. Today, ya may make it into me horde."

Luzgot looked at Markem and realized who he was, looking on terrified as the rat made himself comfortable in his home.
_

The next few days was like a terrible dream for Luzgot, in his full warlord regalia of spiked armor, a warrior helm, and wielding his longsword in his lap, Luzgot felt like a dog on a leash with Markem in his own armor commanding about the room of his hall. Luzgot may have surrendered to Markem, but he felt he was being torn apart with each individual change. Of the 100 vermin who had overthrown him, 50 would stay behind as Luzgot's 'personal' guard to keep a watch over him, as Markem divided up his territory in front of his eyes. Markem spoke to his horde, recruiting some who looked forward to joining the warrior rat in Gholand, promising and providing good food for the winter. What had shocked the horde, and angered Luzgot, was when the slaves of the horde were brought forward, the squirrel who had helped them spoke on their behalf. A mix of mice, squirrels, shrews, hedgehogs, and voles all gathered in the room to listen to Markem's speech to them.

"I promise ye I would free ya all, and as I said, ya shall be free, but I have me conditions. Return to yer homes and build news ones in me new realm, and every season I shall expect from ya tribute to me horde. I shall provide what resources ya need to start out, an' shall guard ya against intruders and slavers under me protection. Spread word that I, Markem Brownnose, always shall keep me word."

It was a good day, the faces of the creatures who had toiled and suffered under Luzgot looked on with cheer. Scarl had their taskmasters release them from their chains, gave them packs of provisions, and were marched out to the settlements under Markem's control so they would have a home for the winter. The squirrel was not so pleased, but knew better to not challenge the rat on his word. 'Dirt' was secretly happy himself, thankful that Markem kept his word, but not surprised he did. If anything, he knew the rat always preferred his honesty and diplomacy.

Jarolom, who stood next to Luzgot, didn't look pleased. Luzgot looked up at the fox and tried to give a crooked smile, prying at the fox's clear displeasure. "What kind of warlord frees dumb labor, anyway? This fort needs a good amount of maintenance, an' vermin won't do it, I tell ya."

"Aye. It would'a been better if we kept em in chains, no reason to release them I thinks." Jarolom agreed with Luzgot's statements. He found it far too weird, and wasteful, giving such mercy to the slaves.

"Hey, maybe yer boss ain't all that, maybe he-"

Jarolom shot a glance down at Luzgot and snarled "Just cause I disagree with Markem, don't mean I will betray him fer the likes of ya. Now shut yer trap, or we will throw ya off the walls."

Luzgot shut his mouth, and looked on. He cursed the horde, his father, Markem, everyone but himself in his head. He would find a way to overcome this enemy as he did his father. However, for now, he would sit, obey, and listen.

---

Swish. Slash.

'Dirt' was up and about in the room, the morning had barely even shown when he heard 'Mud' yawn, baring his fangs to the cold air. Next to him, he awoke another unfortunate soul, another otter who had been on a bunk above his own.

"Can you practice outside? Some of us do sleep, you know?"

"Oh." 'Dirt' said in surprise. "Sorry, Dak. I was just testing this new blade out."

"Old blade you mean, the smith only fixed it up." 'Mud' grumbled, pulling off the sheets of his bed. The otter above him, a female slapped her lips together, tired as she was. 'Dirt' silently called out. "Sorry, Yala."

Yala responded "It's okay, 'Dirt'. Or Jan. Or. . ."

"No, no it's fine." Yala blushed, got up and began lighting up the room's candle. "It's getting to that time anyway. We best be ready, I suppose." 'Dirt' looked out the window into the darkly lit settlement of Gholand, looking about at the accomplished vermin fortress, and stain on Mossflower. The keep they may have been in was high up, but 'Mud' still looked out beyond the trees longingly into the distance.

It had been several seasons since Markem had put his boots on Luzgot and made him submit to his horde, and from there, Markem grew ever more powerful and ever more expansive. The settlement was completed a few seasons ago, where the two otters were once young and spirited, now they were mature and broken. They may not have looked slavish, but both had felt soulless, wandering and obeying Markem's directions for so long, they had known so little else, which was certainly a strange sight to Yala. Yala was a newly captured slave, who was brought to the horde and originally forced to help farm and fish. When Markem began looking for new assistants to keep his home healthy and shiney, Yala was chosen and brought into the care of the Brownnose household. Much like many slaves, she wore the rope collar which became the symbol of the horde's ownership. Much like Markem's personal slaves, she was given a clean dark green garb. Yala had gotten to know the brothers well, who were as strange and foreign to her, as Markem was to many of the vermin who came to call him boss.

Their room, a small group of bunks, drawers, chests, and a table had become their new home, a small reward for the years of sleeping in tents. As was their general routine, 'Dirt' would wake up early and put on his armor and put his sword into his belt, putting on a dark green cloak which wrapped around him. 'Mud' and Yala would awake shortly after, preparing for their daily duties of keeping the household clean and tidy, preparing the food, and serving it at his leisure. 'Dirt' had only recently gotten their father's sword fixed with some leftover metals from the smith, and Markem had only recently showed 'Dirt' how to properly clean his sword.

As 'Dirt' exited the room, he nearly bumped into two small figures in the hallways of Gholand's keep, awaiting 'Mud' and Yala to be done putting on their own clothes. Mard and Maiz, Markem's young children, ran past 'Dirt' at lightning speeds, chasing each other through the halls with their mother close behind.

"Mard! Maiz! Ya demons of speed! 'Dirt'! Do something!"

'Dirt' couldn't help but giggle at the sight. Ever since Mard was born, the young rat was adventurous and always escaping his mother's grasp. He wanted to just let them go, but a threatening snarl from Sheera was enough of a lash to his proverbial back to get him to catch up with the little rats. He caught them and lifted them high, both groaning.

"Com'on 'Dirt'. Let us go! We don't wanna get clean!" Mard loudly sighed

"Come on you two, yer mother will skin me alive if you don't start behaving."

Sheera caught up to them and huffed, pulling them away to her and thanklessly marched them back down the hallway. 'Dirt' was fairly used to this kind of treatment, as the small rats looked on in defeat as their mother dragged them to what would be likely a very long and frustrating bath. 'Dirt' awkwardly followed Sheera, since it was likely since she was up, Markem was not in his usual place.

"Ya two will be spotless and groomed, even if I gotta shave ya to do so!" Sheera cursed and spat "I want to hear no more of 'water demons' and 'tub vampires' from the lot of ya!"

"But ma! The tub vampires will turn me blood into salt!"

"I have no clue what wretch tells ya these things, but if I find em', I'll turn their blood into salt!"

'Dirt' didn't have the heart to tell her that he and 'Mud' had once told the two young ratlings these tales as a means to get them out of a tub once and to get them into their beds. Thankfully, in order to prevent situations such as this, 'Mud' added that telling the teller of the story put them in grave danger of being turned into a slab of rock.

"You know where Markem is?" 'Dirt' held back laughter, trying to not be amused by the shenanigans of the Brownnose family. Sheera turned to him and shrugged "I think outside, he said if ya awake, ya should meet him near the slave pen. He said it be a big day today. Ya know what thats about?"

'Dirt' shrugged "That kinda thing is usually between him and Scarl. He skulkin around as well?"

"How should I know! He could be here, there, or even on the ceiling with the way he moves about! Now if ya see yer damned brother, tell him and Yala to hurry up and help me with these two devils!"

"Right on it, mam."
_

As 'Dirt' was heading out the door and toward the stairs which led down into the main settlement, he stopped, looking out over the horizon of the early morning. Seasons upon seasons he had served, not out of faith, but for the family he had left. His eyes dropped as he lifted his father's sword, slightly unsheathing it and gazing upon it. He looked into his own reflection, seeing a defeated and slavish beast. 'Dirt' hadn't felt the weight on his neck for a while, but the more he looked into the reflection, the more he felt it weigh upon him. He imagined himself avenging his father, freeing the slaves of Gholand, and walking away with his brother into the heart of Mossflower to rebuild what they had lost. Yet, he repeated this fantasy so much, with thousands of variations, he simply wrote it off as just a dream. The nightmare he found himself in was now complex, difficult to escape from fully. He was no longer just Markem's slave, he was his bodyguard, he was a friend to his children, and had protected him numerous times. He no longer needed the threat of the lash for him to obey, and the idea struck 'Dirt' as the most terrifying thing imaginable. Even if he wanted to escape, he couldn't help but be drawn in. He closed the sword into his sheathe and fixed up his loose cloak and began making his way downward. Whatever Markem had planned for today, he hoped it would be quick and short. He was tired, and wanted to simply return to his bed, where things were normal.