In the mercenaries' camp, things had taken an unexpected turn with the inexplicable resurrection of General Woundwort. Following the ritual that had pulled Woundwort out of his brain-dead state, but leaving Silverweed dead and Little Threar catatonic, Crowley had suddenly found himself playing host to the very rabbit he had been sent to make contact with. Against all impossible odds, Woundwort was still alive (or so he thought) and his plan was finally back on track.
Ordering all of his men, except for Vervain, out of the tent, to give them some privacy, they three associates were holding council. Woundwort, in all of his dark glory, sat listening, as Vervain gave his resurrected master his report.
"So, I have been in the Shadowlands for the last four circles of seasons and brought back to life?" inquired Woundwort, surprisingly calm for someone who had just returned from the great beyond like a living Lazarus. Vervain, still in a state of total shock at seeing Woundwort return from the dead, was bowing so low before him, like someone at prayer before a formidable god, his goatee was literally brushing the floor.
"Yes, Sire, you have returned to fulfil your destiny! I brought you back! I...!" But Woundwort wasn't in the mood to listen to Vervain's pathetic attempts to impress him. He had bigger fish to fry.
"So Efrafa is no more," he growled, "Those cowards who called themselves my subjects deserted my noble cause and sided with the Outsiders after my death! They will pay of course. What about the traitor Robbins?" Vervain shook his head.
"Dead, General. Defeated by that ithe Johnson, just like you were, Sire..." That was the wrong thing to say. With a roar of rage, Woundwort cuffed Vervain hard over the head, blooding him up.
"Never, ever say those words again!" he growled menacingly, "Nothing can defeat General Woundwort, nothing! Not even the Black Rabbit of Inle is any match for me! I have successfully defeated death itself and now, at last, I will have my revenge!" Taking a moment to calm himself, he went on speaking.
"What was left unfinished in Efrafa will be finished now. Those who betrayed me will be severely punished. My enemies will all be destroyed and I'll rebuild my empire anew!" He turned back to Vervain, "What was the name of that new warren again?"
"Vleflain, Sire," said Vervain, "It's under the leadership of Groundsel-rah...I mean Owslafa Council officer Groundsel," he hastily corrected himself, knowing full well that Woundwort recognised no ranks not given by him, "Their forces include all of your Owsla that survived the Battle of Efrafa, who have completely renounced your glorious name, under the command of Captain Campion..."
"Campion!" snarled Woundwort in renewed anger, "It was that traitor's doing that led Efrafa to ruin! Him and that miserable slave-doe Hyzenthlay! Well, no matter, pretty soon their lives will not even be worth living! I'll wipe out both of their warrens and then my ancestor's land will be mine again!"
"Excuse me... General Woundwort," interrupted Crowley, who had been listening in silence all this time, trying to figure out how he could best use Woundwort to his advantage. Although living, he was now little more than a powerless, fallen dictator, who had lost everything. But his thirst for revenge against Johnson might make him a useful ally yet – but only if Woundwort knew his place here and recognised Crowley as the one in charge.
"I was engaged on sealed orders to make contact with you, General, to propose a joint alliance in return for the destruction of Alan Johnson."
"The last human I entrusted as my ally betrayed me!" retorted Woundwort, thinking of Robbins, "What am I to you anyway, ithe?"
"My superiors, who sent me here, have it from a very reliable source that you are the most powerful military leader in this world. Is that true?"
"Was," scoffed Woundwort bitterly, "Until that insufferable ithe, Johnson and his Outsider friends ruined me and killed me! And they will suffer for this!"
Although seemingly uninterested in Crowley's proposition, Woundwort realised he had no other option; with no warren, no Owsla or Owslafa and no followers, except for Vervain, to do his bidding, he needed this ithe's help. This called for some rather...delicate diplomacy. Finally, he spoke again.
"Commander Crowley," he said, formerly addressing a fellow military leader, "I, General Woundwort, Chief Rabbit of the mighty warren Efrafa and heir to the legacy of the great warrior Lord Hemlock, accept your alliance against our common enemy, who stands in the way of both our destinies! I'm placing myself at your disposal, in the hopes of proving my worth. Help me fulfil my revenge against Johnson and his Outsiders and I will see to it that you're amply rewarded!" Crowley had heard exactly what he wanted to hear.
"It is my honour to welcome you amongst my ranks, General," he said, standing at attention and saluting, "Together, we shall reap the rewards of our mission! We shall divide this new world and all its spoils between us and rebuild it in our own image!"
"And destroy anything that stands in our way!" added Woundwort dangerously, "Tonight marks the beginning of a new rule between ithel and rabbits!"
Vervain couldn't believe what he was hearing! His master, a sworn enemy of humans, was accepting an alliance with this riff-raff? Woundwort, who preached about the threat of humans all his life, was actually offering his services to them now? His world seemed to turn upside down.
"But, General, this is outrageous!" he protested, "We aren't the equals of Man – we're masters of this earth, by Frith's will! You and your bloodline alone are entitled to rule over our kind..." Woundwort shot Vervain a cold look.
"I have no desire to continue leading a race of scum that turned their backs on me!" he spat, "My own species betrayed me over a human and threw away the glory I fought so hard to bring them like hraka! Well, if destruction be my legacy, then let it begin!" He turned back to Crowley.
"Our first target will be Vleflain," he announced, "We shall wipe it off the face of the earth and not leave a single survivor to tell of its existence!"
"But, General, they're still your subjects!" protested Vervain again. From the moment Woundwort had returned, Vervain had had big dreams of things going back to what they were before the fall of Efrafa; but now, he realised his master had a whole new agenda in mind: a mass extermination against his own kind, to purge all those he deemed unworthy to serve him. The idea made him recoil. "Once they realise you've returned, they'll bow to you...!"
"They're nothing but traitors, who must be made examples of," said Woundwort coldly, "Just like you ought to be punished, Vervain!" he added, rounding on his servant. Vervain, backed away, until he was cornered against a large packing crate. There was no mistaking the murderous look in Woundwort's eyes; that was the last thing every single one of his victims saw before he killed them!
"Sire, please! I've never renounced your glorious name, never...!"
"Lies!" bellowed Woundwort furiously, advancing on Vervain, "I know you joined forces with Robbins after Efrafa fell, to save your own skin from the Outsiders! I was up on the cliff and overheard everything! Then, you slipped back among my enemies, pleading innocence, that you had been forced into doing my bidding, when you'd sworn eternal loyalty to me. That's treason! What, did you think all your pitiful boasting of my greatness grants you immunity?"
He raised his massive paw to strike. Too late, Vervain realised Woundwort meant to discard him, now that he'd served his purpose. He desperately looked at Crowley for support, but the man flatly ignored him.
"General, please, spare me!" he whimpered, expecting to be ripped to pieces, "Spare me...!"
Death seemed inevitable for Vervain, but then Woundwort, reconsidering, lowered his paw.
"You brought me back only because you want revenge against the Outsiders for ruining you and not out of true loyalty," he said, "Still, if it weren't for you, I would have mouldered away in the earth and my legacy would have been lost forever. Therefore, as a reward for your efforts, you're pardoned and allowed to rejoin my ranks." Vervain sighed with relief.
"Thank you, master, thank you," he mumbled, "I live to serve your glorious name, General...!"
"Don't mistake my clemency for weakness, Vervain," Woundwort warned him, "Should your loyalty ever waver again, you'll be begging for death! And I'm no longer a General – from this day forth, I'm the Dark One, the embodiment of the Black Rabbit of Inle Himself! The bringer of doom!"
He turned to look at the bodies of Silverweed and Little Threar lying discarded on the floor nearby. Silverweed was already stiff and cold, his brain having literally exploded under the influence of his far sight. Little Threar, although still breathing, had been robbed of all sense of self; his mind was broken, probably permanently. Woundwort shook his head.
"Tsk, tsk, such a gifted young rabbit wasted. He and Silverweed might have served me well in the future..." He turned to Crowley, "Have your men get rid of this filth. They're taking up space."
"But, Sire, that one's still alive," said Vervain, looking at Little Threar. But Woundwort was indifferent.
"Well, that's unfortunate, because we're leaving them both for the elil to eat."
Back on Watership Down, Sandwort was sitting alone in an alcove under a large clamp of rocks on the far side of the Down, as far away from the warren as possible. For the past few days, this spot had been his refuge, the only place where he was safe from the jeers of his former friends and the insults of his elders. At least here he didn't have to watch that swine Stonecrop who had stolen his position and his would-be mate.
Although part of him felt some remorse for his actions, which had brought about his own ruin, he still couldn't bring himself to apologize to his friends. That was the ultimate insult to his pride and he would proudly defend it till the Black Rabbit took him. He wouldn't let them have the satisfaction!
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice Alan approaching, until the human was standing right in front of him. Alan bent down to meet his gaze.
"A bit uncomfortable sleeping in there, wouldn't you say, lad?"
"What do you want?" snapped Sandwort, clearly not in the mood for chatting.
"You can't keep this up forever, Sandwort," said Alan, trying to be as sympathetic as possible, "You're only making things worse for yourself. I think it's high time you started thinking about making some amends, don't you think?" But Sandwort only glared at him.
"I'd rather go to Inle hrair times over! Those wretches chose that pathetic outcast Stonecrop over me and they can keep him for all I care!"
"Stonecrop has rightfully earned his place here because he saved Primrose's life, when you nearly got her killed," said Alan, losing some of his cool, "You made a bloody stupid mistake, Sandwort, and denying it isn't going to do you any good, I'll tell you that much!" Sandwort said nothing, deliberately continuing to avoid Alan's gaze.
"We're on the brink of another war with those invaders," the man continued, trying to make him see reason, "The one thing we can't do is start making enemies amongst ourselves..."
"Speak for yourself!" smirked Sandwort, losing patience, "You all turned your backs on me and now you want to humiliate me some more by making me beg for forgiveness? Well, you can tell everyone they can go pass hraka on their marlin...!"
"I don't really give a damn what you think," snapped Alan, feeling his temper rising at Sandwort's colourful language, "But, as long as you're a member of this warren, sonny, you're going to behave yourself!"
"What makes you think I won't sell you all out to the enemy, just to get even?"
At this, Alan really lost his temper. Although probably just tall talk, the threat in Sandwort's voice hadn't gone amiss. The thought of this rascal doing something so sordid, that would endanger his friends and family, made him furious. Angrily grabbing Sandwort out of his hidey-hole by the ears – something he had never done to any of the Watership youngsters before –, he pinned him hard against the rock.
"You get such garbage thoughts out of your head right now, you little bugger, you hear?!" he growled in Sandwort's face, "You're in enough trouble as it is. Treason is worse, much worse! It's the most outrageous, unforgivable crime anyone can commit against their own people! Don't you dare even think that again!"
"Or you'll do what, kill me?" sneered Sandwort spitefully, goading him on, "Like you did that rabbit Buckthorn in Efrafa?"
Those words stung Alan badly. He had been forced to kill one of his old friends from Sandleford, after finding him mortally injured at the paws of Woundwort, to put him out of his misery. The memory of Buckthorn still haunted him to this day. He had a good mind to beat Sandwort to a pulp for bringing it up, but was adult enough not to be pushed over the edge by this impudent youngster's mind games. It seemed Sandwort was indeed beyond reform so there was no point in wasting his time.
"For the sake of your mother, I won't mention this conversation to Hazel-rah or Bigwig," he said coldly, which was probably for the best. If Bigwig ever got wind of this, he'd make rabbit-burger out of Sandwort. "But if I think for one moment that you intend to betray us, or that you pose a threat to anyone in this warren, you'll be very sorry indeed! That's a promise!"
Sandwort seemed to want to say something more, probably aggravate Alan even further, but at that moment, the pair was interrupted by the arrival of Lucy, who had followed her father and had been listening from the bushes.
"What are you doing out here, sweetheart?" asked Alan, trying to hide how angry he felt after his row with Sandwort, "You shouldn't be outside at this hour..."
"Can I have a word with Sandwort please, Dad?" she asked timidly, "Alone?"
Alan wanted to say no, not wanting his daughter mixed up with this scoundrel who was tempted to sell them out to the enemy just to satisfy his injured pride. But, knowing how upset she had been with Sandwort's downfall, he figured there was no harm in letting her make one last attempt to get through to him.
"All right, but don't be too long. I don't want you outside on your own after sunset." Leaving the two youngsters alone together, he walked away, allowing them some privacy.
Sandwort looked at Lucy. Although she hadn't defended his actions in the slightest, she had been the only one to stick by his side after he'd been shunned by everyone else. Not that it made his situation any better. The two friends looked at each other for a few seconds. Then Lucy finally spoke.
"How are you holding up, Sandwort?"
"How does it look like I'm holding up?" retorted Sandwort incredulously, "I've lost everything, thanks to that hrakamarli Stonecrop! Oh, how I wish I'd ripped his throat out when I had the chance...!"
"Sandwort, you're my best friend," said Lucy calmly, ignoring his hollow threats, "I don't want to see you banished from Watership Down."
"Why should I care?" retorted Sandwort, "I don't even belong here anymore! I've got nothing left...!"
"You still have me," insisted Lucy, who wouldn't desert her friend, no matter how big an idiot he was at times, "Your marli, as well. The others too, they don't really hate you. They're just angry because you nearly got Primrose killed just to show off, myself included. Frith of Inle, Sandwort, what were you thinking? You're not El-ahrairah!"
"Then I guess there's no point in us talking anymore, is there?" snapped Sandwort, thinking Lucy was turning her back on him too, "Just go and leave me alone..." But Lucy wasn't through with him yet.
"If you want to restore your good name, you need to turn over a new leaf," she said, "You must apologize to everyone and I mean sincerely. Don't kid yourself; deep down, you are sorry for what you've done because you know it's your fault." Sandwort looked at Lucy. Although he'd rather sell his soul to the Black Rabbit than admit it, she was right. He did feel regret, painful regret, for his actions, but was too proud to admit it. But, on the other hand, he hated being an outcast forever.
"And suppose they refuse to accept my apology?" he said, "What if they just humiliate me some more?"
"Primrose apologized and look how well it worked out for her and Stonecrop," Lucy encouraged him. She had to suppress a snort of amusement, "Frith of Inle, those two are nuzzling each other senseless all over the place. Practically glued to each other's noses..."
"Will you shut your trap?!" groaned Sandwort. He hated Stonecrop's guts bad enough without having to picture him and Primrose like that. Finally, encouraged by his friend's support, he spoke again.
"Give me a few more days to think things over," he said, albeit half-heartedly, "I can't promise you anything, but I'll give it some serious thought." He pulled Lucy close for a hug, nuzzling her over the head. She wrapped her arms around him, patting him.
"You rabbits sometimes use rotten cabbages for brains, you know that?" said Lucy teasingly. She obviously meant no offence by it, merely taking the mickey out of her friend, whom she used to bounce on her lap as a kitten but was now big enough to bounce her around like a ball. Chuckling, Sandwort caught her by surprise and tackled her to the ground, pinning her.
"And you ithel's Owsla stealth isn't worth hraka," he said, playfully nuzzling her all over. Lucy burst into giggles.
"Stop it, that tickles!" she shrieked, trying to avoid the large rabbit's whiskers caressing her. For the first time in days, Sandwort felt himself again...almost.
After leaving Lucy alone with Sandwort, Alan had wondered off to his favourite spot on the edge of the Down, overlooking the vast Meadows of Fenlo below. He often came up here for some peace and quiet, usually to write in his journal...or at times when he was upset, like now.
Sitting on his favourite rock, he looked at the sun setting on the horizon, feeling really depressed. This was the same spot where poor Little Threar would often wander off to as a kitten, looking for him. Now, because of one stupid mistake on his part, that young rabbit, in his prime of life, was dead. As much as he hated to admit it, Blackberry was right about one thing: he had betrayed his friends' trust by letting this happen. Unfortunately, this was only the least of his worries.
In his hands, he had the note with the deciphered message from Drake's journal. Under normal circumstances, he and his friends might have been planning for a whole new adventure now; instead, they were faced with the threat of a dangerous enemy, who would stop at nothing to steal the secret of the Crypts once they realised they had it. They were completely on their own, forsaken by their allies and with things quickly souring even amongst themselves. If things were to go south on them now, it would be catastrophic. This wasn't good at all.
Frustrated, he crumpled the note into a ball and threw it away. What was the point anymore? This life, which he'd worked so hard to build for himself, was falling apart all around him...again. All his grandiose dreams of building a new future with his rabbit friends was going down the drain. He was so lost in his grim thoughts that he didn't hear Thethuthinnang come running in a panic, calling his name.
"What's going on?"
"It's Fiver," she said urgently, "He's had another vision. You better come quickly!"
He hurriedly followed Thethuthinnang back to the warren, where Hazel and Hyzenthlay were trying to comfort a terribly shaken Fiver. Pipkin, who had found him twitching on the ground, had brought him back to the Honeycomb and alerted the others. As Alan had suspected, there was some bad news.
"I saw Campion," explained Fiver, "I think he's in danger."
"What do you mean?" asked Alan sharply, "He isn't in trouble with Groundsel for helping us, is he?"
"No, it's not Groundsel," said the seer rabbit, "He was running down a run filled with dead rabbits – the rabbits of Vleflain! Then I saw the silhouette of another, large rabbit towering above him, tormenting him. Hazel, I think...I think it was Woundwort!" Several rabbits gasped. Alan felt like he'd been slammed in the face with a sledgehammer.
"What, you mean you saw his ghost?" asked Hawkbit, almost mockingly. Like everyone else, he had seen the dictator's rotting body being buried and flatly refused to believe what Fiver claimed he had seen.
"No, he was alive! Resurrected!" cried Fiver, eyes wide with terror, "I swear to Frith, I saw him!"
"Rubbish!" retorted Hawkbit, now getting really annoyed, "You're so full of hraka, Fiver!"
"Impossible!" exclaimed Dandelion, beside his friend, "You must have dozed off and had a nightmare..."
"It can't be him, Fiver!" said Bluebell, who had come up to get some air and stretch his legs, as much as his heart condition allowed him to anyway, always under the close supervision of his faithful Violet. Never forgetting his sense of humour, he added, "But if it's meant to be the joke of the season, to give us all a good scare, I daresay you win the biggest carrot from Prince Rainbow's garden...!" Several rabbits laughed.
"But, suppose Fiver's right?" asked Pipkin timidly, ignoring Bluebell. Unlike his friends, he was not the type to dismiss another rabbit's opinion, just because it sounded far-fetched, "I mean, how else can we explain Woundwort's body disappearing...?"
"Someone's idea of a bad joke, or else a pitiful attempt to scare us, of course," interrupted a soft voice from the edge of the burrows. The last rabbit Alan wanted to see again tonight – Blackberry – had come to investigate the commotion, right on time to spoil things once again. Giving Alan a cold shoulder, he spoke to Pipkin.
"Never mind him, Hlao," he said, supposedly comforting the younger rabbit, "Fiver's still in shock from the loss of his son and was flashing back to some memory from Efrafa, weren't you Fiver?" Alan was disgusted by his cold, calculated attitude. Blackberry was deliberately bringing it up in front of everyone in a further attempt to discredit him. Fiver seemed to realise that and glared furiously back at him.
"Don't you talk about Little Threar like that!" he shouted, "I've already told you, Blackberry; it was an accident! Alan did nothing wrong!" But Blackberry was far from convinced.
"I had hoped this tragedy would serve as a lesson to you all, about continuing to trust this creature that has no place among us!" A buzz of anger broke out in the Honeycomb and several rabbits gasped in outrage. Fiver seemed about to strike Blackberry for talking about his heart-brother like that, but someone else stepped in first.
"Out, Blackberry!" roared Bigwig, who had overheard everything, "Or I'm going to teach you a lesson in humility by pummelling the hraka out of you!" Although refusing to be intimidated by Bigwig's threat, Blackberry thankfully didn't push it further and scurried away. Thethuthinnang gave Alan and Fiver an apologetic look for her mate's behaviour. They both nodded in understanding.
"We can't ignore it any longer," said Alan, once tensions had died down, "This is the second vision of doom in three days. If we just sit here idly, whatever trouble it is that's coming – whether it is a resurrected Woundwort or someone who looks like him – will catch us unawares. First thing tomorrow, I'm paying a visit to Vleflain."
"The Watershipers aren't welcome in Vleflain in longer," Hazel pointed out, "If you go there, you could be arrested."
"We have to at least try and warn them, Hazel," insisted Alan, "Campion has always been a good friend to us and I won't leave him to his fate. I'm going!"
"Then, I'm coming with you," said Bigwig, stepping forward, "You'll need me, in case you run into any trouble with Groundsel."
"Why waste your time on those fools, who accused us of being killers?" smirked Hawkbit, still feeling bitter towards Groundsel, "If you ask me, this is all one big waste of time anyway. Woundwort, resurrected? Ha! Fiver's just gone off his rocker again, as usual...!"
"One more word, Hawkbit, and you're on solo night patrol till the leaves fall!" growled Bigwig in warning. Muttering an apology for his outburst, Hawkbit held his tongue.
Little did Alan realise that his concerns were more than justified. Unbeknownst to him or his friends, Vleflain was already a designated target for the enemy, about to be besieged...
Meanwhile, back at the mercenaries' camp, Crowley and his new ally were holding a council of war inside the mess hall tent. All of his mercenaries were present, looking excited at the prospect of going to war very soon. Crowley had presented Woundwort to his men and announced the new alliance between the two parties. Now, all they had to do was choose their first target.
An army cartographer had drawn up a crude map of Vleflain, including all entrance and exit runs, as well as the positions of sentries and the routes of the patrols, using the information Vervain had given him. Studying it, Crowley and Woundwort were able to work out their attack plan.
"We strike at midnight, just after the night patrols have returned from duty," announced Crowley, "We'll close in from all directions and surround the warren. That way, we'll have them bracketed and ensure no one escapes to warn Johnson. From there, we move on to Watership Down!" The men all cheered and applauded, boasting of how they would soon crush these unwanted neighbours, without them even knowing what hit them! Well, most of them did.
In the front row, Hirsh sat in silence, staring suspiciously at Woundwort. That rabbit's inexplicable resurrection kept troubling him to no end, much less the fact that his maniac boss had formed a new partnership with this bloodthirsty brute. Hell, he thought, that beast had shrugged off a clip of bullets at point blank range, without a single mark on him! Crowley had dismissed it as sloppy firing, but Hirsh knew what he had seen. Something was terribly wrong with this Woundwort character, he could feel it.
"I don't like this one bit," he whispered to Dr Guts, who was sitting right beside him, "And unless we actually have some use for that rabbit, I say we get rid of him. He's bound to bring us trouble soon or later, mark my words!" Guts hissed at him to shut up.
"Dr Johnson has a secret map, in the form of an old journal," Crowley continued, "That journal holds the key to rebuilding civilisation. It seems all of mankind's greatest treasures were safely hidden away before the world was destroyed. It's all somewhere out there and, as the new rulers, they'll soon be ours to claim. We've got to get out hands on that journal!"
"My lads will find it for you, Governor, once we have a good layout of the enemy lair," said Schiller, a brutish Sergeant, who would be leading the raid on Watership Down with Hirsh, while Woundwort and Vervain, leading another raiding party, took care of Vleflain. Crowley would monitor their progress from base camp.
"What about after we're done?" piped up Hirsh, liking this insane plan less and less by the minute. "You do realise, Crowley, Johnson already knows where we are; he and his friends will be out for revenge once we're done massacring their people!" Woundwort glared in disgust at Hirsh; that pitiful ithe was a coward if he feared the wrath of common Outsiders.
"No matter," said Crowley unconcernedly, "Because once we have that journal, we're pulling out!"
While going over his plan with Woundwort, the subject of Drake's journal had come up. Vervain, who already knew of its existence as well as its importance from Robbins, had filled them in on all the details. Crowley and Woundwort, realising that finding the Crypts should be their first priority, least the Outsiders beat them to their prize, were preparing for a journey.
Outside, several of Crowley's men were already hard at work, loading up all the supplies and equipment they could take with them onboard the jet, preparing for departure. Over at the powder magazine, weapons and battle gear were being distributed, in preparation for the double raid.
"The primary objective of the second raid will be the seizing of this journal at all costs," Crowley continued, "Also, as we're running low on food, you're to seize all the supplies you can find, as well as any maps or documents that might provide useful intel. Likewise, you're to destroy all power sources, communication equipment, weapons, crops, water supplies and vehicles they possess. We'll cripple them so badly, they'll have no advantage over us."
"What about prisoners, sir?" asked Corporal Wilkes, an intelligence collection expert assigned to Schiller's patrol for the raid. With Crowley's permission, Woundwort took the stand. The taking and handling of enemy prisoners was his department.
"The Outsiders built their warren using does they stole from me," he said, "I want them recaptured and returned to me, to be punished for their heresy. Their offspring too. By the law of Efrafa, their lives belong to me! There's also a reward for anyone who delivers Johnson to me, alive." The mercenaries suddenly started growing uneasy. Bringing in that wild bastard, who had already killed three of their men single-handedly, made them all but keen on attempting to capture him alive. Then, Vervain suddenly spoke up.
"Sire," he said, the wheels in his sickly mind turning, "Johnson has a daughter..." Woundwort whirled on him so fast, Vervain thought his master would get whiplash.
"And you're telling me this now?!" he exclaimed angrily. Of course! That girl was the perfect leverage to use against his enemy, even more so than his precious Outsider sidekicks or their does, or even the Crypts themselves. He turned to the mercenaries.
"I also want every female ithe in that colony rounded up and brought back here," he ordered, "They're not to be harmed until I've taken a good look at them. Clear?" Someone in the crowd whistled aloud, obviously misinterpreting Woundwort's instructions.
"I didn't think women were the type for softy rabbits," snorted the rugged mercenary, former Sapper Harvey, "Why don't you just stick to your bunch of flea-bitten trophy does, mate, and leave them pretty darlings for real macho lads like us?" Several of the mercenaries roared with laughter. Unfortunately, the idiot didn't know what it meant to aggravate Woundwort, much less insult his proud rabbithood. His laughter was cut short as he found himself knocked to the ground with his jaw caved in, courtesy of Woundwort's sledgehammer-sized paw.
"Learn to hold your tongue when I'm talking!" snarled Woundwort, "In Efrafa, you dared mock a superior and you were dead!" He turned to the rest of the spectators, who had all drawn back in alarm at Woundwort's viciousness, "Anyone else got any further stupid questions?" They all shook their heads, making no attempt to aid Harvey. They'd gotten the message all right, loud and clear. Smirking in satisfaction at their fear, Woundwort returned to his post, as Crowley wrapped up the briefing.
"Get some rest," he said to his men, "We start at midnight. That will be all. Dismissed!"
Once all of his men had dispersed, Crowley turned back to Woundwort and Vervain. Reaching into a filing cabinet, he took out a bottle of his favourite malt. Whatever dirty assignments he took on and wherever he went, Crowley would never leave his expensive luxuries behind. He poured three paper cups and passed two of them with straws to his guests. He raised his cup.
"To victory!" he announced, "And to the beginning of the new world order!"
Vervain curiously sniffed the beverage. He'd heard of these strange things the ithel often drank for pleasure during celebratory occasions, but had never tried one before. The strong odour of alcohol smelt terribly off-putting to his rabbit's sensitive nose. Taking a sip, his eyes bulged and watered as his mouth burned. Disgusted, he spat it out, chocking. But Woundwort gulped his down like wine, feeling most invigorated. One could make him drink petrol and he'd breathe fire, thought Crowley.
"I hope your Owsla are smarter than they look," said Woundwort, still displeased by Sapper Harvey's dismal display, "Johnson could kill anyone of those idiots in the blink of an eye! If it were up to me, I'd knock some proper discipline into those brainless oafs!"
"Take my advice, General, and don't worry about a thing," said Crowley, pouring himself another drink, "My men may be filthy, insolent tramps but they're professionals. They can handle fifty non-combatants and a thousand rabbits!"
Although highly sceptical about Crowley's men doing their duty properly, Woundwort was satisfied. After all this time, he was on the path to fulfil his destiny, just like the rest of his glorious ancestors! He glanced up at the moon shining through the skylight in the tent roof. His evil face curled into a grotesque smile.
"I'm coming back for you, Johnson," he thought, "And this time, you will lose everything; your friends, your family, your accomplishments, everything you hold dear will be ripped away from you in front of your eyes! I'm going to show you the worst Inle has to offer. You shall suffer death hrair times over before I'm through with you!"
Author's note: And now we finally come to the main part of the story. Woundwort and the Watershipers are going to war! This is my first update for 2019. Enjoy and please review!