A/N: Lord Demon: A doodle of Savage, hmm? Yeah I think that's doable. Not *entirely* sure what else you're asking for. Fret getting squashed, yes? Or is it Fret being a vegetable? Ah thanks for the info on Godzilla.
Waycaster: Hmmm... I shall leave Far-Eye's is er- 'magic' up in the air for now. Which means I can't really answer the next question... Will she find any spirits indeed...
Keldor: I imagine the Flitchaye will kind of serve as background for the time being. No long term plans or anything here... but I do like their accents!
Abrahem: Yes I think drawing Klis on his own might make it all easier...
Well lookee here a nice brief author's note! Still getting back into the writing mood if you will, but this chapter is more sizeable than the last one if you will.
"Plan ahead?" Chorba had known Zabal for many seasons now. The two rarely thought of the other amicably, but they worked well together. She cocked her head to the side, her voice lowering considerably. "This ain't anything about 'stickin' Flayface where it hurts' now is it?"
"That, me dear ole matey, is exactly what this is about." The fat weasel turned round. "I would prefer we spoke private-like. I ain' a big fan of all the smilin' beasts around us."
"I know a place." The ermine brushed past him with soft, almost silent pawsteps. "Follow me an' try an' be quiet about it."
To his credit, Zabal tried, but to an expert like Chorba his own pawsteps were as loud and as obvious as a thunderbolt. Down one corridor the two crept, before going through another. A left turn. A right turn. And through a doorway.
Little did either of them know they were being followed.
Zabal found himself in a small, dimly lit room. There were windows, and the door refused to close, but it would do. The fat weasel drew up a chair from a particularly dark corner and Chorba did likewise.
"So..." The ermine's eyes flickered to the doorway, before turning her full attention to her fellow tribesbeast. "About this Flayface then... what would we gain fur stickin' him?"
Zabal smiled. He'd been expecting the question, and as such, had a response ready. "Everythin'! One a' us'd be the new slavemaster fer starters, an' we'd be doin' ourselves a favour in the lon' run. When I was questionin' the slaves earlier this mornin'." He grinned cruelly at the memory. "Nobeas' seemed te know nothin' about no murders. 'Twas some other slave they said. They was not involved they said. An' they was tellin' the truth! Flayface is behin' all the killin's!" His grin faltered at the sight of Chorba's apparent unimpression.
"That be obvious, he comes in new slavemaster, starts killin' everybeas' else so he can have more power an' more control." She said after an awkward pause. "Anybeas' could tell ye that an' I'm pretty sure everybeast knows it." The ermine smirked and crossed her paws over her chest. "So, what do we do abouts it? The foxbeas' was sayin' Flayface be one a' the King's oldes' mateys."
There was another pause, wherein Zabal scratched at his neck in search of an answer. "Methinks that won' make a difference. Longclaw'll see we're doin' a better job an' Flayface was betrayin' him anyways so no harm done, eh?"
"Yer gonna hafta prove it te him, an' that ain' gonna be easy. Longclaw migh' decide yer the beas' betrayin' him. Methink he'd like settin' an example fur everybeas' an' kill ye all gory-like. Hang yer skull on the wall an' everythin'."
Zabal swallowed audibly and had to physically shake away the icy grip of fear threatening to hold him still forever. "Ye got any ideas yerself then?"
"I do matey." Chorba grinned widely and leaned in to whisper into the fat weasel's ear.
"Get a slave te do it?" Zabal repeated, at full volume.
Chorba growled and once more glanced suspiciously at the empty doorway. Nobeast had heard, but still she smacked the weasel's ear. "Hush ye idjit! Why'd ye thin' I leaned in te tell ye the plan!? What if somebeas' had heard!"
"Keep yer fur on." Zabal snapped, rubbing said ear. His own eyes darted from doorway to the ermine before him. "Usin' a slave ain' a bad idea... but how're ye gonna do that?"
"I'll order 'em do it, an' promise they'll be free an' get extra vittles an' the like. An' then I'll kill 'em as soon as the deed's good an' done." The ermine's sharp fangs gleamed with all the cold of an avalanche. "Ye'll fin' I can be very persuasive."
Zabal cackled with glee and smacked his paws together. "Soun's like a plan then! Whatcha thin' about goin' an' sayin' hello to the soon-to-be deadbeast?"
"Soun's like a plan." The two stood up, and not bothering to replace the chairs, left.
Blendfur breathed a small sigh of relief as soon as the fat weasel's footsteps were out of earshot. He had not been caught, and neither seemed to have suspected his presence, but sneaking in behind them and remaining still and silent- protected only by the darkness of his hiding place- was nerve-wracking. A small, thin beast of unusual coloring lingered in the dark of the corner for a while longer to make sure they were truly gone, before emerging.
His fur was dappled grey and brown, with small flecks of red here and there. He might been a stoat or a weasel, and the dark patches of fur around his eyes made 'ferret' an option too. His tunic was plain, the same colour and pattern as the walls of Chillgrave. It made sneaking around much easier, and as a spy he did lots of sneaking around. "Sometimes I even hide inside the skulls." He mused, stretching his tail free of the sores and cramps that came with crouching into the smallest amount of space possible. Blendfur clicked his spine with a sigh of contentment.
The weasel, Zabal, was an oaf who fancied himself cunning. The ermine was made of stronger stuff. She was smarter, and had the sense to glance at the doorway. But Blendfur had spied on shrewder. "Master will want to know." He reminded himself, in a voice as small as a child's. Peering through the doorway he found the corridor outside empty. Just as he liked it. With pawsteps and footfalls so silent they put tip-pawing to shame, Blendfur scurried through the cold halls of the castle.
Longclaw was not hard to find. When the king was not seated on the Throne of Chillgrave he was either dozing in his chambers or watching the slaves and slavemasters toiling in the quarry. Tunnels ran throughout the whole castle, and one of Longclaw's first acts as king had been to expand them. The previous owners of the castle had not been wolverines and as such there were plenty of cracks and crevices only smaller creatures could squeeze through and watch from.
"Yer Majesty." Came the voice of Blendfur.
Longclaw was startled. He did not jump up and he did not growl, but Blendfur had learned to read the subtle clues creatures gave out before he had learned to read. The wolverine's fur bristled and his tail stopped twitching abruptly. "Blendfur."
The smaller creature crept out of the shadows. Pride did not go well on spies, but he was one of the few beasts who could sneak past the King of Ice and Snow's frosty glare. Longclaw had expected him of course, this was a scheduled meeting. But-
"I thought you'd turn up later." His signature glare turned to a frown. "Well, what do you think? Can I trust these... reinforcements?"
Blendfur waited a while before answering. "I'm not sure about the seer, but Spitteeth seems loyal as ye already know of course. I have doubts about the other two though. The weasel thinks Flayface is behind the murders."
Longclaw raised an eyebrow. It was not a possibility he'd considered... But what did Flayface gain from slaying guardsbeasts and fellow captains? "And?"
"The ermine and he have conspired to... deal with him."
The wolverine's gaze hardened once more. It took all the discipline of a spy to not step away from the larger beast. Blendfur did not need to look at his paws to know that the King's famed claws were coming out. "Have they ever met him?"
"Not to my knowledge." Blendfur replied, his eyes fixed on Longclaw's feetpaws. "The ermine wanted to use a slave to do it. And then kill 'em afterwards so ye wouldn't find out."
The wolverine made a 'humph' kind of noise. "Do they truly think me so blind? That I would not notice the murder of one of my Captains taking place right under my nose?"
Blendfur decided mentioning that several captains had already needed replacing was a health and safety hazard.
"They plot to kill Flayface, within hours of setting footpaw within my halls. How long do you think it will be before they come for me?" Longclaw took a deep breath, and to the spy's immense (but well-hidden) relief, his claws slid back out of sight. "Still... it would not be good to antagonize them just yet. I have heard tell that Far-Eyes is indeed a gifted beast and we do not know where the loyalties of their threescore tribesbeasts lie, or how easy they will be to convert to my side. They may even be right about Flayface..."
"The murders did only start when he was promoted." Blendfur had spoken the words to himself countless times over. "But ye shouldn't discount the possibility that the slaves are responsible. The murders are probably in- in" He coughed awkwardly, trying to remember the next words. They came to him quickly. "Retaliation to the fact that his first act as slavemaster was to cook somebeast into stew."
Longclaw nodded. "Indeed. Neither can be discounted at this point... It is also possible that Flayface is using the slaves to murder the captains. If Chorba of all beasts can think of a plot like that... I am sure he could too." The wolverine king shrugged his massive shoulders. "In any case we should not act yet. Warn Flayface of these newcomers and the threat they pose towards him, but make sure he knows not your intent nor who you work for. It would also be wise to watch him from now on. If he is indeed responsible for these killings then he has overstepped his boundaries and outlived his usefulness."
Blendfur nodded.
"I have my doubts though. When I passed him by and made that foolish, brown-eyed stoat Slavemaster, Flayface made no attempt on my life, nor on the stoat's. And rest assured he could have split Brown-Eye in half a heartbeat had he the mind to do it. I wouldn't even have punished him for that. He knew it. I knew it. Yet the opportunity came and went and he did nothing. Why risk my wrath now? He has grown no younger and no fitter."
"Your wisdom never ceases to amaze me." The spy bowed before the King. It was always wise to bow in front of a King. "I shall do as you bid, and warn Flayface of Zabal and Chorba's plottings."
"And keep an eye on him." Longclaw added, with a dismissive wave of his paw.
Blendfur slunk back into the shadows of the tunnels, and left without another sound.
Longclaw was not a fan of the little spy, but he did his job well. Spies were rarely a threat anyways, and his many dealings with the Manywhispers had only strengthened his power of secrecy.
Slavemasters though... His gaze turned back to the secret window. Through it he could see Flayface in all his masked glory. They were nearly always a problem...
The kitchens were filled with the sound of chopping. A cacophony of blades hitting boards. The voice of an elderly marten, so shriveled up and wrinkled they resembled a piece of crumpled paper, cut through the din to bark out orders. "Roll the dough flatter, rudderbutt, afore I flatten yer hide!"
The addressed otter, a young beast with less fingers than he should've had, smiled.
Immediately Blendfur could tell something was amiss. The smile was the first clue, but there were many others.
A small group of particularly small weasels were snickering and poking one another with butter knives. From the way they behaved he knew them to be Flitchaye- members of rather primitive weasel tribes famous for their knock-out smoke and barkcloth camouflage. It was not so much the knife-playing that threw him off, but the playfulness of it... the giggling did not belong among forced labour.
A doddery old mouse who's large ears drooped like laundry on a washing line was snoozing in a corner. Somebeast had even tucked in the blankets! While older slaves were sometimes treated less harshly (depending on the slavemaster) to allow one to sleep in broad daylight was the kind of babying no sensible vermin would allow!
Blendfur watched one of the Flitchaye hurl their knife at another. The weasel ducked in time and the blunted blade soared through the air and into an innocent stack of dishes which promptly shattered into little pieces. A female weasel had been piling them up. Besides her another weasel, small compared to anybeast but the Flitchaye, turned and snarled.
"OI! That's me wife yer aimin' at! Throw another knife an' I'll toss ye and yer little pack of savages into the puddin'!" He waved a thickly-bandaged paw in their direction. Another clue that something was amiss- no slavemaster as sadistic as Flayface would treat a wounded slave.
The pack of weasels snarled back. "It norra Flitchaye fault d'potterclay smashacrash!"
"Pokieknife slipaslip!"
"It norra Flitchaye fault!"
"Blame d'pokieknife!"
The shorter weasel made to stomp over, but was grabbed by what Blendfur assumed to be his wife. "It doesn't matter." She said flatly.
"Doesn't matter? The idjit's could've hit ye! They'll be sorry when I'm done with 'em!"
"Worraworra!" Cried one of the savage little weasels. This cry was soon picked up by the other ones. "Worraworra! Worrraworra! Killyer d' bigbeast!"
"I said it doesn't matter." The female weasel hissed, the grip on her mate's shoulder tightening. "Now get back to work afore I pummel ye."
The male weasel flared up with rage, before abruptly deflating. Without another word he turned his back on the Flitchaye, who continued their little chant of 'worraworra'.
And the pine marten, who seemed to be in charge from the way she was shouting... had done nothing. His suspicions growing by the minute, Blendfur slunk closer towards the pair of weasels, who now seemed deep in conversation.
"But it does matter!" The male one was insisting. "An' we ought te tell the others about it 'coz I don't-"
"I told ye already!" The female one hissed, wiping the remains of the dishes into a small bin. "We ain't tellin' the others because it ain't important an' they've all got enough te deal with without ye bringin' up pointless arguments."
"Pointless? Pointless! This is anythin' but pointless!" Either Blendfur was missing some key information or the male weasel had a big ego. Both were equally likely at this point. Yet before either weasel could say another word there was a cry of pain and the clatter of a falling pan.
A hedgehog was now sucking a sore paw, at their feetpaws lay an upturned pastry.
"Now look what ye've done! Ye've gone an' dropped the pie!" The elderly pine marten 'tsked' loudly and stomped over towards the slave. "Shame on yer hedgepig! What did I tell ye about wearin' the oven glove, eh?" Instead of causing further pain towards the helpless slave, as was the common practice amongst slavemasters everywhere, the elderly marten took their paw in hers and gently massaged it. "Dip it in some cold water an' ye'll be fine. OI! Somebeas' clean up this mess!"
A shrew scurried over and gingerly flipped the pie back over. This slave had the audacity to dip a finger into the stuffing and plop it into their mouth! The usual punishment for such a deed was to starve the insolent slave. Somebeast like Flayface would have thrown in a few lashes too and a good kick was never amiss. The marten playfully tugged the base of their tail, almost tripping the shrew in the process.
"Best be careful greedyguts, elsewise the next pie might have bits of shrew in it. I'm rather partial te yer kind."
"Ye'll find I don't cook well." Blendfur's jaw went slack at the audacity of the slave. "I burn easily an' have this horrible habit of chewin' off me own crust. Now if ye'll excuse me, I've got a pie to devour!"
The marten chuckled as the slave mock-stomped away. She turned and her old eyes found his own watchful ones. There was a moment of pause. The air seemed to chill, their surroundings blurred over and in the stillness nothing seemed to exist or make a sound besides the pair of them.
Then just as suddenly as it had come, the moment was over. Blendfur's eyes darted to the open doorway, the only way in and out of the kitchens. The marten seemed to know what he was thinking. Or maybe it was a very accurate guess. In any case she pointed a claw at him. "Lock the door an' catch that beast! We've got an intruder!"
Before anybeast could properly register the order, Blendfur was off. Like a cork from a bottle he shot over a tabletop and sprinted as fast as his paws could carry him. The slaves however, seemed quick on the uptake. A well-built mole and the lack-fingered otter came charging at him too fast to stop. But Blendfur had been pursued by swifter, and did not need to glance backwards to know that the thump! he heard was the pair of them running into each other.
A dark furred marten dived for his feetpaws. Blendfur hopped over the beast in the nick of time- some of the slaves pursuing him were less lucky and came tripped onto the floor. The vermin spy hit the ground running. A knife flew past his ears and buried itself into a tabletop before him.
"The door! The door!" The old marten was screeching.
Blendfur felt his pace quicken, but it was too late. The weasel pair he'd been observing before slammed the door shut.
"Haha! Gotcha!" Cried the shorter one as the taller of the two came rushing forwards.
Blendfur sidestepped the thrust of her kitchen knife but was dealt a heavy blow on the muzzle. Sickletail swung again, but this time the spy was prepared and managed to duck under it. She stabbed forwards forcing Blendfur backwards. He soon found himself pressed against a tabletop. Diving to the side he dodged another slash of the knife and then he was off again.
Hopping onto the tabletop, he darted out of reach. Sickletail's knife narrowly missed. The door was not an option. He would not be able to get past the weasel guarding it. Blendfur did not know of any tunnels leading into the kitchens. Presumably whoever had built Chillgrave saw no reason to put them there. Although he had heard a rumour that Longclaw had sealed all the tunnels off as soon as Prince Bork was old enough to crawl.
"Flitchayeeeeee! Flitchayeeeeeee!" The Flitchaye pounced as one and became a snarling pile of fists and feetpaws. Unbeknownst to them they had completely missed their target.
The spy abruptly changed directions to avoid a hare with a frying pan (said hare went on to accidentally strike down an unfortunate rat with said frying pan).
"Most sincerest apologies honored Slinktail, wot. It was not at all my intention to dent this lovely little pan with your bally face."
Blendfur was of the opinion that the apology above sounded, somehow, unapologetic. Perhaps he could turn all the slaves against each other at this rate. Such a strategy however was a gamble and not one he'd like to bet his life against.
Then he saw it! A small window amidst a stack of barrels. He veered suddenly in it's direction, rushing helter skelter past a pair of shrews. A third knife grazed his shoulder and a fourth neatly removed some fur from between his ears. Whoever was throwing them (and he was sure it wasn't the Flitchaye) was a good shot. But he'd almost made it. The window was within reach!
Before he could jump out of it however he was tackled to the side by a burly mole.
"Oi's gort 'im marm!" Cried the kitchen slave maintaining a firm grip on the spy's tunic.
Whoever the mole was, they seemed to underestimate just how much Blendfur wanted to stay alive. Slipping free of the cloth the vermin sprung onto a smaller barrel and shot out the window without a sound. The mole was left dumbstruck, the cloth still in his claws.
"You fool! You let him get away!" Deathglare rushed past so quickly he himself nearly left the kitchens. The marten's head glared down at the sea below.
"Stupid moles." Silvertongue spat, hopping onto the barrel himself to better see what was going on. Standing on tip-paw he poked his head out and glanced briefly at the sharp rocks snarling up at them from around manes of frosted waves.
Both weasel and marten were dumbstruck.
"I think the mole may have killed him actually."
"Killed, eh? Wot wot."
"Lemme see!"
"Is it really dead?"
"Yerrherraherrherr! Go flapperfly outta d'wallhole! Watchybeast go splatsplat!"
"Yerrherr! Mushacrush a bigbit!"
The slaves clamored over, many wanted to see it for themselves. Head after head popped out to take a glance at the waters below. Deathglare and Silvertongue were soon smothered by the pushing, shoving bodies of overly-curious creatures.
"There's nothing to see here!" The pine marten wheezed, now sandwiched between a pair of Flitchaye. Silvertongue said something too, but the words were more muffled and harder to hear.
"Alright everybeast! Back te work!" Came the voice of Sick-Eyes. "Well done, yer intruder has been dealt with. Now clean up the mess ye all made catchin' him!"
One by one the slaves crowded out the window and back to their work stations, leaving a disgruntled Silvertongue to stare at the sea below. "That was too close fer comfort." He muttered, before heading back towards his wife.
Blendfur's arms were beginning to strain. The howling winds would probably have torn him clear off the cliff-side if they were any stronger. The stone he clung to now was old and damp, and his grip weak. It took all his strength of will not to look down, for he knew that would be the death of him. It was not the first time he'd used the window to access the kitchens, but he had never had cause to leave with such... haste. He'd had far too many brushes with death to count, but somehow they never seemed to get more bearable.
Longclaw would want to know of course, and Blendfur would have to do a lot of thinking and rehearsing to figure out what exactly he was supposed to say... His Master would want all the details.
Slowly but surely the small form of a mustelid edged along the cliffside.