Post by blackfox7 on Apr 21, 2011 15:23:27 GMT -5
This is a little story I wrote while I was bored last year and unable to get back here. Hope ye like!
Norwood was not a place that found its way on many maps used by the so-called "goodbeast" species. It was a meandering string of tactfully built cottages of riverstones and wood that followed the course of the small river known only as Northstream. Far to the northwest of the more populated Mossflower country, the less fertile, rocky soil had to be beaten and whipped to produce the same plentiful bounty as the Woodlanders of Mossflower enjoyed. The perch, trout and minnow of the small river were angler-savvy, and the hunting of birds required an infinitely higher level of skill than it did for the hunting in the lands to the south. The land the beasts of Norwood were raised in demanded strength, discipline, and unity from every rat, weasel, stoat, ferret, and fox that lived there. Most of them were farmers and hunters, taking and teaching skills and crafts on the side, and nearly all were trained as warriors and thus were part of the Wuulvite militia. Of their rugged ingenuity and valor the beasts of Norwood were justifiably proud; the living conditions of most "vermin" were less than poverty: Stealing, scrounging, and becoming hired spear fodder just to survive and support families. Of course, these conditions were only so because the goodbeasts had made it so for centuries. Everywhere in the hearts and minds of mice, moles, squirrels, hedgehogs, otters, hares, shrews and badgers was the recurring fear and hatred of the vermin--the "other". But these creatures had forgotten why rats and ferrets and so on were driven to rob them for no more than meager crusts. They had forgotten that the weasels and foxes were living, breathing beasts like themselves, not just "vermin".
That wasn't what twisted Iffrit's temper, though. The young, cocoa brown-furred weasel could take the insults, the terrified stares, the murmurs of "wonder whichbeast 'e's off t' stick, eh?" in his stride. The weasel youth knew he wasn't a spawn of Hellgates simply due to his species. He knew if he'd have been born a squirrel or rabbit nobeast would assume he was up to no good while he was off in the countryside gathering apples or fishing. What irked the hazel-eyed youngbeast the most was how the "goodbeasts" treated each other. A shrew or an otter could turn an innocent, yet trespassing, stoatmaid into a pincushion of arrows and javelins on sight, and his fellows would, rather than gasp in horror or scold the guilty one, play it down and play it off. Mice and voles made excuses: "Oh, I'm sure you couldn't see that she had a basket of strawberries, but then again you never can tell with vermin."
"You never can tell with vermin" was almost mandatory in the everyday speech of hares and otherbeasts. It was as if, though the deaths were horrible and the suffering was equal if not worse than that of a mouse or mole, goodbeasts could do no wrong. And weasels could never be noble warriors, protectors of their comrades; weasels could only amount to cutthroat pirates or robbing beggars.
Iffrit stroked the hilt of the shortsword made specially for him by his mother, an aspiring steelsmith. It was his father, a Wuulvite officer named Raegnor Warscythe, who had actually elected to let him have a weapon of war. Iffrit's battle training was reaching its critical point; he was adept with bow, dagger, and light spear, and was adequate with a sling, but his sword skills were still rudimentary. The Captain's son sought fervently to change that as he stood alone upon the water meadow between the woods and the south bank of the Northstream. For a long beat the weasel stood tensed like a spring under a thumbclaw, his right paw straying to the pommel of his weapon. He was trying to regulate his breathing to a slow in and slow out.
Like a wild shot from a bowstring he suddenly had the blade clear of its black leather scabbard. He whirled about the field, striking out and trusting lightly at dried plant stalks still standing through the winter that had passed. Dried seeds exploded and floated ponderously in the breeze as every swipe felled the stalks three at a time. He was awkward in his footwork, and wide in his swings, but he was true with his aim and improving. Relaxing again, he brushed seeds off his stiff, new, scarlet tunic and sheathed the sword with a proud flourish. His hazel eyes crinkled and gleamed with a smile as he hailed the small line of other half-grown children of Norwood.
"Hoi! You're all late, y' wankers!" he called obnoxiously. A fox cub that stood head and shoulders over any of the others and a ferret with cinnamon-colored fur and a black nose ran ahead of the other three. The fox clapped Iffrit on the back chummily as he drew close.
"Everybeast's allus late to you, mucker," he laughed. The weasel gave him a playful glare and made as if to hit him, but it never came.
In a short time the village youths were organizing themselves for their plan. Iffirt jumped up on an oblong, moss-covered boulder and brought order. He banged his footpaw against the stone until all the young creatures gave him their attention.
"Right! Who all's here? Bramm, Loach, you got yore stuff?" he barked, and the fox and ferret perked up at their names as they were called. Bramm held out a fishing spear and a long coil of rope. Loach indicated the long dagger at his belt and the sling in his paw, then nudged a sack on the ground which contained smooth, round slingstones. "What about you, Violet?" and in response the stoatmaid nodded and pointed to her bow and quiver of gray flighted arrows. The other two, another weasel named Raosk and a female rat named Sleetpad, didn't wait for their names to be called.
"We've got our slings and stones!" Raosk blurted out excitedly.
"An' I brought th' dummy, jus' in case!" the ratmaid said shortly after. Iffrit shot them a short glare for speaking out of turn but did not shout at them.
"That makes us ready!" he grinned, paws on hips, "Everybeast know th' plan?"
All five nodded whole-heartedly.
"Okay then, off we go."
Loach and Iffrit followed closely behind Bramm the fox cub as he whacked a trail through the dead hawthorne branches and parasitic vines with his spear. Violet and Sleetpad followed them at a distance, lugging a vaguely weasel-shaped sacking dummy filled with woodpigeon feathers and straw. Raosk lagged behind considerably, burdened by the bag of slingstones and the duty of making sure they weren't followed.
The scent of wood smoke became present in the forest air, and Bramm halted them. Turning to Iffrit and Loach, the fox grinned.
"I think that's them, yea?"
"'S th' right area for 'em, " Iffrit scowled, paw unconsciously grasping the hilt of his sword, "I'll scout ahead, see if we can't get some good spots before the soggy shrewmice notice somethin's up."
Before the two companions could stop him the dark-furred weasel took off, crashing away into the brush.
The "soggy shrewmice" were grudgingly awakening in their camp, blowing the coals of the previous night's fires back into life and sleepily tending to their three log canoes. Their leader, an overweight, gray-furred shrew named Grueson Flickblade, played no part in the work. His hard, black eyes glared out at his two dozen followers like two boiling pits of viscous tar. An amateurish, young shrew accidentally let slip of his end of a logboat, causing the other five beasts carting it along to lose their balance and drop the vessel with a chorus of shocked squeals. Grueson stood quickly and strode over to where the young shrew was getting up. His face ugly with temper the older creature kicked the youngster in the shoulder, sending him toppling over once again.
"Eggbrains!" he growled, prompting the victim to scramble for protection behind the log canoe, "Are you weak or just stupid? Get up, ye slug, get that boat over t' the bank or I'll shave your ears with your own sword!"
Flickblade's reputation was so dreadfully violent that the little shrew instantly went to do as he was bidden. Overburdened with the heavy maplewood boat, the terrified youngbeast dragged and pulled with all his might, finally reaching the wet, brown sands of the streambank and collapsing in a sobbing heap of exhaustion. Grueson nodded to two more shrews who were standing about hesitantly.
"Get that boat off 'im," he ordered curtly. The two rushed to obey.
The older shrew's attention was elsewhere. Though he did command a lot of respect from a great many guerilla shrews through their fear of his fighting skills and harsh discipline, he was not the Log-a-Log, the supreme commander, of this shrew union. No, that honor had gone to his distant nephew Jerro. Just thinking of his relative occupying the position that he obviously deserved made his teeth grind. Shuffling moodily, he returned to his lean-to shelter near the coals of the largest fire. An equally old female shrew awaited him, though she didn't seem too pleased to see him return.
"Hunh!" Grueson huffed angrily as he reclaimed his seat on the colorfully-woven quilt underneath the canvas. The female disdainfully provided him with a drink of shrewbeer, purposefully overfilling the beaker and spilling a notable quantity. Grueson glared at her viciously.
"Don't waste my time and resources, ye rathag."
"Don't waste your own time an' resources then!", she retorted bitterly, "Why aren't you busy directing this supposed 'grand invasion' of the vermin camp that you yabbed so much about when ye were sailin' us up here? Ye talk so much of the glory of battlin' the forces o' darkness, when're ye actually goin' t' do it?"
Grueson was almost finished with the draught already. As his wife brought her tirade to a peak he tightened his grip on the drinking vessel and brandished it as a weapon.
"Kainna!" he snarled in warning. The female shrew was suddenly and miraculously struck dumb. Grueson flung the beaker away, letting it smash against a stone on the ground.
"I warn you, old one," he seethed dangerously, toying with the hilt of his rapier, "don't you dare put any false ideas in my shrews' heads about abandonin' the attack. An' don't you ever take me for a coward in front of my fighters!"
Kainna blinked impassively. She had already said what she meant to. Turning casually, she could barely contain the look of smugness that crossed her face as she retreated to the females' sleeping area, out of range of any of the usual projectiles. Flickblade slumped dejectedly, staring hard down at a scrawled map of the area. An "x" of charcoal had been used to mark the location of Norwood and a dot of wax denoted the placement of the shrews' camp. A low broad hill and the width of the Northstream as it wound about the topography of the land was all that stood in the way of Grueson and everlasting glory. That, and about three score vermin warriors.
Wuulvite they may be, vermin are no match for guerilla shrews, he thought. He was arrogantly confident that his numbers, just four over a score of fieldable creatures, would easily cut down those of the larger beasts they were to face. In the growing light of morning, the shrew conqueror hunched over his map, orchestrating his new battle plan.
When Iffrit returned his companions were overjoyed, but the dark-furred young weasel hushed them urgently as he approached. The five eagerly leaned in as he relayed his intel.
"They're there alright. 'S full two dozen armed with these short, skinny swords an' another who ain't got much more'n the clothes on their backs. There's a few bows an' slings lyin' about, but if they're ambushed they ain't goin' t' get at 'em in time. We c'n hit 'em from three sides t' herd 'em inter th' stream, then they'll get goin' if they know what's good for 'em."
"What if they don't run?" Sleetpad suggested nervously, "What if they figger out how many we are an' charge at us?"
"If we do this right they ain't goin' t' know how many we are, or even if we're fish or fowl," the stoatmaid Violet reassured her. Raosk whirled his sling experimentally and grinned in anticipation.
"Heheh, we'll make 'em jump, won't we?" he chuckled. Loach tested his own sling's weight and balance with a probing claw.
"Hard an' fast, pop up one place, sling a stone, move elsewhere an' repeat the process," the ferret murmured, smiling, "Fight fire with fire, an' guerillas with guerillas."
"Sunnd's like a plan," Bramm grinned, retrieving his sling and setting his spear down, "but best get 'em right away whislt they's still yawnin'."
The eyes of the shrew assault force were blind to the minute movements of flower and shrub as the six half-grown Norwood creatures crept out into separate areas on the hillside. Several shrews were attempting (and failing) to make a pan of raisin duff when one very skinny one squinted off towards a slippery elm tree.
"Hey, what's tha--arrgh!"
He toppled over, clutching his jaw where the smooth river rock had smashed into it. Two female shrews stooped to help him up but found that he was unconscious. One by one other shrews leaped up in alarm all over the camp as a rain of slingstones hit them like a pack of angry wasps. Grueson sat upright with a start and instantly cowered behind the canvas of his shelter and searched around wildly for the source of the attack. He poked his head around the flap but instinctually withdrew it. An arrow zipped by where his head had been and buried its point full length in a piece of firewood.
"Hey, you ditherin' slugs! Get slings an' retaliate!" he roared at six shrews who were scrambling helter-skelter near the fire. They bent to obey, but all six were simultaneously struck in various places by hard little pebbles flung from accurate leather slings. Two swooned at the sight of another shrew whose tail had been pierced by an arrow and was running about in circles squealing, the rest yelped and clutched at bruised and smarting backs, paws, and rumps.
"Grah! Morons!" Flickblade snarled. He could see that the sudden assault had driven the morale right out of his fighters, and now the shrews, guerilla fighters and their families, were scampering about for solace and quivering in fright like startled baby owls.
Kainna saw the hopeless situation and acted quickly. She began ushering several females and youngsters into the logboats, helping warriors carry the unconscious aboard as well. Grueson shot her a cutting glare and strode over with fear of missiles forgotten.
"Where d'you think you're goin', leech?" he spat over the sounds of chaos, "These shrews follow my orders! An' I say we fight!"
"Excuse me, blubbergut, but d'you happen to see what's goin' on here? Your 'mighty warriors' are quiverin' like unbaked puddens, an' we don't have a clue what's attackin' us or how many. If ye were smart, ye'd say for us to regroup farther away, or maybe we should forget this 'ole stupid venture an' go back to the good life we had!"
Grueson snatched Kainna roughly by her tunic's collar and yanked her so close she could see the yellow streaks of his bared teeth, the straining blood vessels in his furious eyes. She stared back nonplussed.
"Ye should be glad there's otherbeasts around," he hissed, "Next time I'll make you wish ye were in the stream bottom."
With that he released her and bellowed aloud to his followers.
"Retreat to logboats! Leave camp, retreat!" Striding back to the lesser fire, Grueson leered and the surrounding underbrush and kicked the burning wood about on the grass. Sniggering maliciously, he sped back to the fore of the largest log canoe and leapt aboard as it pulled away from the bank.
Violet raised her head and gasped in horror. The burning cinders were setting the meadow beside the stream on fire, and it was spreading fast. Forgetting stealth, she dashed down the hill calling to her friends.
"Help! Fire, put it out quick! Help!"
She swept a loose belt of canvas of one of the shelters nearest her and set about beating and smothering the hot coals. Iffrit and Loach ran out from across the field and began helping the stoatmaid curb the small blazes.
"Fire-raiser, eh!" Iffrit snarled contemptually, stamping out a spark with his bare pawpads. Loach frowned and thwacked away at a pile of smoldering twigs with a juniper beater he had cut. The others joined them shortly as the last few fires were extinguished.
"Hunh, dirty vermin," Bramm glared at the very distant forms of the bobbing logboats, "Settin' fires all reckless as that. Make me mad t' th' core."
"An' they say we're the barbaric savages,"Iffrit murmured darkly, glowering like a thundercloud. Sleetpad began rummaging in the canvas shelters, bringing out forgotten bows and rapiers. One by one she and Raosk wedged the weapons between stones in the fire rings and snapped them with their full weight. Loach picked one sword up and examined it.
"Hmm... far too short for even us t' use. 'Twere made for shrews an' shrews only." Shrugging, he mimicked Raosk and Sleetpad and snapped it in half.
"Oi! There's supplies they left!" Bramm called from inside Grueson's former shelter. The dark-furred weasel jogged over and dubiously eyed some glass vessels that looked like cider jugs.
"This ain't cider, blegh!" he hurled the jug against a stone, smashing it and spilling the contents, "I'm surprised them shrews still 'as livers an' kidneys swiggin' this stuff. 'Stoo strong, 'specially for little shrimps like shrews."
Bramm aided his friend in disposing of the shrewbeer, then shouldered a sack of the other supplies, which appeared to be sweet biscuits glazed with something orange in color, flasks of various cordials, and satchels of various nuts and vegetables. He gestured at the loot.
"At least we c'n capture this lot an' put it t' use, considerin' them shrews don' wan' it no more."
"Aye, lemme see one o' those," Iffrit reached out imploringly. Bramm shuffled the sack away protectively.
"Nay, don' spoil yer appetite fer lunch, pal. Y'know what yer mammie'd say."
"Hoi, 'sjust one! One little piece o' that weird biscuitEquot;
"Nope, keep yer claws away. 'Tis fer all of us."
"There's more'n six biscuits in there!"
"Nah, we waits 'til we gets home."
"Yah, we'll mix it in with the supplies in the big cellar an' nobeast'll be the wiser." Loach added helpfully to Bramm's argument. Iffrit crossed his arms, bitter that he'd been outvoted.
"Pah, fine. It makes sense enough,Ehe relented, trying to keep some hint of good grace, "but once we gets home I'm tryin' some o' that weird biscuit!"
Filing off, they dissolved into the trees, back towards home.
As the six young creatures approached the arching entryway marking Norwood village they were instantly alert that their game was up. An older weasel with a powerful, steel spring build wearing a faded blue tunic and lizard leather sandals and gauntlets stood leaning on one of the posts, a smile of measured patience hovering about his lips. Iffrit lowered his head guiltily and darted behind the much larger Bramm. The older beast's piercing hazel eyes caught the movement and frowned deeply, yet still remained smiling. As the pack of guiltily shuffling youngbeasts approached he took a pace into the archway's center, blocking them.
"Hallo, Mister Raegnor, sir," Loach and Raosk greeted him in a low mumble. The father of Iffrit nodded in recognition and gave the sorry group a long look.
Slowly a group of very disappointed looking adult Norwooders revealed themselves. Two were ferrets, the same cinnamon hue as Loach, one was a portly rat, one a rust-colored vixen, three were weasels (a tall, somber-faced father, a somewhat plump mother, and a quite gray-flecked grandmother), and the last was a cocoa-furred stoatmaid that looked nearly as young as Violet. Raegnor's smile broadened.
"Off with you now, to your parents," he dismissed the five. Gratefully the young creatures scurried off to the deceptively less forgiving faces of their guardians. Now Iffrit was alone with his father.
Raegnor prodded the abandoned sack of plunder with one footpaw then eyed his son.
"Where's this come from, Iffrit?"
The little weasel toyed with the loose end of his belt and was silent.
"Did you steal it?"
"No..." he mumbled. Raegnor gave him a hard look.
"Well you certainly didn't buy it. Where'd you get it?"
"Shrews," Iffrit snuffed poutily. He looked away as his father rummaged in the bag, "but they was too close anyway."
"Too close?" the older weasel's eyes grew hot, "So they were too close? So what did you do about it?" He took a step toward his son and dropped the bag roughly, "You didn't cause a fight, did you?!"
"They didn't see us! Nobeast was hurt, so what's the problem?!"
"You did fight them! Haven't I told ye before not t' cause trouble with th' Woodlanders, shrews least of all! What were ye thinking, bairn?!"
"I just wanted t' help!" he retorted in a shrill voice, "they was bad creatures, an' they were too close to us! They were gonna do badwill t' us, so me'n' the others stopped 'em!" Staring his father down rebelliously he clenched his paws into fists and growled out his final point, "We stopped 'em, so there!"
Raegnor appeared stunned for a moment, blinking his fierce eyes in silence. They softened as he responded in a more reasonable tone.
"Son, it's not what happened that I'm mad about. It's that you young 'uns did it, and without any help from a fully-trained fighting animal too," he placed a paw on his son's shoulder, inwardly amazed that he did not have to stoop to do so anymore, "I'm not even very mad at you. I'm more scared than anythin'. What if somethin' had gone wrong with your plan?"
Iffrit hung his head sullenly, the weight of his guilt finally starting to sink in. Raegnor lifted his chin with one claw.
"Your mother an' I just want you to be safe, at least until it ain't a choice of ours what ye do. D'ye understand?" Iffrit nodded, "Alright. Home now."
As Raegnor picked up the sack of supplies the younger weasel wrinkled his nose.
"I'm gonna get me ears bitten off by mom, ain't I?" he grumbled lowly. The father weasel laughed.
"Aye, boy, an' your tail too, I imagine."
----------------------------------------------------
Feel free to comment on the harrowing tale! I enjoy criticism more than is healthy and praise even more! Stay tuned for the next installment when Iffrit and his staunch pals near adulthood and run amok of the dreaded Grueson Flickblade on more even ground!
Of Norwood and the Northern Guerilla Union of Shrews
Norwood was not a place that found its way on many maps used by the so-called "goodbeast" species. It was a meandering string of tactfully built cottages of riverstones and wood that followed the course of the small river known only as Northstream. Far to the northwest of the more populated Mossflower country, the less fertile, rocky soil had to be beaten and whipped to produce the same plentiful bounty as the Woodlanders of Mossflower enjoyed. The perch, trout and minnow of the small river were angler-savvy, and the hunting of birds required an infinitely higher level of skill than it did for the hunting in the lands to the south. The land the beasts of Norwood were raised in demanded strength, discipline, and unity from every rat, weasel, stoat, ferret, and fox that lived there. Most of them were farmers and hunters, taking and teaching skills and crafts on the side, and nearly all were trained as warriors and thus were part of the Wuulvite militia. Of their rugged ingenuity and valor the beasts of Norwood were justifiably proud; the living conditions of most "vermin" were less than poverty: Stealing, scrounging, and becoming hired spear fodder just to survive and support families. Of course, these conditions were only so because the goodbeasts had made it so for centuries. Everywhere in the hearts and minds of mice, moles, squirrels, hedgehogs, otters, hares, shrews and badgers was the recurring fear and hatred of the vermin--the "other". But these creatures had forgotten why rats and ferrets and so on were driven to rob them for no more than meager crusts. They had forgotten that the weasels and foxes were living, breathing beasts like themselves, not just "vermin".
That wasn't what twisted Iffrit's temper, though. The young, cocoa brown-furred weasel could take the insults, the terrified stares, the murmurs of "wonder whichbeast 'e's off t' stick, eh?" in his stride. The weasel youth knew he wasn't a spawn of Hellgates simply due to his species. He knew if he'd have been born a squirrel or rabbit nobeast would assume he was up to no good while he was off in the countryside gathering apples or fishing. What irked the hazel-eyed youngbeast the most was how the "goodbeasts" treated each other. A shrew or an otter could turn an innocent, yet trespassing, stoatmaid into a pincushion of arrows and javelins on sight, and his fellows would, rather than gasp in horror or scold the guilty one, play it down and play it off. Mice and voles made excuses: "Oh, I'm sure you couldn't see that she had a basket of strawberries, but then again you never can tell with vermin."
"You never can tell with vermin" was almost mandatory in the everyday speech of hares and otherbeasts. It was as if, though the deaths were horrible and the suffering was equal if not worse than that of a mouse or mole, goodbeasts could do no wrong. And weasels could never be noble warriors, protectors of their comrades; weasels could only amount to cutthroat pirates or robbing beggars.
Iffrit stroked the hilt of the shortsword made specially for him by his mother, an aspiring steelsmith. It was his father, a Wuulvite officer named Raegnor Warscythe, who had actually elected to let him have a weapon of war. Iffrit's battle training was reaching its critical point; he was adept with bow, dagger, and light spear, and was adequate with a sling, but his sword skills were still rudimentary. The Captain's son sought fervently to change that as he stood alone upon the water meadow between the woods and the south bank of the Northstream. For a long beat the weasel stood tensed like a spring under a thumbclaw, his right paw straying to the pommel of his weapon. He was trying to regulate his breathing to a slow in and slow out.
Like a wild shot from a bowstring he suddenly had the blade clear of its black leather scabbard. He whirled about the field, striking out and trusting lightly at dried plant stalks still standing through the winter that had passed. Dried seeds exploded and floated ponderously in the breeze as every swipe felled the stalks three at a time. He was awkward in his footwork, and wide in his swings, but he was true with his aim and improving. Relaxing again, he brushed seeds off his stiff, new, scarlet tunic and sheathed the sword with a proud flourish. His hazel eyes crinkled and gleamed with a smile as he hailed the small line of other half-grown children of Norwood.
"Hoi! You're all late, y' wankers!" he called obnoxiously. A fox cub that stood head and shoulders over any of the others and a ferret with cinnamon-colored fur and a black nose ran ahead of the other three. The fox clapped Iffrit on the back chummily as he drew close.
"Everybeast's allus late to you, mucker," he laughed. The weasel gave him a playful glare and made as if to hit him, but it never came.
In a short time the village youths were organizing themselves for their plan. Iffirt jumped up on an oblong, moss-covered boulder and brought order. He banged his footpaw against the stone until all the young creatures gave him their attention.
"Right! Who all's here? Bramm, Loach, you got yore stuff?" he barked, and the fox and ferret perked up at their names as they were called. Bramm held out a fishing spear and a long coil of rope. Loach indicated the long dagger at his belt and the sling in his paw, then nudged a sack on the ground which contained smooth, round slingstones. "What about you, Violet?" and in response the stoatmaid nodded and pointed to her bow and quiver of gray flighted arrows. The other two, another weasel named Raosk and a female rat named Sleetpad, didn't wait for their names to be called.
"We've got our slings and stones!" Raosk blurted out excitedly.
"An' I brought th' dummy, jus' in case!" the ratmaid said shortly after. Iffrit shot them a short glare for speaking out of turn but did not shout at them.
"That makes us ready!" he grinned, paws on hips, "Everybeast know th' plan?"
All five nodded whole-heartedly.
"Okay then, off we go."
Loach and Iffrit followed closely behind Bramm the fox cub as he whacked a trail through the dead hawthorne branches and parasitic vines with his spear. Violet and Sleetpad followed them at a distance, lugging a vaguely weasel-shaped sacking dummy filled with woodpigeon feathers and straw. Raosk lagged behind considerably, burdened by the bag of slingstones and the duty of making sure they weren't followed.
The scent of wood smoke became present in the forest air, and Bramm halted them. Turning to Iffrit and Loach, the fox grinned.
"I think that's them, yea?"
"'S th' right area for 'em, " Iffrit scowled, paw unconsciously grasping the hilt of his sword, "I'll scout ahead, see if we can't get some good spots before the soggy shrewmice notice somethin's up."
Before the two companions could stop him the dark-furred weasel took off, crashing away into the brush.
◊ § § § § § § § § § § § ◊
The "soggy shrewmice" were grudgingly awakening in their camp, blowing the coals of the previous night's fires back into life and sleepily tending to their three log canoes. Their leader, an overweight, gray-furred shrew named Grueson Flickblade, played no part in the work. His hard, black eyes glared out at his two dozen followers like two boiling pits of viscous tar. An amateurish, young shrew accidentally let slip of his end of a logboat, causing the other five beasts carting it along to lose their balance and drop the vessel with a chorus of shocked squeals. Grueson stood quickly and strode over to where the young shrew was getting up. His face ugly with temper the older creature kicked the youngster in the shoulder, sending him toppling over once again.
"Eggbrains!" he growled, prompting the victim to scramble for protection behind the log canoe, "Are you weak or just stupid? Get up, ye slug, get that boat over t' the bank or I'll shave your ears with your own sword!"
Flickblade's reputation was so dreadfully violent that the little shrew instantly went to do as he was bidden. Overburdened with the heavy maplewood boat, the terrified youngbeast dragged and pulled with all his might, finally reaching the wet, brown sands of the streambank and collapsing in a sobbing heap of exhaustion. Grueson nodded to two more shrews who were standing about hesitantly.
"Get that boat off 'im," he ordered curtly. The two rushed to obey.
The older shrew's attention was elsewhere. Though he did command a lot of respect from a great many guerilla shrews through their fear of his fighting skills and harsh discipline, he was not the Log-a-Log, the supreme commander, of this shrew union. No, that honor had gone to his distant nephew Jerro. Just thinking of his relative occupying the position that he obviously deserved made his teeth grind. Shuffling moodily, he returned to his lean-to shelter near the coals of the largest fire. An equally old female shrew awaited him, though she didn't seem too pleased to see him return.
"Hunh!" Grueson huffed angrily as he reclaimed his seat on the colorfully-woven quilt underneath the canvas. The female disdainfully provided him with a drink of shrewbeer, purposefully overfilling the beaker and spilling a notable quantity. Grueson glared at her viciously.
"Don't waste my time and resources, ye rathag."
"Don't waste your own time an' resources then!", she retorted bitterly, "Why aren't you busy directing this supposed 'grand invasion' of the vermin camp that you yabbed so much about when ye were sailin' us up here? Ye talk so much of the glory of battlin' the forces o' darkness, when're ye actually goin' t' do it?"
Grueson was almost finished with the draught already. As his wife brought her tirade to a peak he tightened his grip on the drinking vessel and brandished it as a weapon.
"Kainna!" he snarled in warning. The female shrew was suddenly and miraculously struck dumb. Grueson flung the beaker away, letting it smash against a stone on the ground.
"I warn you, old one," he seethed dangerously, toying with the hilt of his rapier, "don't you dare put any false ideas in my shrews' heads about abandonin' the attack. An' don't you ever take me for a coward in front of my fighters!"
Kainna blinked impassively. She had already said what she meant to. Turning casually, she could barely contain the look of smugness that crossed her face as she retreated to the females' sleeping area, out of range of any of the usual projectiles. Flickblade slumped dejectedly, staring hard down at a scrawled map of the area. An "x" of charcoal had been used to mark the location of Norwood and a dot of wax denoted the placement of the shrews' camp. A low broad hill and the width of the Northstream as it wound about the topography of the land was all that stood in the way of Grueson and everlasting glory. That, and about three score vermin warriors.
Wuulvite they may be, vermin are no match for guerilla shrews, he thought. He was arrogantly confident that his numbers, just four over a score of fieldable creatures, would easily cut down those of the larger beasts they were to face. In the growing light of morning, the shrew conqueror hunched over his map, orchestrating his new battle plan.
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When Iffrit returned his companions were overjoyed, but the dark-furred young weasel hushed them urgently as he approached. The five eagerly leaned in as he relayed his intel.
"They're there alright. 'S full two dozen armed with these short, skinny swords an' another who ain't got much more'n the clothes on their backs. There's a few bows an' slings lyin' about, but if they're ambushed they ain't goin' t' get at 'em in time. We c'n hit 'em from three sides t' herd 'em inter th' stream, then they'll get goin' if they know what's good for 'em."
"What if they don't run?" Sleetpad suggested nervously, "What if they figger out how many we are an' charge at us?"
"If we do this right they ain't goin' t' know how many we are, or even if we're fish or fowl," the stoatmaid Violet reassured her. Raosk whirled his sling experimentally and grinned in anticipation.
"Heheh, we'll make 'em jump, won't we?" he chuckled. Loach tested his own sling's weight and balance with a probing claw.
"Hard an' fast, pop up one place, sling a stone, move elsewhere an' repeat the process," the ferret murmured, smiling, "Fight fire with fire, an' guerillas with guerillas."
"Sunnd's like a plan," Bramm grinned, retrieving his sling and setting his spear down, "but best get 'em right away whislt they's still yawnin'."
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The eyes of the shrew assault force were blind to the minute movements of flower and shrub as the six half-grown Norwood creatures crept out into separate areas on the hillside. Several shrews were attempting (and failing) to make a pan of raisin duff when one very skinny one squinted off towards a slippery elm tree.
"Hey, what's tha--arrgh!"
He toppled over, clutching his jaw where the smooth river rock had smashed into it. Two female shrews stooped to help him up but found that he was unconscious. One by one other shrews leaped up in alarm all over the camp as a rain of slingstones hit them like a pack of angry wasps. Grueson sat upright with a start and instantly cowered behind the canvas of his shelter and searched around wildly for the source of the attack. He poked his head around the flap but instinctually withdrew it. An arrow zipped by where his head had been and buried its point full length in a piece of firewood.
"Hey, you ditherin' slugs! Get slings an' retaliate!" he roared at six shrews who were scrambling helter-skelter near the fire. They bent to obey, but all six were simultaneously struck in various places by hard little pebbles flung from accurate leather slings. Two swooned at the sight of another shrew whose tail had been pierced by an arrow and was running about in circles squealing, the rest yelped and clutched at bruised and smarting backs, paws, and rumps.
"Grah! Morons!" Flickblade snarled. He could see that the sudden assault had driven the morale right out of his fighters, and now the shrews, guerilla fighters and their families, were scampering about for solace and quivering in fright like startled baby owls.
Kainna saw the hopeless situation and acted quickly. She began ushering several females and youngsters into the logboats, helping warriors carry the unconscious aboard as well. Grueson shot her a cutting glare and strode over with fear of missiles forgotten.
"Where d'you think you're goin', leech?" he spat over the sounds of chaos, "These shrews follow my orders! An' I say we fight!"
"Excuse me, blubbergut, but d'you happen to see what's goin' on here? Your 'mighty warriors' are quiverin' like unbaked puddens, an' we don't have a clue what's attackin' us or how many. If ye were smart, ye'd say for us to regroup farther away, or maybe we should forget this 'ole stupid venture an' go back to the good life we had!"
Grueson snatched Kainna roughly by her tunic's collar and yanked her so close she could see the yellow streaks of his bared teeth, the straining blood vessels in his furious eyes. She stared back nonplussed.
"Ye should be glad there's otherbeasts around," he hissed, "Next time I'll make you wish ye were in the stream bottom."
With that he released her and bellowed aloud to his followers.
"Retreat to logboats! Leave camp, retreat!" Striding back to the lesser fire, Grueson leered and the surrounding underbrush and kicked the burning wood about on the grass. Sniggering maliciously, he sped back to the fore of the largest log canoe and leapt aboard as it pulled away from the bank.
Violet raised her head and gasped in horror. The burning cinders were setting the meadow beside the stream on fire, and it was spreading fast. Forgetting stealth, she dashed down the hill calling to her friends.
"Help! Fire, put it out quick! Help!"
She swept a loose belt of canvas of one of the shelters nearest her and set about beating and smothering the hot coals. Iffrit and Loach ran out from across the field and began helping the stoatmaid curb the small blazes.
"Fire-raiser, eh!" Iffrit snarled contemptually, stamping out a spark with his bare pawpads. Loach frowned and thwacked away at a pile of smoldering twigs with a juniper beater he had cut. The others joined them shortly as the last few fires were extinguished.
"Hunh, dirty vermin," Bramm glared at the very distant forms of the bobbing logboats, "Settin' fires all reckless as that. Make me mad t' th' core."
"An' they say we're the barbaric savages,"Iffrit murmured darkly, glowering like a thundercloud. Sleetpad began rummaging in the canvas shelters, bringing out forgotten bows and rapiers. One by one she and Raosk wedged the weapons between stones in the fire rings and snapped them with their full weight. Loach picked one sword up and examined it.
"Hmm... far too short for even us t' use. 'Twere made for shrews an' shrews only." Shrugging, he mimicked Raosk and Sleetpad and snapped it in half.
"Oi! There's supplies they left!" Bramm called from inside Grueson's former shelter. The dark-furred weasel jogged over and dubiously eyed some glass vessels that looked like cider jugs.
"This ain't cider, blegh!" he hurled the jug against a stone, smashing it and spilling the contents, "I'm surprised them shrews still 'as livers an' kidneys swiggin' this stuff. 'Stoo strong, 'specially for little shrimps like shrews."
Bramm aided his friend in disposing of the shrewbeer, then shouldered a sack of the other supplies, which appeared to be sweet biscuits glazed with something orange in color, flasks of various cordials, and satchels of various nuts and vegetables. He gestured at the loot.
"At least we c'n capture this lot an' put it t' use, considerin' them shrews don' wan' it no more."
"Aye, lemme see one o' those," Iffrit reached out imploringly. Bramm shuffled the sack away protectively.
"Nay, don' spoil yer appetite fer lunch, pal. Y'know what yer mammie'd say."
"Hoi, 'sjust one! One little piece o' that weird biscuitEquot;
"Nope, keep yer claws away. 'Tis fer all of us."
"There's more'n six biscuits in there!"
"Nah, we waits 'til we gets home."
"Yah, we'll mix it in with the supplies in the big cellar an' nobeast'll be the wiser." Loach added helpfully to Bramm's argument. Iffrit crossed his arms, bitter that he'd been outvoted.
"Pah, fine. It makes sense enough,Ehe relented, trying to keep some hint of good grace, "but once we gets home I'm tryin' some o' that weird biscuit!"
Filing off, they dissolved into the trees, back towards home.
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As the six young creatures approached the arching entryway marking Norwood village they were instantly alert that their game was up. An older weasel with a powerful, steel spring build wearing a faded blue tunic and lizard leather sandals and gauntlets stood leaning on one of the posts, a smile of measured patience hovering about his lips. Iffrit lowered his head guiltily and darted behind the much larger Bramm. The older beast's piercing hazel eyes caught the movement and frowned deeply, yet still remained smiling. As the pack of guiltily shuffling youngbeasts approached he took a pace into the archway's center, blocking them.
"Hallo, Mister Raegnor, sir," Loach and Raosk greeted him in a low mumble. The father of Iffrit nodded in recognition and gave the sorry group a long look.
Slowly a group of very disappointed looking adult Norwooders revealed themselves. Two were ferrets, the same cinnamon hue as Loach, one was a portly rat, one a rust-colored vixen, three were weasels (a tall, somber-faced father, a somewhat plump mother, and a quite gray-flecked grandmother), and the last was a cocoa-furred stoatmaid that looked nearly as young as Violet. Raegnor's smile broadened.
"Off with you now, to your parents," he dismissed the five. Gratefully the young creatures scurried off to the deceptively less forgiving faces of their guardians. Now Iffrit was alone with his father.
Raegnor prodded the abandoned sack of plunder with one footpaw then eyed his son.
"Where's this come from, Iffrit?"
The little weasel toyed with the loose end of his belt and was silent.
"Did you steal it?"
"No..." he mumbled. Raegnor gave him a hard look.
"Well you certainly didn't buy it. Where'd you get it?"
"Shrews," Iffrit snuffed poutily. He looked away as his father rummaged in the bag, "but they was too close anyway."
"Too close?" the older weasel's eyes grew hot, "So they were too close? So what did you do about it?" He took a step toward his son and dropped the bag roughly, "You didn't cause a fight, did you?!"
"They didn't see us! Nobeast was hurt, so what's the problem?!"
"You did fight them! Haven't I told ye before not t' cause trouble with th' Woodlanders, shrews least of all! What were ye thinking, bairn?!"
"I just wanted t' help!" he retorted in a shrill voice, "they was bad creatures, an' they were too close to us! They were gonna do badwill t' us, so me'n' the others stopped 'em!" Staring his father down rebelliously he clenched his paws into fists and growled out his final point, "We stopped 'em, so there!"
Raegnor appeared stunned for a moment, blinking his fierce eyes in silence. They softened as he responded in a more reasonable tone.
"Son, it's not what happened that I'm mad about. It's that you young 'uns did it, and without any help from a fully-trained fighting animal too," he placed a paw on his son's shoulder, inwardly amazed that he did not have to stoop to do so anymore, "I'm not even very mad at you. I'm more scared than anythin'. What if somethin' had gone wrong with your plan?"
Iffrit hung his head sullenly, the weight of his guilt finally starting to sink in. Raegnor lifted his chin with one claw.
"Your mother an' I just want you to be safe, at least until it ain't a choice of ours what ye do. D'ye understand?" Iffrit nodded, "Alright. Home now."
As Raegnor picked up the sack of supplies the younger weasel wrinkled his nose.
"I'm gonna get me ears bitten off by mom, ain't I?" he grumbled lowly. The father weasel laughed.
"Aye, boy, an' your tail too, I imagine."
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Feel free to comment on the harrowing tale! I enjoy criticism more than is healthy and praise even more! Stay tuned for the next installment when Iffrit and his staunch pals near adulthood and run amok of the dreaded Grueson Flickblade on more even ground!