| Subject: The Mask: chapters 6-10 |
Author:
Dakkan
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Date Posted: 20:22:40 09/13/02 Fri
In reply to:
Dakkan
's message, "Oh..." on 20:15:43 09/13/02 Fri
CHAPTER SIX: AT KOTIR
Verduaga Greeneyes stood on a pile of rubble, arms folded and scarlet cloak fluttering slightly in the night breezes. He watched silently as his army dashed around, repairing broken stone and replacing rotten doors. Since there were so many vermin, the work was getting done very quickly. There were advantages to having so vast a force.
His Captain of the Guard, a tall ferret called Chokepaw, marched up and saluted. He wore the normal attire of one of the wildcat’s soldiers, which consisted of a heavy forest green tunic with a chainmail vest over it, belted at the waist. A metal plate was attached to the front of the chainmail vest in the middle of the chest area, and on it was engraved the symbol of the Thousand Eyes, Verduaga’s mark. As a Captain, Chokepaw also wore a blue cloak as a mark of rank, more for decoration than anything else.
Verduaga’s emerald-hued eyes shifted to his Captain and shone eerily in the light of the torch the ferret was holding. “How goes it?” His voice was not rough, nor did it give one the impression that he was growling, yet the undertone of menace made Chokepaw’s neckfur stand on end.
The ferret waved a paw toward the old castle. “Lord, the initial repairwork is done. As time passes we can strengthen the walls and pay attention to minor details.”
The wildcat continued to stare unblinkingly at his Captain. “And the interior?”
Chokepaw had never seen a beast who could go as long without blinking as Verduaga. He tried to ignore his apprehension and replied smartly, “The structure has held up to time well, Milord. Inside we only had to replace a few doors and do some minor repairs. Then we can begin building furniture, for it’s pretty empty in there.”
Verduaga’s eyes left Chokepaw for a moment and scanned the army, finally resting on two stoats. “Those two – Scarfang and Roughback – get them and give them a tent canvas and some dyes. Tell them to make a tapestry with my likeness, and be sure to mention that their lives depend on its quality. Tomorrow, you can send patrols into the forest to look for wood to make furniture.”
The ferret Captain bowed low and set off to do his master’s bidding.
Lord Greeneyes turned his head and stared into the dark woodlands. Arms still folded, he extended and retracted his claws a few times. “Heh heh heh, soon you weak little woodlanders will be under my claws,” he chuckled with a half-growl.
CHAPTER SEVEN: TRAINING
As the sun rose over Mossflower, most beasts were still asleep. However, the secret otter headquarters at Camp Willow, named for the huge willow tree growing over it, was bustling with activity. Five seasons had passed since the warrior council at the Rock, and otters and squirrels alike were training with all their strength in the woods. Riverwyte, Bargud, and Warthorn (who everyone affectionately called Skipper after his outburst at the meeting) were old enough to train with the others, being ten seasons old. (For an otter, this was about the middle of adolescence, approximately 15 or 16 by human standards.)
All the squirrels were in the trees practicing archery by shooting at targets while jumping from branch to branch. Some, like young Amber, daughter of the Squirrelqueen and almost as old as the three otter brothers, were so proficient at this drill that they had somebeast move the target while they practiced.
Amber nocked an arrow to her bowstring and called, “Taking off!” As she bounded through the trees, her mother pulled the target in random directions on a rope. The target slid left; Amber adjusted her aim and fired. The shaft sunk deep into the red bullseye, only slightly off center.
Ivy grunted as she tugged the arrow out. Beaming, she took hold of the rope once more. “Do that three more times and you’ll be done for the day!”
By the river, Rockfist blew on a carved wooden whistle. A row of ten otters charged out of the river, double-pointed javelins held forward as they hit a column of “vermin” made from dead grass and old blankets sewn together. Rockfist, who had been elected Chieftain of the joint ottercrews, nodded. “Good work, mates. Try to come out a bit faster next time.”
One drove his javelin into the ground and slicked water off his arms. “Righto, Rock!”
The big otter waved him off to clear the charging ground. “All right, next group!”
Ten otters in the river submerged, gripping their javelins and awaiting the signal.
Riverwyte and his brothers were practicing paw-to-paw combat on the riverbank. Skipper had picked out a tall, rotting tree stump and was pretending that it was an enemy, stabbing and thrusting at it with his javelin. Bargud, who preferred the heavier spear, imagined a vermin standing before him as he jabbed expertly at the air. Riverwyte slashed and stabbed at the branches of a maple tree with his rapier, an unusual weapon choice for an otter.
Skipper and Bargud had grown a lot over the seasons, and all the training they had endured showed in their well-developed arm, leg, and rudder muscles. Riverwyte, on the other hand, was nearly as tall as his brothers and had trained just as hard, but he remained slim and lanky without the impressive muscular bulk of Skipper and Bargud. However, this was deceiving. One day the training had consisted of wrestling matches among the otters, and many a burly beast had challenged the odd gray otter expecting to pin him in a matter of seconds. Unexpectedly, Riverwyte had defeated all comers, even Skipper, his biggest brother. He also possessed more paw speed than the average otter, a reason he was so proficient with his rapier.
Skipper eventually grew bored with ripping apart the stump with his javelin, and he stuck it in the banksand. “I can’t believe we’re attacking Kotir in five days,” he sighed. “This doesn’t feel right. I’m as angry as the next otter that the wildcat came here and I’d like to fight him like everyone else, but we should have recruited at least a hundred more fighters. Even if the vermin have completely given up training and become as soft as anybeast can be, the panic of our attack will probably lend them enough strength to jeopardize our chances of winning.”
Bargud stuck his spear in the bank next to Skipper’s. “Aye, but as hopeless as our cause is, I’m still ready to fight for it.”
Riverwyte finished mutilating a maple branch and sheathed his blade. “I say a bit of spy work wouldn’t hurt. Or maybe an assassin.” He turned and slipped into the forest, leaving his brothers to stare at each other and wonder what their strange brother was up to. Skipper suddenly forgot about Riverwyte when a ferret with a gold earring stumped bad-temperedly out of the woods behind them, snarling. Skipper bounded forward and grabbed the vermin by his filthy tunic, putting a small knife he owned to its throat and growling, “Don’t move.”
The ferret chuckled and dusted the dark markings from his face, then brushed the dirt from his tunic. Unclipping the gold earring, he soothed, “It’s okay, mate; it’s just me.”
Skipper recognized the beast as Riverwyte and let him go quickly with a surprised smile. “Wow, how’d you do that?”
Riverwyte shrugged. “Simple. The key is to not just look like the creature you’re imitating, but also to move and think the way it would. I’m imagining that perhaps a ferret will hook up with a Kotir patrol, saying he’d been lost in the woods. He returns to Kotir and while the horde goes about his business, he’s headed up to Greeneye’s chamber with a dagger in his paw…”
Skipper shook his head fervently. “Good idea, Riverwyte, but you know that Dad or Rockfist will never let you do that. It wouldn’t be a very honorable victory.”
Riverwyte shrugged again. “Oh well. At least my rapier and I will give them something to remember in the battle.”
CHAPTER EIGHT: “THE TIME HAS COME”
The sky was barely tinged orange when Ivy Squirrelqueen and her daughter Amber led the hundred or so squirrels through the trees. Each carried a bow over a shoulder and full quivers at either hip. They swung over the thicket of thorns and landed on the riverbank at Camp Willow, where the fivescore otters were waiting.
Rockfist carried a long pole with a torch tied to its tip. As he noticed the squirrels arriving, he dropped the pole into the river to extinguish the flame. Striding forward, the big otter shook Ivy’s paw firmly. “Well, today’s the day we drive ‘em out. In a few hours, there’s going to be a lot of surprised vermin over at Kotir!”
The squirrel smiled and toyed with an arrow she was holding. “Very sad villains too, I’d wager.”
There was a rustling in the thorn bushes and a muffled grunt. Rockfist seized his javelin and held it at the ready, but he lowered it again when a badger crashed through, sucking on a paw. “Ouch, blasted thorn!”
Rockfist held out his paw and felt it enveloped by a bigger, stronger one. “Barkstripe, glad to see you here. Thanks for helping us out today.”
The big badger was clad in a suit of armor that hadn’t been used in many seasons. He blew dust off of the shoulderplates as he replied, “Look at me; A farmer going out to war. However, I’m proud to be fighting for Mossflower. As Boar’s son-in-law, I feel I have a duty to do so in his absence.”
Ivy Squirrelqueen gripped Barkstripe’s other paw. “We all do. Let’s go now, for Mossflower!”
The squirrels leaped into the trees, the otters slid into the river, and Barkstripe jogged down the riverbank, carrying a sword he’d found in Boar the Fighter’s old possessions.
Several minutes later all had arrived at the woodland fringe, and just over two hundred eyes gazed down at Kotir. A new wall had been built around the structure, and outside this wall were many grain and vegetable fields. Dilapidated hovels dotted the landscape, and as the first ray of sunlight penetrated the forest, creatures stumbled exhaustedly out of the little hut. Toting rakes, hoes, and shovels, they filed into the crop fields and began to work furiously.
In the field nearest the tree fringe, a mouse was struggling with a huge bundle of wheat stalks when he turned and saw the gathered warriors. Making sure he wasn’t being watched, the mouse scurried up and grabbed Rockfist’s paw. “Rockfist, mate! What brings you and your otters here? We thought you and the squirrels had taken off after ole Greeneyes took over!”
The big otter felt sympathy tug at him as he studied the mouse. Seasons of work had literally worn the shirt off his back, and Rockfist could count the unfortunate creature’s ribs. “Mikk, you need some rest an’ food! Why are you overworking yourself?”
The mouse laughed wryly. “I would if I could, mate. However, half of what we produce each day is taken by the wildcat’s patrols. If it isn’t enough…well, just know that executions have been getting more commonplace. The vermin will make up charges such as treason, but we know what’s really going on.”
Nitestream, who had been standing just behind Rockfist, stepped forward and swept his left arm out wide, indicating the forces of the otters and squirrels. “Why not join us? We can use any ablebodied beast willing to help fight.”
Mikk took up his scythe. The sturdy pole with its long, curved blade was his instrument for cutting grain. But now…He gripped the wooden pole tightly with both paws. “I’m with you, Rock! D’you want me to rally the others?”
Rockfist patted Mikk’s shoulder. “That would mean a lot to us. The more we have, the better!”
The mouse had begun to walk off when a young one barely able to walk toddled up and tugged his tail. “Whereya goin’? Who’zall dem?” he asked, pointing a chubby paw at the assembled fighters.
Mikk dropped his scythe and lifted the babe. He walked back to Rockfist. “I can’t fight with my son to look after. Can you get little Gonff to somewhere safe?”
A grizzled old otter with a crooked tail stuck his javelin in the ground and stepped forward, his paws outstretched. “Look, I’d be a hindrance to our force. I’m too old to fight, as much as I’d like to. I’ll take him back to Camp Willow where he’ll be safe.” He took the squirming infant and swiftly made off for the river.
Gonff peered over the old one’s shoulder and raised a tiny paw, calling back to his father. “B’bye, Daddy!”
Mikk waved with a smile, then he bent down and seized his scythe. When he straightened up, his face was the picture of determination. He ran off into the fields without a word to begin raising up the others.
CHAPTER NINE: ATTACK! (part one)
Verduaga stood at his high window, looking out over the Kotir grounds. “I see no movement in the fields.”
Chokepaw stepped up to the window and gazed out. “You’re right, Milord. What do you want me to do?”
The wildcat turned on his heel, scarlet cloak swirling as he left his ferret Captain at the window. “Form up patrols, arm everybeast, and give them whips. Beat those idling woodlanders into submission, and if they resist, don’t hesitate to slay them.”
Outside, woodlanders crouched in the fields, hidden by the vegetation. Scrawny mice, moles, and hedgehogs gripped scythes, pitchforks, and any other tools that could be used as weapons. Nearby, otters and squirrels pawed javelins or tested slings and bows.
Verduaga leapt up on a stone pillar and looked on as the patrols filed by. He cut a handsome yet barbaric figure. The wildcat wore loose black pants of silk, which hung to mid-shin and fluttered slightly in the breeze. Over a chainmail vest he wore a leather jerkin, belted at the waist with black adderskin. His bloodred cloak was fastened at the throat with a plain brass clasp, and it flew out behind him as the wind picked up. His green eyes narrowed as he peered into the crop fields. Was that a spearhead he saw gleaming in the sun, or perhaps a broken and discarded scytheblade?
Twenty patrols, each with fifteen soldiers, fanned out to find the workers. Verduaga’s ears suddenly turned toward the fields and his eyes burned with fierce intensity as one hundred woodlanders sprang out of hiding, yelling and waving their tools as they charged the patrols.
“Throw down those whips and draw your weapons!” roared Verduaga. He leaped down to the main doorway and shouted inside, “All soldiers to the crop fields! Put down the rebellion!”
Knowing that their food came from the woodlanders’ farms, the soldiers were only too willing to stop the uprising. Shortly, two hundred more weasels, ferrets, and stoats joined the fray.
Chokepaw was at Verduaga’s side, laughing almost amusedly. “Why are they attacking us? They know our power and training is superior to theirs!”
He had barely finished speaking when an arrow zipped out of the crops behind the enslaved woodlanders and buried itself in his throat. As the ferret Captain of the Guard fell lifeless to the ground, another group followed the arrow out of the field. Otters bellowed war cries as they ran powerfully forward, slinging stones at the vermin until they were close enough to stab with javelins. Soldiers who were about to strike down shovel-wielding farmers were abruptly slaughtered by stones, squirrel arrows, and vicious javelin stabs.
Verduaga could see that if this disorganized state continued, the woodlanders would soon destroy his army. The wildcat drew his scimitar and shouted, “Withdraw and form up, now!!”
The vermin stepped back and formed a line behind the dead and feebly struggling wounded. They could see that for every woodlander slain, two vermin had been killed. Verduaga found himself suddenly short one hundred beasts.
The woodlanders formed into a line as well, staring stonily at their enemies. Suddenly, another beast rose out of a wheat field.
Verduaga was somewhat taken aback at the sight of this new creature. It was a big badger wearing shiny armor and a heavy, dangerous-looking battleblade at his side. The wildcat remembered suddenly that his older brother Ungatt had been killed by a badger many seasons back, and he decided to watch his step. “So, badger, are you the leader of this rabble?”
Barkstripe was surprised at the size and savageness of the wildcat before him, but he knew that he had to keep his head in order to hide the fact that he was no warrior. The badger bared his teeth slightly and pawed the huge sword at his side. “There are rabble here, wildcat…but they’re not under my command,” he growled softly.
Verduaga shouldered his way to the front of his horde. “Let’s see, then. I challenge you to a duel of commanders!”
CHAPTER TEN: ATTACK! (part two)
Barkstripe took a heavy stride forward and drew his battleblade. He had no confidence in his fighting skills, but to refuse the challenge would only give this away. And there was always the chance that he’d emerge the victor…
Riverwyte gripped his rapier tightly. The gray otter knew that Barkstripe was no fighter, but Verduaga had been conquering and murdering for many seasons. He closed his eyes and hoped that fate would allow the badger to subdue and slay the wildcat.
Barkstripe grunted dangerously and flipped down the visor on his helmet. Verduaga noticed dust float through the air and felt a wave of confidence surge through him. He could tell that the armor hadn’t been used for a long time. The badger would at least be out of practice. As his opponent drew the huge battleblade, the wildcat darted in with his scimitar pointed at the eye slit in his enemy’s helmet.
Barkstripe lifted the sword clumsily and blocked the jab. The blade was heavier and more unwieldy than he’d thought. Nevertheless, he sent the sword into a powerful slice at Verduaga’s neck.
Almost lazily the wildcat ducked, feeling the breeze of the passing sword ruffle his ears. He leapt on Barkstripe’s back as the weight and momentum of the swinging blade forced the badger to turn halfway around. Barkstripe bellowed as his foe drove the scimitar into the space between his chainmail-clad back and shoulder plate. The badger grabbed Verduaga’s cloak and yanked forcefully, bunching up the material in his paw.
Verduaga dropped his scimitar on the ground and brought both paws up to his neck. As Barkstripe tugged on the cloak, he slowly throttled his opponent. The wildcat desperately extended his claws and ripped frantically at the section of cloak near the brass clasp. As the strands parted and he was freed, Verduaga immediately dropped off of Barkstripe’s back and picked up his scimitar from the ground.
With swiftness belying his size and bulk, Barkstripe turned and, casting away the shredded remnants of the cloak, brought his sword into Verduaga’s chest. The wildcat was knocked back several feet, but he remained standing. Barkstripe saw the dented chainmail vest through the hefty slice in Verduaga’s leather jerkin. Trying not to look disappointed that he hadn’t put more power into the jab, the badger charged forward and met blades with the wildcat.
Both sides looked on in wonder as the two big beasts battered away at each other with their weapons. Metal flashed and grunts of pain and effort echoed throughout the scene. It was a specatacular clash of strength and ferocity.
One thing that Boar the Fighter had possessed that his son-in-law lacked was the terrible Bloodwrath. This was beginning to show as Barkstripe started to tire. He wearily swung the huge sword back and forth, only having the strength to block Verduaga’s thrusts and slashes. The wildcat, on the other hand, was used to prolonged battle and was born with feline strength and agility. He was merely playing with Barkstripe now, allowing the badger to deflect his blows.
Suddenly Verduaga moved his scimitar like lightning and drove it deep into Barkstripe’s swordpaw. The battleblade fell to the dirt with a crash as the badger’s paw went limp. Eyes narrowing angrily, he threw himself into a desperate tackle, hoping he might disarm the wildcat and best him in paw-to-paw combat on the ground. It wasn’t until too late that he noticed that Verduaga had been expecting this and was standing with his scimitar pointed forward. No longer having the power to stop his charge, Barkstripe fell into the blade, feeling the point puncture his armor and drive deep into him. As he slumped forward, the badger put on a defiant and denied Verduaga any additional pleasure by dying without a sound.
Riverwyte shouldered squirrels and otters out of his way, holding his rapier high as a war cry he’d never before heard sprang unbidden to his lips. “Eeeeeuuulaaaaliaaaaaaaaa!!!” The gray otter fell on the opposing ranks like a pale hurricane, stabbing, thrusting, and slaying wildly with his slim blade. Following his lead the remainder of the woodlanders joined in with a roar.
“Mossfloweeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrr!!!”
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