Post by Irina Zhukov (school) on Aug 9, 2007 0:41:40 GMT -5
Title: Lex Talionis
Fandom: Redwall
Rating: T
Wordcount: 2767
Warnings: Violence, more literary references than can possibly be healthy.
Summary: Three desperate vermin. Four murdered bankvoles. One cynical vigilante squirrel. This can't end well.
Disclaimer: Redwall is the property of Brian Jacques. I'm just playing in his world.
Additional Author's Notes: This was originally written as an application for the position of Redwall Champion at a roleplaying site I used to go to, so Kitty's seen it before. xD; Needless to say, what was meant to be a short sample of a written fight turned out to be much longer.
-----
The home was actually a makeshift lean-to, fashioned crudely out of fallen branches and braided grass ropes. A woven mat, apparently created from the rushes that grew plentifully on the banks of the nearby lake, served as a passable roof. Upon entering the lean-to, one discovered that the unwieldy structure had actually been built over the mouth of a cave, which was quite spacious and decorated with more woven mats and some furniture in an apparent attempt to give it a more welcoming look. A beast could easily imagine it to belong to a small family, hardworking but honest - the entire abode exuded a snug, comfortable aura.
At least, it probably used to.
At the present moment, half the lean-to had collapsed; the branches that were still standing bore numerous swordmarks. The roof was blazing, filling the immediate vicinity of the dwelling with a thick, noxious smoke that poisoned the air. The destroyed lean-to prevented easy access to the cave, which was just as well; anybeast who dared to venture inside would be greeted with a less than pleasant sight. One corpse was stretched in front of the lean-to as it was – a black-furred vole, staring sightlessly at the sky with clouded eyes. He had been cut open.
The squirrel took in the sight in the span of a glance. Trying to put out the flames would do no good. The mouth of the cave was surrounded by earth and rock - he'd let the fire burn out. It wouldn't spread, and he had more pressing concerns at the moment. Like the corpse.
The father of the family, probably, he thought, carefully stepping over the still form and kneeling beside it, laying his quarterstaff on the ground. Cool grey eyes scanned the dead bankvole. Probably the sort that would make a good father but a terrible warrior. Great seasons, he's not even armed – or perhaps he was. The body was still slightly warm, he noted. The bankvole couldn't have died more than a few hours ago - which meant that the vermin who killed him might still be in the area.
And oh yes, it was done by vermin. It couldn't have been anything else, unless there was some unknown disease that caused a beast to spontaneously spill his intestines all over the ground and set his house ablaze. It was a clean wound – whoever had done the killing owned a good blade. They probably hadn't asked many questions, either. The bankvole's face still bore an expression of horrified surprise.
The squirrel quietly closed the bankvole's eyes and stood up, dusting off his own cloak. Whoever had attacked the family hadn't bothered to cover their tracks; they either expected to make a quick getaway or didn't know there was anybeast following them. Judging from the pawmarks in the scorched earth, there hadn't been too many beasts here – four or five at the most, suggesting a small vermin band. There were outlaws aplenty in this area; he wouldn't have been surprised if the deed had been committed by one of them. This might have looked like a peaceful spot to start a family. It wasn't.
The trail led northwest through the forest, punctuated occasionally by a snapped branch or two. The lean squirrel halted at the edge of the forest and glanced back at the scene, hesitating for the briefest of moments. A low growl escaped his lips, and he turned and strode into the forest, following the trail the attackers had left. He'd be back by morning.
---
About an hour and a half away from the wrecked home, a lark fell from its perch in midsong, pierced through the throat by a grey-fletched bolt. A grime-stained claw caught the bird as it fell. The owner of the claw, a weasel by the name of Raptooth, inspected the carcass and glanced at his hunting partner, who was slotting another bolt onto the shelf of his crossbow.
"It's kind o'small, Blackwort," he remarked. "D'nno if it's goin' ter feed all three of us."
The lanky stoat didn't look up from his crossbow. "Well, that en't goin' ter be all o' supper. Sourgill sez there wos some food in th' place wot we just raided."
Raptooth looked hopeful. "D'you think they 'ad grog? It's been weeks since I last 'ad a drop o'grog."
Blackwort shook his head, shouldering the crossbow and turning. "Probably not. Beasts like those don' drink proper stuff like grog. C'mon, mate, let's get that bird back ter camp."
As the pair turned and began loping down the makeshift trail, Raptooth glanced at Blackwort. "Black?"
"Wot d'yer want?"
"Black, I wos wonderin' if'n anybeast found out. Y'know, about th'beasts wot we killed this mornin'."
Blackwort snorted and spat into the underbrush. "Anybeast findin' out? Cor, Raptooth, who's there ter fin' out? Ye know this place, 'tis swarmin' wid beasts like us. Anybeast enters this forest, 'e's one o'us an' won't care if'n some bankvole an' 'is fam'ly's dead. They was stupid enough ter live 'ere an' they was stupid enough ter die 'ere."
Raptooth scratched his head. "Only...y'know th'band wot we ran inter yesterday? Wid th'weasel leader, scrawny beast, wossname – Daer? They was 'eadin' northwest in a hurry, same way we're goin' now, rememmer? 'E said we'd do well ter leave, an' leave fast."
"Well?" Blackwort scowled at his hunting partner. "Wot's yer point?"
"Why'd they run? There must've been somethin' comin after 'em, hey?"
"Nothin's goin' ter come in 'ere," said Blackwort firmly, but he couldn't stop a faint whisper of apprehension from entering his voice. Daer Nerith, despite his size, was the leader of one of the most dangerous vermin bands in this part of Mossflower. If his gang was worried, something was definitely wrong.
"Somethin's comin' this way," insisted Raptooth as their campfire hove into view. "Somethin' bad. Daer an' 'is gang wouldn't run like that unless Vulpuz hisself was after them."
---
"You're going the wrong way."
The squirrel looked up, tensing involuntarily. Keen grey eyes scanned the path quickly for the speaker. After a moment, he spotted the beast leaning against a tree.
The black fox was oddly clad, dressed in clothes that seemed to shift slightly in color depending on the surface against which he was leaning. His face was covered in a barkcloth mask. Standing still, he blended in quite well with the oak tree behind him; in the faint light of the falling dusk, he was nearly invisible.
The squirrel relaxed, his face expressionless. "Fancy meeting you here, Cabuc," he said drily.
"It's curious, isn't it? I was hardly expecting to find anyone here," said a voice from behind the squirrel. He didn't bother turning around.
"Still practicing ventriloquism, I see, Cabuc."
The fox laughed, a chilling sound that rang eerily through the otherwise silent forest. "Sharp as ever, my dear chap." His golden eyes danced behind his mask. "Though - perhaps not. You are off the track, you know. You're heading north-northwest."
The squirrel eyed him. "And?" he prompted.
"They're heading northwest, silly!" squeaked a leaf next to the squirrel's head.
He lazily plucked the leaf from its branch, his eyes still fixed on Cabuc. "And how far away are they?"
The fox gestured dismissively. "About half an hour at most. You're fast at this tracking business."
"I've had practice." The squirrel shot the fox a look. "Were you there?"
"Perhaps. I see things, I hear things. Who knows? From a distance, maybe."
"And you didn't try to stop them?"
"What could I have done? I would have been outnumbered. I'm not a fighter, I'm an assassin and a robber."
"And an informant," added the squirrel, unable to keep a small smile from making its way across his face.
"That as well. Remember, good vigilante, northwest." Cabuc inclined his head slightly, grinning widely, and vanished.
"You can tell Nerith and his gang that I'll be after them next," said the squirrel to the trees as he began walking again. There was no response from the trees, but the leaf at his footpaws made an audible "Thppppbllll" noise at him.
---
Night had fallen by the time the vermin band finished their supper. Sourgill, the leader of the band and the lone searat, was busy cleaning his teeth with a dagger. He glanced at the others and nodded approvingly.
"Those were good vittles," he said lazily. "Hah, woodlanders ain't 'arf bad at this food business."
Blackwort belched hugely. "We should do this more often, I thinks. Pity there ain't more of 'em livin' round 'ere." He looked across the fire to Raptooth, who was trying to forget about Daer Nerith and the events of the previous day by sharpening his cutlass. The weasel nearly cut himself on the gleaming blade every time he heard a branch snap. "Oi, Rap, wot're you doin'?"
"Gettin' ready for wotever's comin'," muttered Raptooth feverishly. "Daer said 'twas bad, an' I believe 'im, an' - "
Sourgill frowned. "Daer's a coward," he said firmly. "I dunno wot 'e was gettin' worked up about yesterday."
"Everybeast knows th'woods are swarmin' wid beasts like us," said Blackwort, his confidence growing slightly with the realization that Sourgill shared his opinion. "That's wot I told Rap, but 'e wouldn' listen t'me."
"Daer isn't the sort to run from things," Raptooth insisted. "He took on Crow's gang a week ago an' won. If Daer's runnin', we won' stand a sapling's chance in Dark Forest!"
"Crow was a thick'eaded dunderhead," said Blackwort, and Sourgill nodded.
"Wotever's comin' can't be all that bad. I reckon we could take it on."
"You're welcome to try," said a new voice. It was a warm baritone, almost perfectly suited for singing, but it shot chills up the spines of all present.
Raptooth leapt up, eyes wide, panting. "Show yerself!" he screamed, staring wildly into the darkness surrounding the campfire. "We don' take kindly ter unexpected visitors!"
A cloaked figure appeared at the edge of the firelight. It appeared unarmed, except for a hefty quarterstaff in its right paw. "Now, now, there's no need for that," it said pleasantly. "I'd just like to discuss a few things with you."
"There's no chance of that!" shrieked Raptooth, and lunged at the figure, cutlass raised. That was his first mistake. He didn't live long enough to make a second.
The quarterstaff shot forward, its tip glinting dully in the firelight. From here, it was obvious to Raptooth that it was capped with iron, smeared with soot. He didn't have much time to ponder the matter, though, because it knocked his swordpaw aside with ringing force. As he cried out in pain and dropped his cutlass, the quarterstaff was suddenly back again, this time heading toward his neck at a very terminal speed. The entire exchange had taken place in a matter of seconds.
The sickening crunch of metal on bone aroused Blackwort and Sourgill from their stupor. They shot to their footpaws, Blackwort sighting along the stock of his crossbow, Sourgill tossing his dagger to his left paw and drawing an elegantly crafted swept-hilt rapier from its scabbard.
"I'll take 'im," snapped Sourgill, bounding easily over the fire. "You watch my back. If he gets clear, shoot 'im down."
The figure had tossed its cloak aside, exposing a bushy tail, and was smiling faintly at the searat. "Do be a little more cooperative. I merely want to discuss a few matters that may be of interest with you."
"There's nothin' ter discuss," snarled Sourgill. "I knows ye - ye're the one they call Fravar Greybrush."
"Quite probably," said Fravar Greybrush. He stepped forward, dropping the quarterstaff and picking up the cutlass that lay beside Raptooth's body. It would be more useful in a fight in close quarters. As Sourgill closed in on him, he drew a dagger from its place at his belt, tossed it, caught it, and waited.
He was expecting the first blow and parried it neatly, smiling into Sourgill's face. "This rapier is good steel," he commented, not bothering to riposte. "Which goodbeast did you have to kill in order to get it?"
Sourgill bared his fangs and lunged again, managing to evade Fravar's guard and score a thin line of red across the squirrel's left cheek. He attempted to parry the counterattack but was nearly forced into the fire by the force of the blow. The searat stumbled backwards, paws ringing.
"Or," continued Fravar in the same friendly voice, "did you find it on the corpse of some long-dead warrior? It looks something like a blade a Long Patroller would carry, you know." He tightened his grip on the cutlass, feinted, disengaged, and struck; Sourgill bit back a hiss of pain as his right shoulder was laid open. "Perhaps it was some sort of heirloom? One that belonged to the beasts you slew this afternoon?"
Sourgill didn't reply. He didn't need to.
Neither asked nor gave quarter. Every step was a gamble, every move was a risk, but still they struck and parried, gave and took, meeting with a crash of weaponry, and moving away, each bearing a few more wounds. They paid no attention to their surroundings. They focused only on one thing – the destruction of the other.
Ten minutes into the duel, Fravar could feel his paws tiring - but he could see the exhaustion mirrored in his opponent's eyes. If he kept this up, he wouldn't have the energy to deal with the third beast. He watched the searat's paws, silently calculating in his mind, spotted an opening, dropped his weapons, and threw himself on Sourgill as the rat's rapier whirled across the clearing, clanking against a tree and falling to the ground.
The ensuing scuffle was brutal and short. Moments later, the squirrel stood up and quietly removed Sourgill's own dagger from the corpse's throat, replacing his own in his belt. He stared across the clearing at Blackwort as he cleaned the blade, a faintly derisive smile on his lips, and took a step forward.
The crossbow in Blackwort's claws trembled. "Don't move!" barked the stoat, his voice slightly higher than normal.
Fravar's smile widened. He took another step forward.
Blackwort's claw tightened visibly on the crossbow trigger. "I said don't move!"
The squirrel only smiled and took another step forward, smiling at the crossbow, which was only a few paces away from him. "Come now, don't fire. It'll miss."
The stoat bared his fangs, snarling, and began to pull the trigger, and suddenly he noticed that there was nobeast in front of him – and as he glanced about, eyes wide, one grey paw placed itself on the crossbow's prod. The bolt hissed off into the darkness, a flash of speeding metal in the night, as Blackwort sank slowly to his knees. The searing pain in his throat and gut flared, then began to fade with all of his other senses. The last thing he heard before darkness claimed him was the voice of Fravar Greybrush, still infuriatingly calm.
"Didn't I tell you it would miss?"
---
The sun rose over Mossflower Wood, tingeing the sky light pink. In the distance, a thrush sang. A light breeze whispered through the forest, rustling oak leaves playfully and causing aspens to shake.
The smoldering remains of the bankvoles' home had been cleared away, and the father had been laid inside the cave with the rest of his family, the elegant rapier resting lightly in his paw. The squirrel had spent most of the night piling mud, rocks, and loose gravel at the front of the cave until the mouth had been entirely sealed.
He washed the blood and grime from his fur in the cold waters of the lake. He paused and stared for a moment at the sky, where the pale crescent of the moon was still faintly visible, then turned his attention to the stains in his tunic. When he had removed as much of the blood as he could, he waded to shore.
There was a small attempt at a herb garden near the ruins, and he took full advantage of the few herbs that had taken root and grown to bind his wounds. Then he took up his quarterstaff and his dagger, fastening his cloak at his throat, and stood at the mouth of the sealed cave for a moment.
He had seen this far too many times to recite some simple prayer or quiet blessing. What would be the use? They were far away now. He stood there for a while, eyes closed, then turned and strode down the path without looking back.
-fin-
Fandom: Redwall
Rating: T
Wordcount: 2767
Warnings: Violence, more literary references than can possibly be healthy.
Summary: Three desperate vermin. Four murdered bankvoles. One cynical vigilante squirrel. This can't end well.
Disclaimer: Redwall is the property of Brian Jacques. I'm just playing in his world.
Additional Author's Notes: This was originally written as an application for the position of Redwall Champion at a roleplaying site I used to go to, so Kitty's seen it before. xD; Needless to say, what was meant to be a short sample of a written fight turned out to be much longer.
-----
The home was actually a makeshift lean-to, fashioned crudely out of fallen branches and braided grass ropes. A woven mat, apparently created from the rushes that grew plentifully on the banks of the nearby lake, served as a passable roof. Upon entering the lean-to, one discovered that the unwieldy structure had actually been built over the mouth of a cave, which was quite spacious and decorated with more woven mats and some furniture in an apparent attempt to give it a more welcoming look. A beast could easily imagine it to belong to a small family, hardworking but honest - the entire abode exuded a snug, comfortable aura.
At least, it probably used to.
At the present moment, half the lean-to had collapsed; the branches that were still standing bore numerous swordmarks. The roof was blazing, filling the immediate vicinity of the dwelling with a thick, noxious smoke that poisoned the air. The destroyed lean-to prevented easy access to the cave, which was just as well; anybeast who dared to venture inside would be greeted with a less than pleasant sight. One corpse was stretched in front of the lean-to as it was – a black-furred vole, staring sightlessly at the sky with clouded eyes. He had been cut open.
The squirrel took in the sight in the span of a glance. Trying to put out the flames would do no good. The mouth of the cave was surrounded by earth and rock - he'd let the fire burn out. It wouldn't spread, and he had more pressing concerns at the moment. Like the corpse.
The father of the family, probably, he thought, carefully stepping over the still form and kneeling beside it, laying his quarterstaff on the ground. Cool grey eyes scanned the dead bankvole. Probably the sort that would make a good father but a terrible warrior. Great seasons, he's not even armed – or perhaps he was. The body was still slightly warm, he noted. The bankvole couldn't have died more than a few hours ago - which meant that the vermin who killed him might still be in the area.
And oh yes, it was done by vermin. It couldn't have been anything else, unless there was some unknown disease that caused a beast to spontaneously spill his intestines all over the ground and set his house ablaze. It was a clean wound – whoever had done the killing owned a good blade. They probably hadn't asked many questions, either. The bankvole's face still bore an expression of horrified surprise.
The squirrel quietly closed the bankvole's eyes and stood up, dusting off his own cloak. Whoever had attacked the family hadn't bothered to cover their tracks; they either expected to make a quick getaway or didn't know there was anybeast following them. Judging from the pawmarks in the scorched earth, there hadn't been too many beasts here – four or five at the most, suggesting a small vermin band. There were outlaws aplenty in this area; he wouldn't have been surprised if the deed had been committed by one of them. This might have looked like a peaceful spot to start a family. It wasn't.
The trail led northwest through the forest, punctuated occasionally by a snapped branch or two. The lean squirrel halted at the edge of the forest and glanced back at the scene, hesitating for the briefest of moments. A low growl escaped his lips, and he turned and strode into the forest, following the trail the attackers had left. He'd be back by morning.
---
About an hour and a half away from the wrecked home, a lark fell from its perch in midsong, pierced through the throat by a grey-fletched bolt. A grime-stained claw caught the bird as it fell. The owner of the claw, a weasel by the name of Raptooth, inspected the carcass and glanced at his hunting partner, who was slotting another bolt onto the shelf of his crossbow.
"It's kind o'small, Blackwort," he remarked. "D'nno if it's goin' ter feed all three of us."
The lanky stoat didn't look up from his crossbow. "Well, that en't goin' ter be all o' supper. Sourgill sez there wos some food in th' place wot we just raided."
Raptooth looked hopeful. "D'you think they 'ad grog? It's been weeks since I last 'ad a drop o'grog."
Blackwort shook his head, shouldering the crossbow and turning. "Probably not. Beasts like those don' drink proper stuff like grog. C'mon, mate, let's get that bird back ter camp."
As the pair turned and began loping down the makeshift trail, Raptooth glanced at Blackwort. "Black?"
"Wot d'yer want?"
"Black, I wos wonderin' if'n anybeast found out. Y'know, about th'beasts wot we killed this mornin'."
Blackwort snorted and spat into the underbrush. "Anybeast findin' out? Cor, Raptooth, who's there ter fin' out? Ye know this place, 'tis swarmin' wid beasts like us. Anybeast enters this forest, 'e's one o'us an' won't care if'n some bankvole an' 'is fam'ly's dead. They was stupid enough ter live 'ere an' they was stupid enough ter die 'ere."
Raptooth scratched his head. "Only...y'know th'band wot we ran inter yesterday? Wid th'weasel leader, scrawny beast, wossname – Daer? They was 'eadin' northwest in a hurry, same way we're goin' now, rememmer? 'E said we'd do well ter leave, an' leave fast."
"Well?" Blackwort scowled at his hunting partner. "Wot's yer point?"
"Why'd they run? There must've been somethin' comin after 'em, hey?"
"Nothin's goin' ter come in 'ere," said Blackwort firmly, but he couldn't stop a faint whisper of apprehension from entering his voice. Daer Nerith, despite his size, was the leader of one of the most dangerous vermin bands in this part of Mossflower. If his gang was worried, something was definitely wrong.
"Somethin's comin' this way," insisted Raptooth as their campfire hove into view. "Somethin' bad. Daer an' 'is gang wouldn't run like that unless Vulpuz hisself was after them."
---
"You're going the wrong way."
The squirrel looked up, tensing involuntarily. Keen grey eyes scanned the path quickly for the speaker. After a moment, he spotted the beast leaning against a tree.
The black fox was oddly clad, dressed in clothes that seemed to shift slightly in color depending on the surface against which he was leaning. His face was covered in a barkcloth mask. Standing still, he blended in quite well with the oak tree behind him; in the faint light of the falling dusk, he was nearly invisible.
The squirrel relaxed, his face expressionless. "Fancy meeting you here, Cabuc," he said drily.
"It's curious, isn't it? I was hardly expecting to find anyone here," said a voice from behind the squirrel. He didn't bother turning around.
"Still practicing ventriloquism, I see, Cabuc."
The fox laughed, a chilling sound that rang eerily through the otherwise silent forest. "Sharp as ever, my dear chap." His golden eyes danced behind his mask. "Though - perhaps not. You are off the track, you know. You're heading north-northwest."
The squirrel eyed him. "And?" he prompted.
"They're heading northwest, silly!" squeaked a leaf next to the squirrel's head.
He lazily plucked the leaf from its branch, his eyes still fixed on Cabuc. "And how far away are they?"
The fox gestured dismissively. "About half an hour at most. You're fast at this tracking business."
"I've had practice." The squirrel shot the fox a look. "Were you there?"
"Perhaps. I see things, I hear things. Who knows? From a distance, maybe."
"And you didn't try to stop them?"
"What could I have done? I would have been outnumbered. I'm not a fighter, I'm an assassin and a robber."
"And an informant," added the squirrel, unable to keep a small smile from making its way across his face.
"That as well. Remember, good vigilante, northwest." Cabuc inclined his head slightly, grinning widely, and vanished.
"You can tell Nerith and his gang that I'll be after them next," said the squirrel to the trees as he began walking again. There was no response from the trees, but the leaf at his footpaws made an audible "Thppppbllll" noise at him.
---
Night had fallen by the time the vermin band finished their supper. Sourgill, the leader of the band and the lone searat, was busy cleaning his teeth with a dagger. He glanced at the others and nodded approvingly.
"Those were good vittles," he said lazily. "Hah, woodlanders ain't 'arf bad at this food business."
Blackwort belched hugely. "We should do this more often, I thinks. Pity there ain't more of 'em livin' round 'ere." He looked across the fire to Raptooth, who was trying to forget about Daer Nerith and the events of the previous day by sharpening his cutlass. The weasel nearly cut himself on the gleaming blade every time he heard a branch snap. "Oi, Rap, wot're you doin'?"
"Gettin' ready for wotever's comin'," muttered Raptooth feverishly. "Daer said 'twas bad, an' I believe 'im, an' - "
Sourgill frowned. "Daer's a coward," he said firmly. "I dunno wot 'e was gettin' worked up about yesterday."
"Everybeast knows th'woods are swarmin' wid beasts like us," said Blackwort, his confidence growing slightly with the realization that Sourgill shared his opinion. "That's wot I told Rap, but 'e wouldn' listen t'me."
"Daer isn't the sort to run from things," Raptooth insisted. "He took on Crow's gang a week ago an' won. If Daer's runnin', we won' stand a sapling's chance in Dark Forest!"
"Crow was a thick'eaded dunderhead," said Blackwort, and Sourgill nodded.
"Wotever's comin' can't be all that bad. I reckon we could take it on."
"You're welcome to try," said a new voice. It was a warm baritone, almost perfectly suited for singing, but it shot chills up the spines of all present.
Raptooth leapt up, eyes wide, panting. "Show yerself!" he screamed, staring wildly into the darkness surrounding the campfire. "We don' take kindly ter unexpected visitors!"
A cloaked figure appeared at the edge of the firelight. It appeared unarmed, except for a hefty quarterstaff in its right paw. "Now, now, there's no need for that," it said pleasantly. "I'd just like to discuss a few things with you."
"There's no chance of that!" shrieked Raptooth, and lunged at the figure, cutlass raised. That was his first mistake. He didn't live long enough to make a second.
The quarterstaff shot forward, its tip glinting dully in the firelight. From here, it was obvious to Raptooth that it was capped with iron, smeared with soot. He didn't have much time to ponder the matter, though, because it knocked his swordpaw aside with ringing force. As he cried out in pain and dropped his cutlass, the quarterstaff was suddenly back again, this time heading toward his neck at a very terminal speed. The entire exchange had taken place in a matter of seconds.
The sickening crunch of metal on bone aroused Blackwort and Sourgill from their stupor. They shot to their footpaws, Blackwort sighting along the stock of his crossbow, Sourgill tossing his dagger to his left paw and drawing an elegantly crafted swept-hilt rapier from its scabbard.
"I'll take 'im," snapped Sourgill, bounding easily over the fire. "You watch my back. If he gets clear, shoot 'im down."
The figure had tossed its cloak aside, exposing a bushy tail, and was smiling faintly at the searat. "Do be a little more cooperative. I merely want to discuss a few matters that may be of interest with you."
"There's nothin' ter discuss," snarled Sourgill. "I knows ye - ye're the one they call Fravar Greybrush."
"Quite probably," said Fravar Greybrush. He stepped forward, dropping the quarterstaff and picking up the cutlass that lay beside Raptooth's body. It would be more useful in a fight in close quarters. As Sourgill closed in on him, he drew a dagger from its place at his belt, tossed it, caught it, and waited.
He was expecting the first blow and parried it neatly, smiling into Sourgill's face. "This rapier is good steel," he commented, not bothering to riposte. "Which goodbeast did you have to kill in order to get it?"
Sourgill bared his fangs and lunged again, managing to evade Fravar's guard and score a thin line of red across the squirrel's left cheek. He attempted to parry the counterattack but was nearly forced into the fire by the force of the blow. The searat stumbled backwards, paws ringing.
"Or," continued Fravar in the same friendly voice, "did you find it on the corpse of some long-dead warrior? It looks something like a blade a Long Patroller would carry, you know." He tightened his grip on the cutlass, feinted, disengaged, and struck; Sourgill bit back a hiss of pain as his right shoulder was laid open. "Perhaps it was some sort of heirloom? One that belonged to the beasts you slew this afternoon?"
Sourgill didn't reply. He didn't need to.
Neither asked nor gave quarter. Every step was a gamble, every move was a risk, but still they struck and parried, gave and took, meeting with a crash of weaponry, and moving away, each bearing a few more wounds. They paid no attention to their surroundings. They focused only on one thing – the destruction of the other.
Ten minutes into the duel, Fravar could feel his paws tiring - but he could see the exhaustion mirrored in his opponent's eyes. If he kept this up, he wouldn't have the energy to deal with the third beast. He watched the searat's paws, silently calculating in his mind, spotted an opening, dropped his weapons, and threw himself on Sourgill as the rat's rapier whirled across the clearing, clanking against a tree and falling to the ground.
The ensuing scuffle was brutal and short. Moments later, the squirrel stood up and quietly removed Sourgill's own dagger from the corpse's throat, replacing his own in his belt. He stared across the clearing at Blackwort as he cleaned the blade, a faintly derisive smile on his lips, and took a step forward.
The crossbow in Blackwort's claws trembled. "Don't move!" barked the stoat, his voice slightly higher than normal.
Fravar's smile widened. He took another step forward.
Blackwort's claw tightened visibly on the crossbow trigger. "I said don't move!"
The squirrel only smiled and took another step forward, smiling at the crossbow, which was only a few paces away from him. "Come now, don't fire. It'll miss."
The stoat bared his fangs, snarling, and began to pull the trigger, and suddenly he noticed that there was nobeast in front of him – and as he glanced about, eyes wide, one grey paw placed itself on the crossbow's prod. The bolt hissed off into the darkness, a flash of speeding metal in the night, as Blackwort sank slowly to his knees. The searing pain in his throat and gut flared, then began to fade with all of his other senses. The last thing he heard before darkness claimed him was the voice of Fravar Greybrush, still infuriatingly calm.
"Didn't I tell you it would miss?"
---
The sun rose over Mossflower Wood, tingeing the sky light pink. In the distance, a thrush sang. A light breeze whispered through the forest, rustling oak leaves playfully and causing aspens to shake.
The smoldering remains of the bankvoles' home had been cleared away, and the father had been laid inside the cave with the rest of his family, the elegant rapier resting lightly in his paw. The squirrel had spent most of the night piling mud, rocks, and loose gravel at the front of the cave until the mouth had been entirely sealed.
He washed the blood and grime from his fur in the cold waters of the lake. He paused and stared for a moment at the sky, where the pale crescent of the moon was still faintly visible, then turned his attention to the stains in his tunic. When he had removed as much of the blood as he could, he waded to shore.
There was a small attempt at a herb garden near the ruins, and he took full advantage of the few herbs that had taken root and grown to bind his wounds. Then he took up his quarterstaff and his dagger, fastening his cloak at his throat, and stood at the mouth of the sealed cave for a moment.
He had seen this far too many times to recite some simple prayer or quiet blessing. What would be the use? They were far away now. He stood there for a while, eyes closed, then turned and strode down the path without looking back.
-fin-
