It was midday when the dowry retrieval party left Castle Nobaran. The sun still had yet to make an appearance in Nobaran territory since the Redsnouts survived the first pass through the Dark Forest. The cloud density was inconsistent, dark and heavy in some areas, thinner and almost white in others. The humidity in the air told Grasswhistle that the rain might still be some hours off. She was too much of a cynic to hope this would persist for the duration of the retrieval mission.
To accompany Guard Captain Tirig and his soldier beasts, the Redsnouts boss selected Grasswhistle, Martu, and Chicrose. Before departure, Orrik pulled Grasswhistle aside to give her detailed instructions on the scheme concocted between the lynx and boar, while Martu and Chicrose went to prepare a wagon to give them privacy.
Lord Nobaran was the perpetrator of the caravan attack and was still intent upon disposing of both the Redsnouts and Taverand soldiers. While the duplicitous mink lord was distracted with setting a trap for Captain Tirig and the dowry retrieval party, Orrik would be assisting Miss Taverand with subverting the overall evil plan. The boss had been close-lipped on the full nature of Nobaran’s purpose, but he indicated that the coal-wraiths were an instrumental facet and sure to be lying in wait in the forest.
The sharpshooter gripped her equine’s reins in frustration. She was practiced in the art of clenching her teeth to keep from voicing complaints.
Grasswhistle did not like this plan. She did not like most of Orrik’s plans, though it was generally agreed upon by everyone that he came up with good plans. Anything that put the boss in danger was never a good plan in her book. Unfortunately, she could never see an alternative option that kept the boss safe and provided optimal chances for mission success. Even by southland hare standards, she was considered a bad planner.
The boss’s current plan was even worse than one where he was in immediate danger. He charged Grasswhistle with the safety of their vulnerable tinker. When she had tried to protest that Jessup was a sturdier option, Orrik shook his head. The point was for Lord Nobaran to think the retrieval party was easy pickings and a little meadow vole with no apparent armaments fit the bill. Captain Tirig did not have any engineers in operational condition after the caravan attack and the surviving feathermage did not have the finesse for delicate casting. At least the boss would not risk Gloria, though she was exceptional at creative implementation of her magic.
The party traveled with an assortment of soldier beasts on foot, armed with pikes, and soldiers driving the repaired wagons of the caravan, with lookouts equipped with crossbows in the wagon beds. Too few equines had been recovered to be spared for mounts. Captain Tirig was astride his titanic liver chestnut steed at the front of the party next to a crusty, older mink on foot in Taverand teal and equipped with dual truncheons. On his other side, Lord Nobaran’s head ranger, another mink and mounted on a gangly, normal-sized equine, gestured at the approaching forest as he prattled about something.
The sharpshooter was mounted on her bay dun mare, keeping pace with the wagon transporting Chicrose, Martu, and the heron feathermage. This wagon had borne Gloria the day before and was in much better condition than the others due to her prompt barrier spell when the attack happened. One of Miss Taverand’s carriage draft team was pulling the wagon. It was a muscular creature, dark and sleek through the body with woolly caps of gray hair starting at the shins. The gray tail tuft and mane were thick and voluminous, the forelock obscuring the eyes.
Grasswhistle had been impressed at the carriage driver’s valiant protests against the guard captain commandeering the steed. The chubby squirrel vibrated with fury, not fear, when the immense boar loomed over her. After realizing she would lose the battle, she was further incensed when she was not permitted to drive the wagon. She was left behind and another squirrel was made driver in her place, likely the uninjured brother mentioned yesterday. He was a sorry thing, his red-dusted limbs still shaped by the awkwardness of adolescence. He hunched on the driver’s bench, beside himself with some emotional turmoil that could not be passed off as displeasure at being selected for the retrieval party.
Here's one that looks useless in a fight, thought the sharpshooter.
The squirrel was dressed in a simple jerkin and tunic with those absurd short northland breeches, armed with a knife and hatchet, looking like he rarely used either. He was distracted, the reins slack on his knee. At least the equine was sensible enough to drive itself, keeping pace with Grasswhistle’s mare.
In the bed of the wagon, Martu was hunched, primed to spring from the wagon the moment an assailant appeared. There was a subtle frenzy of bloodlust in her eyes that made Grasswhistle grim. The Redsnout scout was not known for losing herself in a fight, but her behavior was out of the ordinary since they arrived at Castle Nobaran. The hare was worried she would not be able to keep command of the pine marten once the trap was sprung. The plan hinged on Martu being able to defend Chicrose and the feathermage alone.
Grasswhistle would have her paws full trying to keep her guns loaded. She should not have left her revolvers with the quartermaster. She wanted to travel light and with the comfort of the single-shooters she had grown up with. This tremendous oversight was another mark against her feeble planning skills. Long eyes, short brain. That’s what her childhood peers teased.
“Short brain, indeed,” the hare muttered.
“What’s that?”
It was the feathermage on the side of the wagon farthest from where Grasswhistle rode. He was out of place, his long, taloned toes peeking out from where his blue robe pooled in the bottom of the wagon. His wings were folded into the opposite sleeves of his robe, a pose that Gloria often took. Maybe it was a mage thing. His long neck still rose higher than Chicrose.
The meadow vole was leaned against the wagon on the side next to the hare, his arm propped on the edge, facing the shrinking castle. Instead of grinding his teeth, he was nibbling the edge of his thumb claw, deep in thought about something mechanical. His lack of presence in a time of high alert was annoying, but Grasswhistle had not expected the tinker to be of any use until he was needed to help repair any more broken wagons once they arrived at the wayward dowry. She had never felt the loss of the vice-captain harder than now; he used to wrangle the difficult Redsnouts as good as the boss. Between Chicrose’s distraction and Martu’s hyper alertness, the sharpshooter had her work cut out for her.
The feathermage was watching the hare, having used her complaint to initiate conversation. His yellow eyes were expectant, containing another emotion that she did not wish to interpret. Grasswhistle left him hanging by shaking her head once and facing forward. She still did not know what to make of his hovering. At least this time he was nearby because the guard captain assigned him to the Redsnout wagon.
It was a somber procession. The Taverand soldier beasts were tense. Grasswhistle doubted they would have gone at all if their captain was not leading. She saw through his brutish act before the Taverand job started. Besides their shared history, the boar and the boss were cut from a similar cloth. They were of Lion Guard caliber, maybe better since Grasswhistle doubted she could best either. And she knew a lot about besting Lion Guard beasts, a hobby she partook of less and less since becoming a Redsnout.
The retrieval party took it’s time in reaching the Dark Forest. Upon reaching the forest’s edge, Captain Tirig raised a fist to halt the procession. The draft equine stopped several paces after Grasswhistle slowed her mount. As the wagon rocked to a stop, Chicrose started.
“Oh, are we there yet?” he asked, turning around to see the trees.
Martu grunted a sound that he and Grasswhistle knew to be a negative.
She’s off words again, the sharpshooter thought and frowned. Out loud, she said, “No.”
The pine marten vaulted over the side of the wagon. “I’ll walk this part.”
Grasswhistle made her voice stern. “Don’t forget your mission.”
Martu stretched to her full height to give the hare a baleful glare of indignation from over the wagon. “Huh.”
Grasswhistle started to bristle, but Chicrose interjected.
“The hell you won’t, pine kisser,” he chittered. “Slinkin’ off is the last thing we need. Besides, yore bigger than most of these stemmy daffodils, so I’ll need you fer some heavy lifting.”
The pine marten blinked, her ears going back in submission, eyes clearing. She huffed and adjusted the weapons at her belt.
Grasswhistle bit back a sigh. Although the hare was not cut out for command, the pine marten was an even worser option. Martu could not lead a dragon to gold even if the coin was in her pocket. But neither were very good at following orders from anyone but the boss. Orrik had been caught between a rock and a hard place when he selected his sharpshooter to take lead on this task.
Captain Tirig turned his mount and rode amongst his soldiers. “Here we enter again,” he said, sounding more conversational than oratory. “We have to get the dowry. You know how lords are. Be ready for combat.”
It inspired no confidence in the Redsnouts, but the Taverand soldier beasts straightened with purpose. Grasswhistle had to hand it to the boar: he knew how to speak to his troops. The boss was also good like that, favoring a tone that evidenced such friendly martyrdom that his Redsnouts could not help but assist.
“Lords are so foolish,” mumbled the feathermage, as the captain rode past the wagon on his way to the head of the group.
Tirig’s floppy ears flicked at the criticism and he stopped his mount. Instead of commenting on the Taverand mage’s dissent, he addressed the Redsnouts. “Engineer, be ready to work swiftly when we arrive. The sooner you finish, the sooner we are to safety again.”
Chicrose puffed out his chest and sassed, “Don’t you speak to me of speed, pig lump. Your lug nuts were slower than a snail on a tortoise shell last time.”
Martu, turned away from the boar’s gaze, raised an eyebrow and smirked. Grasswhistle, having the disadvantage of being in line-of-sight, kept her poker face. Chicrose could be withdrawn around unfamiliar beasts, particularly those that were much larger than him, but a remark against his prowess was known to embolden him.
Tirig gave an amused snort at the meadow vole’s pluck and shifted his gaze to the squirrel driver. “Have this wagon ready to flee should our task be lost. Can you do that, little Vern?”
Vern the squirrel was hunched and staring off into his trauma until the question. The diminutive seemed to goad him into awareness. He sat up, canting his head to a mulish angle, rebellion stirring in his large, brown eyes. “I can do it.”
Although he kept a straight face, Grasswhistle could see the smile in the captain’s eyes. “Good.” He nodded once to Grasswhistle, and urged his steed forward to the front of the retrieval party.
Chicrose pulled a carabiner from a pouch at his belt and clipped it to the edge of the wagon. He leaned over the wagon’s edge, falling until the rope connecting carabiner and toolbelt became taut. From upside down, he inspected the wagon’s undercarriage as the party started moving once more.
“Bet I can make this wagon faster for that flee,” he burbled, bracing a foot against the underside to keep from swaying.
Martu made an exasperated snort and came around the wagon to grab the vole by the middle and keep the momentum of the wagon’s resumed motion from swinging him into the back wheel. She kept pace with the wagon as she held on to Chicrose.
“Now really isn’t the time,” Grasswhistle said.
The feathermage shifted, his eyes showing the wideness of contained panic. “Aren’t you scared?” He looked shrunken inside the folds of his robe.
Martu shrugged at the mage, then gave Chicrose a shake when the vole started grinding his incisors.
“What?!” the tinker squawked, but stopped teeth-grinding.
“We are professionals,” Grasswhistle said, matter-of-fact.
“Let me up, pine kisser.”
Martu obliged the vole, turning him right side up as she placed him back in the wagon.
“Listen, featherhead,” said the tinker, pointing a narrow paw digit at the mage, “I doubt you’re as good as Glory, but you need to tighten your screws. We die, we live, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get to go really fast. I’m super lucky, by the way,” he ended, bringing his thumb to his chest.
The heron clacked his beak once in indignation, voice cracking as he said, “I have a nine, I mean, t-ten generation heartfeather.”
“Then prove it,” the vole taunted, stretching a smile and giving his brows a smarmy lift, making a face that even Grasswhistle felt the urge to punch.
She interjected at once. “He means when the wraiths attack, not right now.”
Chicrose was already turned away from the heron and unfastening his carabiner. “Obviously.”
“I will!” the feathermage insisted, clenching his magic paws into fists.
Much like the boar captain roused Vern the squirrel from his distance of emotion, Chicrose turned the heron from his fear. However, there was a difference of intent: Chicrose was just that annoying at times.
Their exchange took place during the retrieval party’s transition across the tree line. Thunder from the unseen sky was muted, but that did not stop Grasswhistle’s mood from plummeting. Was it really going to be another fight in the stupid rain?
Martu went around the sharpshooter to put herself between the Redsnouts and the trees. The pine marten had drawn her hatchet and pushed back her hat, triangular ears alert. The Taverand soldiers also gripped their weapons with resolve, eyes darting among the darkened tree trunks.
Grasswhistle did a mental inventory of her weaponry, but remained calm. Knowing that the boss expected a trap, she figured they would not be attacked until the party was distracted with loading the dowry onto the wagons.
The humidity dropped as they went deeper on the forest path. Grasswhistle could not stop a shiver going up her spine as a dryer cold settled in. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom with ease. No order to light the few lanterns came. The patter of rain on leaves began as they approached the fallen tree. In order to get through the magic-blasted space in the trunk, the wagons had to pass one at a time. Progress was slowed at the bottleneck and the Taverand soldiers moved in a jittery manner. Tears came to the heron’s eyes as the Redsnouts wagon took its turn near the end of the procession.
Grasswhistle did not like the idea of having to flee through the tree trunk again. The diameter was also too thick to be jumped by mounted riders. The retrieval task was more dangerous than she realized. Could she have prepared better for this? Stupid short brain.
“Uh-oh,” went Chicrose. “Maybe shoulda told ‘em to move a lil’ faster.”
The feathermage’s confused, “What?” was overtaken by the sound of a small explosion.
The wagon horses neighed in alarm and rushed forward. Wails of fright came from the soldiers, some shrill with agony. Grasswhistle’s indolent mare nickered a complaint against the noise, but did not startle. The draft equine broke from the panic sooner than the other wagon equines and slowed to allow the mare to catch up, sides heaving with nerves.
The captain’s roar dwarfed the startled shouts of soldier beasts. Grasswhistle turned her mare to see behind them as his destrier thundered to the back of the party. The sulfurous scent of detonated black powder filled the air. The remains of the tree trunk blocking the road were blasted away.
Stolen story; please report.
The sharpshooter caught Chicrose’s smug expression and called out to the captain, “’Twas us! This idiot bombed the tree.”
“Idiot?!” screeched the tinker. “I just made our escape easier!”
“You could have hurt someone!” scolded the feathermage.
Chicrose scoffed. “Not with a charge that small. What? I put ‘em on the close side so the splinters would go behind us.”
His words were true. Despite the noise, the immense tree’s remains were still on either side of the space widened to the width of the road. The captain was breathing hard with fury, but the last comment sobered him. As he examined the unhurt retrieval party attempting to calm the equines, his face grayed with gloom. The seemingly pained cries had come from something else. They were being followed.
Tirig turned his equine, booming, “The way back is made wider by the engineer! We continue!” He decided it would be prudent to not mention their pursuers, coal-wraiths by the unearthly sounds that had been made.
Martu and Grasswhistle exchanged nods. The sharpshooter slung her rifle from her shoulder and laid it across her lap as the scout retrieved a saber from the wagon. The hare took the sheathed blade from the pine marten and fastened it at her hip. Though Grasswhistle favored her firearms, she was a fair hand with a blade, a necessity at this point for the light rain had fallen enough to begin dropping through the overhanging boughs. This would be the last time she went without her revolvers.
The retrieval party began to pass signs of yesterday’s encounter. Torn bits of leather or clothing here, discarded weapons there. With an astonishing obliviousness to the general atmosphere, Chicrose began whistling. Nearby soldier beasts sent glares his way, but the vole was sorting through his leather tool wrap, unaware of their ire. He was wearing his goggles to keep the precipitation out of his eyes, but was otherwise not wearing a cloak or hat to keep himself dry.
Grasswhistle rolled her eyes, hoping the vole would not catch a cold.
“Ahem, now is not the time for whistling,” said the feathermage. The hood of his robe was pulled over his head, his beak the only visible feature besides the tips of his talons.
“Fah, they already know we’re here,” was Chicrose’s dismissive response. He flapped a paw over his head. “Why don’t you do somethin’ about this rain, featherhead.”
The heron hesitated and started to protest. As he opened his bill, he paused. He tossed back his head, hood sliding down, and looked upward with a small frown. He raised glowing paws and made a small pushing motion. A soft glow of red hovered above the wagon. Raindrops began to splash on an unseen surface above him.
Chicrose sat up and shook his head. “No good. You hafta cover the whole wagon. An’ do the sides, too, or the rain still gets in.”
The mage squinted with annoyance, but rotated a paw in the direction of the front of the wagon. “What an interesting application,” he remarked, his voice going mild and sounding a lot like his deceased uncle.
“Close enough for a first try,” said the vole in a praising tone.
“Enough tricks,” Grasswhistle interrupted. “We’re here.”
Captain Tirig halted before a graveyard of dismembered wagons, chests and baskets strewn about. Many of the vessels were broken, spilling contents of cloth and miscellaneous metalwork like candlesticks, cutlery, and fixtures. The barrels of various wines and ales were nestled in a boozy mud made from the one barrel that had broken during the skirmish.
The sharpshooter scanned the area, noting that everything seemed to scatter outward from a central point that looked like the origination of an explosion. Based on the feathermage’s tearful stare at the epicenter, Grasswhistle deduced the older mage made his stand there.
No one in the retrieval party moved to execute the task until Vern the squirrel hopped from the driver’s seat and began wandering amongst the wreckage with a searcher’s purpose.
“All right, let’s get to work,” ordered Captain Tirig. He began pointing to various soldier beasts as he issued commands. “Raggle and you three, begin loading that wagon with the undamaged chests. Tarle and you two, take this wagon and start working on the barrels. Gatha, you and your sisters guard this side, and the mercs will take the other side. Crossbows, stay ready on your wagons. The rest of you, gather the baskets and start filling them with whatever’s on the ground into these two wagons. Engineer, you—”
“I’ll fix the wagons,” interrupted Chicrose. He used a paw on the edge of the wagon to swing over the side, splashing into the muddy ground. “Gimme a couple a’ your lug nuts an’ we can get movin’.”
The boar did not take offense at the vole’s rudeness and snapped a paw at his nearest soldiers, two near identical mink and a scraggly weasel with whiteish patches of fur scattered across his pelt. “Kit, Mugwort, and Trag, obey the engineer.”
“Aye, captain,” chorused the minks, both larger than the other minks in the troop. The one with a forehead scar coming down from the brim of his helmet snapped into a salute. The much smaller weasel slumped with resignation and scratched his exposed arm, coming away with matted brown fur, revealing fresh white fur underneath.
Captain Tirig had no further orders for the Redsnouts. He dismounted and set to work lifting the largest chests to the nearest wagon, his destrier following at a loyal distance.
With an unexpected stroke of foresight, Grasswhistle turned to the heron and said, “Mage, turn this wagon around and be ready to fight.”
The feathermage obliged with the retort, “My name is Meladore,” as he clambered onto the driver’s bench and scooped the reigns from the footboard. It was a proper wizardly name. She could remember that.
The hare nudged her mare after Chicrose and his appointed assistants. As the vole gave imperious commands for retrieval of various wagon parts and heavy lifting, the weasel and scarred mink gave hostile glances to the mounted sharpshooter for making no moves to help with the wagon repair. Although she ranked in the larger-sized half of able-bodied beasts present and would be of great help to the process, Grasswhistle ignored them. Her duty was protecting Chicrose and the height advantage of her equine would ensure she would be the first to react when the trap was sprung. The assistants did not have the gumption to turn any type of glance at the hulking Redsnout scout, whom would have ignored them anyway. Martu was scanning the tree line, twirling her hatchet by the handle at a meditative pace.
Grasswhistle noticed when the rain made an abrupt stop, despite the patter against the overhanging branches. She extended a paw, pad up. Water collected in the brim of her hat sloshed down the back of her cloak when she tipped her head to look above. The rain was dripping onto a red sheen of nothing several feet in the air. The red sheen covered the entirety of the retrieval party. The hare rotated in her saddle to see the feathermage, wings extended as he held his paws up, beak parted as he studied his spellcraft. He was a fast learner, showing no hint of strain to maintain a wide area spell.
“Hold it still, stinksnout,” Chicrose snapped at the scarred mink bracing an axle against the underside of an upended wagon. The metal had a slight zigzag in two places where the assistant mink bent it back into shape. They were too close to the trees for the comfort of anyone involved. Even the tinker was showing signs of agitation.
The mink bared his teeth in a threat, but his unscarred doppelganger soothed, “Easy, Mug.” She joined him and leaned her weight into steadying the axle. Minks tended to be smaller than pine martens, but considering how close she was in size to the other, Grasswhistle figured the female was a probable size aberrant like Martu was for martens.
Sounds of an argument on the other side of the worksite caught the sharpshooter’s attention. The elder Taverand lieutenant’s and Nobaran head ranger’s heated tones were rising, catching the attention of the other soldiers. The mink trio guarding that area of the perimeter, pelts so dark Grasswhistle could barely see their outlines in the gloom, became preoccupied with the commotion. The ranger had planted his foot-paws and was shaking his head with arms crossed over his chest. Captain Tirig was hefting two ale barrels on his shoulders toward the liquor wagon and unable to mediate.
Realizing no one would intervene, Grasswhistle sighed, nudging her mount over to deal with the squawkers. Before her mare could take two paces, the lieutenant drew a knife from her a sheath at the small of her back and plunged it into the ranger’s chest, crying, “You are not fit to serve the master!”
A chorus of wails rose from the surrounding trees. Time slowed for a few seconds of silence where no one but Grasswhistle moved. The hare slung her rifle back over her shoulder, drew a pistol in her left paw, keeping it under her cloak on instinct, and drew the saber in her right paw. Martu was a second behind her, brandishing her hatchet and falling back to the tinker’s position.
One in the mink trio cried out in grief as the ranger sank to his knees. The larger of her sisters closed the distance in two leaps, jamming her spear into the meat of the lieutenant’s chest. The lieutenant shook the spear from her attacker’s grasp, cackling with insanity and jumped back against the trees, still clutching the shaft protruding from her body. The trio halted their pursuit as coal-wraiths poured from the shadows of the trees.
“We’re under attack!” cried one of the Taverand soldiers.
“TO ARMS!” bellowed Captain Tirig. The boar slung into the saddle as his steed pranced with battle readiness.
There was no time to wonder at the lieutenant’s betrayal. Coal-wraiths attacked from all sides. The soldier beasts that remained on sentry with the crossbows began shooting cover fire as their comrades ceased various dowry collection processes and reequipped their spears. Their readiness ensured that none were unarmed by the time the enemy closed the distance.
Martu bared her teeth and engaged the first coal-wraith with a ghoulish gleam in her eyes. Her action caused the nearest coal-wraiths to focus their attack on her. Grasswhistle fired her pistol with deadly accuracy, felling a wraith with a shot between the blazing, orange eyes.
The rain returned with a deluge of water that had been held back by the mage’s spell, splattering ally and foe alike with mud upon hitting the sodden earth. The heron could not spare focus for the barrier as he switched to offensive spells. Grasswhistle gasped at the dousing, paws clenching her weapons in displeasure.
“Sassy Grassy, save your ammo!” shouted Chicrose.
Despite their earlier irritation, his compulsory assistants switched to determined bodyguards. The two minks worked as a single entity, eschewing their spears to dual-wield cutlasses and overcoming the first coal-wraith to reach Chicrose’s position. The molting weasel jabbed his spear into a coal-wraith resembling a singed marionette. The shaft snapped under the momentum of the larger monster’s attack. As it pounced, the weasel slithered between its foot-paws, as he drew a dagger in each paw. Undaunted, the smaller beast jumped onto the coal-wraith’s back to stab with both blades.
Grasswhistle accepted the vole’s logic and sheathed her pistol. She was soon embroiled in a struggle to keep the coal-wraiths from clawing her steed. Her heart stuttered every time the equine danced away from a swipe of black claws or snap of flashing, bone-white teeth, all the while, maintaining a placidity that was more suited to chewing afternoon dandelions in a windswept pasture. A shower of sparkling red will-o-wisps struck each misshapen form, sizzling like firecrackers as they struck their targets. The sharpshooter spared a nod to the feathermage for the assist before planting her saber into a coal-wraith galloping to where Chicrose huddled behind the half-repaired wagon.
“Fall back to the mage!” Grasswhistle shouted.
The vole peeked around the wagon to give her an exasperated expression. He wiped his goggle lenses with the back of his paws and made a few starts as if he were about to hop into a jumping rope. Then he was out in the thick of the battle, tracing a haphazard zig-zag, skating across areas of mud-slicked ground with ungainly pinwheels of his arms to counterbalance the wight of his tool wrap, as much larger combatants engaged with complete obliviousness of his passing.
Grasswhistle struggled to keep up with the tinker’s scrambling changes in direction, using her saber to assist fellow fighters they passed rather than defend. When a large, fox-shaped wraith jumped for Chicrose, her stomach clenched with agony. A snarling blur of pine marten thundered into the fox wraith, both tumbling into a rolling grapple through the mud, bowling over nearby combatants, scattering smaller weasel-beasts and coal-wraiths. There was no way, Grasswhistle could get in a helping shot.
Martu emerged victorious, throwing the broken wraith to the ground as she rose to her feet, so covered in mud that she seemed more swamp monster than pine marten. Her eyes glowed with the frenzy of bloodlust. She paused long enough to retrieve her hatchet from the wraith’s carcass and pounced on the nearest coal-wraith wringing a Taverand soldier by the shoulders in its jaws.
Grasswhistle only had time for relief that the reckless scout moved with no apparent injury. She kicked her mount to the feathermage’s position, relieved that Chicrose had made it to the heron’s side. She looked in on the vole hiding underneath the driver’s seat, fearing injury. The hare let out the breath she was holding when she realized the tinker’s awkward position was to block the rain as he twisted cord protruding from a miniature stick of dynamite.
On the other side of the worksite, Captain Tirig was swinging a giant battle-axe. The boar held a defensive stance over two of the dark mink sisters. One was holding tight to the end of an arm that was too short as the other ripped strips off her tunic to make bandages. The reach of the axe, not only kept the circling wraiths at bay, but rendered the need for backup unnecessary. Tirig squealed with anger and cut them down, two or three per swing.
The feathermage’s cover of zinging red magic allowed Grasswhistle to catch her breath. He held a wide stance in the back of the wagon, sleeves sliding back to reveal his entire wings as he cast the light missile spells in quick succession. The rune-threading along his robe was illuminated a radiant crimson.
From her vantage point, the hare noticed when a group of coal-wraiths ceased their dispersed attack and converged on a half-loaded wagon with two crossbow-wielders, the two minks howling as they died. A wraith that had been engaged with Martu, turned away to follow. The marten grabbed the unprotesting creature and snapped it against her knee with a troubling brutality that Grasswhistle had no time to ponder. There was no sort of visual cue to cause this sudden organization.
When the coal-wraiths sieging the fox soldier and his fellows at the liquor wagon rerouted to attack another farther wagon of crossbow-wielders, the sharpshooter drew her pistol to cut that number by one as she scanned the battlefield for a commander. Nothing. What would a coal-wraith commander look like anyway?
“Bomb’s away!” came Chicrose’s screech from behind.
The wick of the small dynamite sizzled as it flew over Grasswhistle’s head, to land in the overrun wagon. The explosion scattered ash and splintered wood. Collateral damage included both screams of coal-wraiths and the closest soldier beasts.
“You’re hurting our own, you fool!” shouted the feathermage.
“There won’t be any own left if you don’t do somethin’ about it, featherhead,” snapped the vole. “I got two more of those lil’ bangers an’ one is for this wagon if we get jumped next!”
Vern the squirrel interrupted any further argument by vaulting into the wagon, knocking the mage off balance. “Tarle says he heard something in the wood,” he chittered.
“So, the woods’re talkin’ now?” Chicrose sneered. “Your nut brain’s cracked.”
Grasswhistle’s ears twitched as she resisted the urge to lift them and unseat her hat. Instead, she searched the shadowed trunks encroaching on the path, demanding, “Who’s Tarle?” to get a position.
Vern hopped into the driver’s bench and pointed across the battle. “Tarle’s my friend.”
The heron rolled his eyes as he untangled his legs from the folds of his robe. “Tarle is the fox,” he said, small red orbs materializing at his paws as he stood.
Grasswhistle narrowed her focus, straining her eyes to a squint as she scanned the area near the liquor wagon. The area was abandoned, Tarle the fox’s party had left to help the others. There was no activity among the nearby trees. She almost gave up, then caught a movement higher in the boughs.
A weasel adorned in robes was perched in the cleft of a thick branch. In his right paw, he held out a strange dark orb. He gestured over the orb with the other paw, much spindlier and a strange white.
The sharpshooter hopped from her mount into the wagon for a steadier shot. She unslung her rifle and flipped the eyepatch over her right eye as she knelt down, using the edge of the wagon to steady the long barrel. A deep breath steadied her vision, allowing her to see the bones of the skeletal paw and the smoldering eyes in the half-rotted mage’s face. She would not miss.
“Get this rain off me!” she barked and pulled the trigger.
The rifle shot cracked loud through the din of the battle. It blew away half of the mage’s face, confirming his undead status. The mage raised the orb high and began to point bony claws in Grasswhistle’s direction. She had to act before Chicrose decided to use his “lil’ banger”.
The sharpshooter was already reloaded underneath a shimmer of red as the nearest coal-wraiths began to converge on the Redsnout wagon. She took another deep breath.
“You stupid pine kisser, where are you?!” screeched Chicrose.
The hare’s sniper focus muted the vole’s earsplitting shout. She exhaled and pulled the trigger again. A sparkling red blur whooshed past her, catching the whiskers on the left side of her snout. This time, her shot nailed the mage’s right shoulder, severing the right arm, as one of the heron’s orbs struck the mage’s head, exploding it into a puff of ash. The cohesion of wraith assaults broke as the dark-robed body fell from the branch.
Grasswhistle retrieved a crossbow and quiver of bolts from the bottom of the wagon and began assisting a frenzied Martu with picking off the closest coal-wraiths. “Nice shot, Palsilore.”
“My name is Meladore,” the mage retorted, a small smile at the corners of his bill. He puffed his chest out at the compliment and pitched a barrage of red lights at a group of exhausted Taverand soldiers struggling against the remaining coal-wraiths.
“Rout the enemy!” roared Captain Tirig. The boar was swinging his axe, baring his tusks as he managed the majority of wraiths on the battlefield opposite the Redsnout wagon.
The coal-wraiths did not have the sentience to know they were defeated. As the last of the monsters were overcome, Grasswhistle surveyed the damage. Over half of the Taverand soldiers were injured, several missing limbs and receiving battlefield triage from other soldier beasts. A weasel was wailing in protest as two of the dark mink sisters were holding him down. The third sister, sporting a bandage at the end of her amputated right arm, was raising a cutlass in her left.
Mounted Tirig rode up and blocked their vision with his bulk. “Was anyone scratched or bitten?” he asked, voice grim and guttural from battle shouts.
Grasswhistle flicked her eyes down to Martu. The pine marten was rubbing her right shoulder, but her posture was straight and she breathed as if she had finished light exercise instead of an involved skirmish. The hare was reminded of the scout’s dodgy behavior after the ambush yesterday. The rain had washed away the majority of the mud, though Martu would need a thorough scrubbing when they returned to the castle. None of the tears in her clothing were darkened by blood.
“Do we look scratched and bitten to you, pig lump?” Chicrose sneered. “Why don’t you go help hack the rest of your lug nuts to pieces?” His bravado did not mask the waver in his tone.
The feathermage’s voice was devoid of emotion. “It might be too late for some of them. Uncle Ken took a body hit. Amputation might not work for the wounds too close to the body.”
“Let Healer Gloria see them,” implored Vern. “She helped Krim.”
“The Redsnout mage?” asked the captain at the same time the tinker went, “Glory? How do you know Glory?”
“I’m her assistant,” said the squirrel, his face going stubborn.
Grasswhistle raised an eyebrow at the fervent look in the young squirrel’s eyes. Gloria did have that effect on beasts.
Martu spoke up. “He is.” She was uninterested in the discourse and unbothered by the savage medical practices taking place among the wagons. The scout wiped her hatchet on the least dirty part of her tunic and returned it to the side of her belt.
Tirig went, “Mmm. If you say so. Let’s hope they can survive our return. If you are unhurt, help finish loading the wagons.”
“You can’t be serious,” squawked the feathermage.
The captain did not spare a response and rode away. He dismounted at the nearest chest of goods, somehow still undamaged. Resignation was evident in his command. “I see you unhurt Tarle and Nox. Finish with the barrels. Raggle didn’t make it. Glogg, you’re lieutenant now. Supervise loading the rest. Gatha, load the injured and dead in separate wagons.” Without waiting for obedience, he lifted the chest and took it to the nearest wagon.
“Martu, go help load,” Grasswhistle ordered, too tired to consider the potential for noncompliance.
The heron gaped at the Redsnouts. “Are you mad?”
Martu shrugged. “Job’s not done.” The scout went to assist loading the dead, a task that was more difficult for the Taverand soldiers that knew their fallen comrades.
Grasswhistle would be sure to report the pine marten’s discreet kindness to the boss. She checked her mare for injury. Finding none, she gave the equine an affectionate pat on the neck and mounted. The sharpshooter kept her eyepatch on and a bolt loaded on the crossbow in her lap as she watched over the dowry retrieval party until the task was completed.
----
