The aged weasel hobbled over to the great rock. It towered above him, fully five times his height had he stood straight. He unshouldered a satchel, packed full with scrolls, scratching an old scar on his throat as he did so. He took a moment to run his paw along the rock. Names...so many names...The weasel left then, leaving the scrolls for any who chanced to pass the place.
‘When Blood is Shed’
* * * * * * * * * *
What is there to be said about the northern clans? That which has been said will be said over a score of times by my reckoning, and read treble the amount unless the records are destroyed. I have come far, seen much since this tale began, but it has stayed the same, through all hearing and telling, through summer and winter the names of the warriors will not be forgotten unless the fates destroy land and seas. But you will want the story now, and I will not keep you waiting.
Gwainewen Greengage
* * * * * * * * * *
The ermine-pulled chariots shook the earth underneath them as they sped over the field. It was a field that had seen many battles, more warriors fallen than any before it, it would never be appeased. The leading ferret rider jabbed the ermine between the ribs with his longspear to turn him to the left of the enemy host, keeping his other paw free to hold to the side, the chariots were rickety things after all.
A half dozen followed the first chariot, each with two beasts on the chariot bed, one to steer, the other with bow, sling or throwing spears. The other half of the chariots turned to the right. Behind them, ferrets poured down the top of the wooded hill, screaming and shrieking various battle cries as they came.
The enemy warband, mainly of shrews, otters and squirrels responded faster than the ferrets had anticipated. They raised shields, extending spears or any manner of weapons between the slits, screaming cries to match the northern clans.
The ferret on the first chariot waited, spear poised, legs bent. He steadily grew nearer to the row of death.
Fifty paces...forty...thirty...twenty...ten...the war chieftain jumped upwards, letting the chariot and bloodthirsty ermine crash crazily into the first ranks. He rolled, careful not snap spear or slice himself on it.
The woodlanders were at him within the space of seconds. The ferret, Cinyian, smiled. Good. He sank his spear into the first, drawing it out and slicing it crossways into them. A dagger blade sliced open his side. It will be over soon. The rest of the chariots smashed sideways into the woodlanders, knocking them about like nine-pins as shaft and stone from both hosts riddled the sky black. Over the cries and sharp rings of metal a whistling arrow sped skyward. Gawden’s signal... Behind the woodlanders, weasels, rats and stoats chained or roped together came at the warband, swinging, club or mace for the most part with a smattering of javelin. The other chariots plunged into the woodlanders’ right flank, flinging ferrets from their chariots and creating a gaping hole in the line that let in the beasts on paw. Cinyian ducked beneath a stone axe, snarling and butting the squirrel in the jaw as the shale took off the better part of his right ear. The ferret jabbed at the earth by the squirrel, letting him roll into the jab. Wrong way... He left the squirrel impaled on the bloodied grass moved on to other beasts. Gawden Gaunthelm, another ferret chieftain, came behind the weasels rats and stoats, urging them on with prods from his trident. To the middle and outward... He sliced upwards at a shrew, catching his throat with trident prongs. As planned he pressed the slaves forward into the midst of the enemy, breaking their poor defense into splinters. To his left a rat dropped beneath a cutlass blade and an arrow. Their arrow or ours? He wondered. He flung his trident into one of the last of the woodlanders, drawing dagger. Cinyian was there, spear snapped in half, using the club end to pummel down a shrew. Huirus Oskum, yet another battle chieftain who led the pawbeasts was slicing low with broadsword at enemy ankles, feathered battle helm lost in the fray. Then there was no more to fight, the sounds of battle died off after steadily waning from the first moments of the fighting. Gawden picked up his trident from where it rested in a carcass. Cinyian walked over grinning. “Teach the curs not tae be insultin’ the clan agin, eh Gunthelm?” He always said it like that, Gunthelm. “Well Ah do nay think ye gave ‘em much o’ choice then, Cinyian, though Ah daresay from the looks of ‘em they won’t be doin’ talkin’ o’ any sorts.” Gawden smiled back slightly. “Huirus!” Cinyian cupped a paw around his mouth calling the dark chieftain over. “Right lads, Huirus, ‘ave yer beasties collect any usable blades or wood. Draw ‘em from flesh if need be. Oh, an’ armor too.” He turned to Gawden, “Gunthelm, git yer slaves tae separate ours from theirs, set afire tae them an haul ours back tae the stockade, they’ll be gettin’ an honorable ‘membrance.” He hated talking of the dead as such but it could not be helped. It was easier than looking at the faces of kin and mates. The warlord set about with his charioteers, dragging usable chariots and living ermines from the carnage, battles were always costly...
* * * * * * * * * *
“Nay, m’lad, plunder was...never lax”
Cinyian, Chieftain of the Northern Clans
* * * * * * * * * *
Those who had not fought always wept when the warriors and raiders returned. No life was deemed uncostly, death was common but always mourned at Northfront, the greatest of the Northern Clans settlements. Those dead from other of the ferret clans were carried by their families, after names had been inscribed of all who had fallen on the great rock of Northfront. The clan warriors, males and females both, stood in two rows facing each other; weapons held erect, staring straight ahead. “Huirus of the Oskum!” the crier called out the names of the battle chieftains first. The broad ferret walked slowly down the middle of the lines bowing at the end to receive small gifts taken from the woodland dead. Cinyian formally picked up a silver neck ring or torc from the pile at his paws. He slipped it around his chieftain’s throat pressing the knobs in front together. “Gawden of the Gaunthelm...” the names would continue for sometime. A torc to one, arm rings for another, trinkets, weapons, food or fine cloth to many warriors or the families of the slain. All were awarded according to valor in battle. Uncommon was the day that a warrior of the Clans was given nothing. “Shalefang of the Warbands...” When there was no surname, “of the Warband” was most commonly used. One by one in order of rank the warriors came forward to receive what they had fought for. Cinyian took a moment to look down at the still large pile of plunder. If only our harvest was as bountiful. Though the warlord refused to admit it, it was seldom that the harvest was as they would wish it. Plenty for all. Names continued for sometime. “Rochius of the Warbands...Gwainewen of the Greengage...Aire of the McMallen...” When the names had finished, weapons were put away, the music started and the food was brought out. To other beasts it may have seemed rather small but to the Clans, it truly was a feast. Berries collected by the young ones filled bowls and flavored drinks, long loaves of soft golden bread were stacked high on platters, roast fish from the frozen streams and bird shot from the sky, nuts, soup filled with vegetables made up all but a small part. But no beast could say that the Northfront ferrets tired quickly of eating. The ferrets tore off towards the table and began eating a feast that would last long into the night.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Count yer gains, not yer losses.”
Huirus Oskum
* * * * * * * * * *
Cinyian stood, paws on a table with scrolls, parchments and charts covering it. Around the table stood most of his war council, Gawden Gaunthelm, Huirus Oskum and Shalefang. “Right, lads, quick now, ‘ow many’d we lose, then? Huirus?” Huirus’ deep voice answered. “Least a score o’ good battlers. An’ thirty an’ three wounded. Ah would ‘ave guessed more then that if’n the woodlanders ‘adn’t been as thickskulled” He smiled slightly. “Gunthelm?” “Mayhaps twice that o’ the slaves, but then ‘oo e’er gave much thought tae the slaves?” “Shale?” “Not a one o’ the archers were so much as scratched, ‘ceptin one lad that shot hisself in the paw, idjit.” He let out a cold guffaw that none of the others matched. “Added tae me ten slain an’ seventeen wounded that makes...” he mused for a moment, trying to calculate in his head. “Sixty dead an’ fifty-five wounded.” He seemed pleased with himself so Huirus chose not to say anything. “Gunthelm, git the slaves out in the fields tahday, Huirus, put a skeleton guard on the ramparts an’ send the other settlement warriors back tae their villages. Shale, yer archers kin ‘ave some rest but Ah expect fresh bird tomorrow. Where’d the cullies put the weapons an’ armor, Ah be plannin’ tae take a look o’er it?” Huirus answered him, “Lest Ah’m mistaken most were taken tae the forge, Caelran were sayin’ most o’ it needed a stronger blade or better grip, then some o’ the spear hafts was snapped an’ there were bows wit out strings though he were leavin’ that tae Shale’s archers.” Cinyian nodded. “Right, lads, ye best git tae the mornin’ meal, as do Ah.” He patted his stomach. “Can’t let the belly sink too much then.” Gawden laughed. “Ye don’t need tae worry ‘bout that, Cinyian, ye’d run tae a feast faster than tae a battle.” Cinyian grinned wryly. “May’aps so though least Ah kin still stand on me own two paws rather than leanin’ on some young warrior fer support, Gunthelm.”
* * * * * * * * * *
“Tempests? Ne’er given ‘em much o’ a thought. What sort o’ tempest?”
Caelran, metal forger of Northfront
* * * * * * * * *
Cinyian ducked underneath the canvas awning over the entrance to the forge. The bellows were cold; Caelran sat leaning on a stool, back against the wall, a young ferret in front of him. The blacksmith broke off in the middle of his sentence. “Right, lass, ye best be runnin’ along then, wot yer mother would do if’n she found ye here listenin’ tae battle talk afore ye did yer chores.” The ferret maiden ran off and Cinyian picked up the first of the new blades. He could detect where Caelran had bent it straight in the fashion of the Clans where it had before been curved; it was now a double-edged battleblade, folded over itself many times for added strength. “Gettin’ more work then, Cael?” “Aye, ye an’ yer beasts brought in blade an’ head aplenty.” He ran his paw carefully through a bucket of arrowheads of different kinds. Barbed, broad headed, hollowed in the middle or some simply a metal cylinder tip to add easily to the wood. Spears fit snugly in racks, long and sharp while, maces, flails, all manner of sword and dagger, club and more filled the small shop. “Most o’ this kin be taken tae the armory, though Ah still ‘ave some tae work.” “This un?” said the chieftain, holding up the longsword in his paws. “Aye, that un’s finished, the first beast who forged it did a fine job Ah may add.” “Then would ye mind if’n Ah took it?” The smith shrugged. “Yer not stirrin’ water ‘ere, Ah kin make ten like it in a day. Just easier to bend these un’s back tae a proper shape.” “Right, thankee, Cael, Ah’ll send somebeast o’er tae take ‘em out o’ yer way.” The chieftain ducked back under, carrying the longsword under his arm.
* * * * * * * * * *
Rivetsheen the ferret guard laid the bone-inlaid whip into the slave’s back. It was a gaunt young weasel, born into slavery, family most likely killed in battle or by the lash. Rivetsheen laughed coldly and planted a kick between his ribs. “An don’t let me see ye puttin’ yer filthy paws on that lot o’ food agin. ‘Tis for good ‘ard workin’ ferrets.” He laughed again then looked westwards. A large cloud of dust could be seen through the light fog, rolling up from the great path that led down through the southern borders of Mossflower. Rivetsheen squinted. “Corr! Git yer mangy hide o’er ‘ere!” The familiar face of the ferret came steadily closer. “Aye, Sheen?” “Lookit that lot o’er yonder. Wot diya make o’ it?” “Looks like beasts comin’ up the path, not a little lot either lest Ah’m mistaken.” “Git the slaves on the lead rope an’ have the lads git ‘em back to Northfront. This should be a dandy.” The first ferret commanded. Corr ran off yelling hoarsely for the rest of the score or so other ferrets to link up the slaves. Rivetsheen grabbed his longspear up in one paw and began running over the dry field towards the cloud. Mayhaps not the smartest thing to do... He continued running, ducking behind a bush for a moment. He peered through the short branches, lying flat on his belly. They were ferrets, of the Hone Clan, one of the Northern Clans, allies. Rivetsheen stood up and began walking towards them, cupping his free paw about his snout. “Ahoy, there, lads. Ye’ ad me an' the cullies scared witless—“ he felt a jolt in his right shoulder, saw the dark shaft of an arrow protruding from it. Another hit his upper left leg and yet another skimmed off the top of his head, shredding one of his ears in two. The ferret turned to run and stumbled on a rock, twisting around and falling on the shafts, driving them deeper in, dark splotches appeared in his eyes and his body began to go numb. Within moments he lay motionless on the rocky soil.
* * * * * * * * * *
Cinyian had been sitting, back against tree, eyes shut when one of the wall sentries awoke him. Aire McMallen unless he was mistaken. “Chieftain, slaves comin’ back early an’ at a double pace, also a blaze fillin’ the sky with smoke o’er the fields.” “Right, lad, go an’ get the warbands, an’ don’t walk!” Cinyian stood and hurried towards the ramparts. He climbed swiftly up the wooden ladder, heading towards the high north tower for a better view. Atop the stable wooden tower it was easy to see where the fires came from. In the fields a half mile off he could see beasts moving about the high rows of wheat, lit torches in their paws. Half or more of the wheat had already been burned and the winds from the south blew the rest into the fields. The gates were creaking open for the returning slaves then, and a score of his warband was milling about the ground below Cinyian. The chieftain slid down the ladder, grabbing the spear from Corr as he passed by. “Alright, mates, we’ve got nary a moment tae wait for the rest.“ he began running towards the fields, the rest of the ferrets after him. As they drew closer the beasts in the field withdrew back towards the west they had come from, loosing a few arrows at the Northfronters. Cinyian stopped in the middle of the charred field. “No use, goin’ after ‘em mates, not taeday. Any idea o’ who ‘t'were?” “No, mate.” “Nay, Chieftain. Right foul thing tae do.” Cinyian shielded his eyes from a ray of light hitting them and looked to where it was coming from. “Ahoy, mates, what diya make o’ that.” The warband moved towards the flashing stopping at the body of Rivetsheen, fur scorched in places by sparks from the fire. The chieftain bent down and placed his ear to the guard’s chest. “’E’s still alive, cullies.” Cinyian took the arrowhead sticking though Rivetsheen’s shoulder and snapped it off; he turned Rivetsheen over and looked at the fletching on the arrows. “Murderin’ scum, look, mates, ‘t'were the Hones if it were anybeast.” A murmur of anger came from the ferret band. “But now’s not the day fer vengeance, m’lads. Aye, Ah’d like tae leave their stockade afire and them with me blade in their ‘eads too, but the horde must be recalled afore paw. Aire, Corr, grab up ‘Sheen.”
* * * * * * * * * *
“And a great clamoring and clashing of hammer was heard in Northfront that day.”
Gawden Gaunthelm, Battle Chieftain of Northfront
* * * * * * * * * *
Cinyian stood around the council table, Huirus Oskum, Gawden Gaunthelm, Shalefang, Gwainewen Greengage and Rochius, his five main Chieftains, Rochius commanded scouts and Gwainewen the settlement defense. She was the youngest ferret in the council, and newest to her position, all but one of the other chieftains had voted for her after the death of her predecessor. “Rochius, git yer fastest scouts out tae the Clans, yer fastest tae the moor-flats.” The moor-flats were a broad expanse of swamp that stretched nearly from one coast to another, two of the six, four excluding the Hones and Cinyian’s own Credeen, had settlements in the marshes.
“The Frali too?” queried Huirus.
“Nay, Huirus, their own settlements border on Hone territory as well, if’n their not fightin’ for the Hones already they’ll be hard pressed tae defend themselves.”
“Alright, Gwainewen, ‘ow many kin ye ‘old the fort with?”
“Ah’ll need least three score, that’s on skeleton patrols too, ye’ve not built a small stockade, Chieftain.”
“Roch, get any available scouts that aren’t goin’ tae be out as messengers or scoutin’ in Hone territory, send ‘em tae Breehn fer their trainin’. Oh an send the messengers in pairs.”
The chieftain began to protest but Cinyian cut him short. “Nay, m’lad, Ah’ll not see me warriors out fightin’ whilst yer scouts are back drinkin’ damson wine, tell ‘em either tae report tae Breehn or tae Caelran, one beast kin only repair so much armor.
Right, git tae yer duties, Gunthelm, ye, Huirus an Shale should know what tae do by now.” The council swiftly dispersed and Cinyian went to see Breehn.
* * * * * * * * * *
“A council of fools is no council at all.”
Brox, High Chieftain of the Hone Clan
* * * * * * * * *
* The Hone Clan was supposedly ruled by Brox, but most beasts knew his mate Swirloathe was the real power. The female ferret had never supposed that Brox was her better, she regarded him as nothing better than a steppingstone to become a Chieftain.
Spineless, cur, wouldn’t fight back if a beasts spit in his own face.
It had been a successful raid, the Credeen fields lay in ashes or embers, not a one of her beasts had a scratch on them, and Brox was, she believed, too much of a fool to realize it would soon be her that commanded the warbands and not him. She had gained a truce with the Frali, every scout or messenger of theirs had been slain trying to reach Northfront, constant sniping with arrow and sling had decimated some fourth of them, not to mention fire arrows in the village.
But Brox was no fool; he feigned it to trick his own Hone and Swirloathe. Beasts she believed she could trust relayed every word that came from her mouth, every ferret that followed her, every plot she thought of. But he was still moving his pieces into play.
Let her spend her time honing away at the Credeen. He laughed to himself. Hone...what a quaint name. They would never accept her as Chieftain anyways.
He sat waiting in his hall, mounted on the wooden dais on a high-backed throne, his two champions on either side of him, armed with longspears. She came through, pushing the double doors of the hall open with both paws, a string of followers behind her.
“I trust your raid was successful?” Brox said slowly.
“Nary a beast lost, and the Credeen fields lay a smoldering, m’lord.” She said the word mockingly. “I am at your service.”
Brox almost laughed. He had never bothered to give her orders, she would never follow any, and she had the one thing he lacked, ambition. Brox had never wanted to be chieftain, too many orders, too many commands. He had always followed, followed another beast, followed in the path of those before him that the bards sang of. He chose to ignore his mate and spoke instead to a guard. “Bring me my bard.” He was ever in a mood for their tunes. He turned back to Swirloathe; a bit annoyed she was still there. “Nay, nay, I’m sure whatever you do will be fitting to the clan.” He turned away, the minstrels had come.
* * * * * * * * * *
“A battler is only as well as ‘is blade.”
Breehn, Weapons Master of Northfront
* * * * * * * * * *
Breehn had been alive longer than most in the clan, he could remember back to the days when the Clans were united. He had trained everybeast in Northfront, save the old, that