“Ms. Letren, you must tell us what you’re doing here!” Santena insisted, standing next to a bed in the castle infirmary. Kaytlen was awake now, but as silent as she’d been when she was unconscious. The stubborn fox shook her head furiously. The black wolf sighed. Why couldn’t these Westerners make things easy for once?
“Why did you leave your father, Kaytlen?” Gethnoel asked gently. She held up for another few seconds, then finally broke down crying. Through her sobs, she managed to give an account. After she had refused to marry Gethnoel, and he had agreed, her father had become furious. In his rage, he had locked his daughter in her room for a full day with no water or food, intending the hunger to drive her to concur with his wishes. When that didn’t work, he had her beaten the next day. The lashes still stung her back as she told Santena and his king that she’d hoped for sanctuary here, and had run away to Karenian. “You’re the . . . only creatures . . . who have ever shown . . . me kindness,” she wept. Gethnoel took her up in his arms and held her. She didn’t even resist the comforting affection. Gethnoel pulled away for a moment. “General Ironpaw, who was attacking her when you found her?” Santena knew that his king was serious, now. Whenever he used a formal title, he meant what he said. “Old Clandon warriors, your Majesty!” He came smartly to attention. In the silence, he audibly heard Gethnoel’s teeth gritting. Santena continued his report. “Two dark-furred otters, carrying traditional Old Clandon weaponry and wearing assassin’s cloaks, sir! My apprentice and I caught them kidnapping her from beside the south wall.” He saluted, as was tradition for formal reports. Gethnoel stood, went to the at ease position, and nodded sharply. “General, meet me in the council room. The larger one, and bring your apprentice,” the king ordered. Santena signaled Ithiniel and two maidservants. The maids rushed to take care of Kaytlen as Santena marched out of the infirmary, followed closely by his apprentice. Fifteen minutes later, the general finally found the council room. He’d lived here for a year, and still didn’t know how to navigate this infernally large castle! Ithiniel had gotten lost somewhere, though, but ended up beating his master to the hall. He sat at the end of the table, next to King Swiftblade and three or four of his Majesty’s closest councilors. Santena sat down next to his younger counterpart, who was grinning cheekily at the general. “Wipe that smile off your face, Ithiniel. You’re working the obstacle course after this,” Santena growled. The smile fell away instantly. “My good councilors,” Gethnoel began. “This ‘Old Clandon’ business has grown out of paw. We must do something to stop it.” One lord raised his paw. “Yes, Earl Fent?” “What intelligence do we have on the matter?” the ermine asked wisely. “We can’t just rush into things.” “Exactly right, my good friend! General, what have your searches uncovered about his clan?” Gethnoel turned to his bodyguard. “Nothing much, but we have managed to find out that their most likely main camp is on the edge of the Mountainous Lands. Talk increases farther away from that point, making it obvious that the common folk are too scared. To say too much, that is,” he added. “They all use the same type of weapons: curved daggers and swords, no long-distance. All wear black assassin’s cloaks, dark tunics, leather vests, and one of these.” He held up a badge of black cloth, divided in half by a white stripe. “Nobody knows, though, what their hierarchy or leadership system is.” “Thank you. Fent, did that answer your question? May I continue?” The earl inclined his head in the positive. “Thank you.” Once more, he turned to Santena and Ithiniel. “General, I want you to choose a score of strong, fast soldiers from our army. Preferably the ones who didn’t come from Northwind’s horde, though. Take them, leaving Ithiniel behind, and I would like you to find the main hideout of the Old Clandon clan.” “With all due respect, Highness, why leave my apprentice behind? He’s the most powerful fighter in your military,” Santena added. “He is to replace you while you’re gone.” “He isn’t ready!” the black wolf insisted. Gethnoel looked him in the eyes, the two silver orbs locking with Santena’s black eyes. Finally, the general bowed his head. “Yes, your Highness.” ***** The next day, Santena stood in front of exactly a score of creatures. The front rank of five was all quick hares, then one of foxes, then otters, and the last row was entirely made up of white wolves. All wore standard chainmail and round-top helmets, and each carried a straight sword, by old rebel tradition. “Double time march, soldiers!” the lieutenant under Santena called. All twenty of them jogged at a high pace from the front of the castle, off towards the west where the Mountainous Lands were located. ***** Five hours later, Santena called for a halt. All of them carried lightweight tents and bedrolls, but the general quickly discouraged the use of these. “Only a break for noonday meal. No campfires, not hot meals! Quick, pick it up!” he yelled. The soldiers immediately split up into their respective groups, which in most cases was by animal type. Lieutenant Strend Walker, the fox who’d called out commands first, sat down beside Santena. He had an accent that distinctly reminded Santena of that of those living in the furthest north. “Sir, are we nearin’ yon Western border yet?” he asked. Santena shook his head. “We passed it fifteen minutes ago, Lieutenant. Didn’t you know that? We actually ran right by Highlord Rock.” He took a large bite of some unintelligent bird’s leg. “Pay more attention.” “Aye, sir!” Walker replied sharply. He attempted to salute, but accidently with the paw that held a ripe apple. “Owch . . .” he muttered. Santena laughed. “A little too eager there,” he chuckled, then slapped Walker on the back. “Let’s finish quickly so that we can get this sorry lot on the move again.” They did in another fifteen minutes, then the group was jogging again, armor and mail rattling as they went. Santena’s broadsword bounced at his side as he easily kept up with his troops. For another few hours, they kept an easy, but speedy, pace. Eventually, they stopped again, this time for a longer period of time . . . in fact, the entire night. Santena gave a series of commands to Lieutenant Walker, then retired to his own tent, foregoing supper in favor of sleep. Strend turned to the soldiers and rapped out a series of commands in a lower voice than usual. “A’right, whae cook did we bring? Chalen? Bonny. Get the laddies some food, but nae fires, if’n ye ken what ah mean. Under the Set Treaty between our lands, we should be a’right, as we donnae mean harm, but we donnae want to take nae chances. Old Huffy the Spokesbeast’s huffed hi’sel into a grand ould mood, naow!” This got some chuckles. Tiren Letren was not too popular. He’d been resisting a treaty for two years. Even the Council didn’t like him, but still had to put up with him until . . . well, until he died. “Aye, but he can huff until he’s blue in the face, we don’t care!” a voice called out softly. The soldiers roared with laughter at this, but Walker quickly calmed them down with motions of his paws. “Nae, lads. We do care. By Doran’s almighty grace, we’re filled to thae bonny brim with his Spirit, and we can wish the same for Tiren! Naow, then, cook, get thae food ready!” The soldiers sobered at this, and began to set their tents. Chalen, the cook, moved off some way to prevent the other creatures trying to steal food while he prepared it. The next morning, they were on the move again. ***** Santena held up his paw for the company to stop. “Quiet!” he ordered. “We’ve officially reached the edge of West Region, the border between the Mountainous Lands and the rest of Clandon. Be on the lookout for any trouble, smoke, or Old Clandoners. None of our army have come this far,” he added in a whisper. Strend repeated this to those in the back, and they started to spread out into a wide-spaced line, for less chance of being spotted. All of them had donned white and brown camouflage cloaks. After a long time of waiting and looking as he moved through the tall grass, Walker finally spotted a tell-tale trail of smoke rising into the air farther into the foothills. “There ‘tis!” he murmured, and put both paws in his paws to whistle a bird-call . . . but never got to through the crossbow bolt in his throat. One at a time, bolts started firing from the treetops above. Each was very accurate. The otters and hares, with the least strong hearing, didn’t know it until it was too late. Most of the foxes went down easily, being too distracted with their mission. Only one managed to get out of the forest and dash away across the plains. Wolves have powerful hearing. Santena knew something was wrong when he started hearing distant, muffled cries of pain. Two of his arctic wolves flanked him, about twenty yards away. “Hit the ground!” he whispered, knowing that they would hear. Both looked at him suddenly, then dove into the remaining snowbanks in this warmer weather. Santena quickly fell to the earth, but had a disadvantage: his fur. It was black, standing out against the dead grass and snow. Frantically looking around for cover, he spotted an overhang of large, thick roots covering a hillside. The general waited until the cries silenced, then stood up and made a run for it. A twig snapped in the tree on his near right, and he sped up, narrowly missing being skewered by a razor-sharp little missile. He was almost there! The overhang was ten feet away. Just as he was going into a somersault towards the roots, a bolt whistled from the branches above and stabbed fiercely into his lower back. “Argh!” he cried, but still managed to get in among the roots, covering his bulk as best he could. The black wolf held his breath. Nothing seemed to be moving outside, but he wasn’t going to take any . . . “Oh!” he murmured, stumbling back into a small cave. His glowing eyes determined that it was completely empty, and was made by collapsing dirt and roots long ago. He waited a few more minutes, then decided that the attackers didn’t know where he was. “Now what?” he muttered. Well, first things first: his back wound. He couldn’t very well stand in the small space, but couldn’t sit either, because of the pain, so Santena took a kneeling position. Quickly, he groped in the semi-darkness for his pack. Inside was a first aid kit. The general grabbed this, opened it, rummaged around for a few seconds, then pulled out a pair of small iron tongs. “Oh, Doran, this is going to hurt,” he whispered, then reached back with the tongs. He had to bite down on his armor, hard, to keep from screaming. The bolt was barbed. It tore at his flesh and fur. Finally, he got it out and fell down to the earth. “Damn,” he muttered. ***** Santena had to spend the night in the cave. He had no doubt that somewhere outside was an entire gang of either Old Clandon cultists or West Clandoners, just waiting for any sign of him. So, without any rations or support, he managed to stay up half the night before falling straight to sleep -- on his stomach, of course, as his bandaged back hurt too much. The next morning, he was suddenly awoken by somecreature crashing into the cave. Scrambling as best he could to his paws, Santena ripped his sword from its sheath and grabbed his shield from beside him. “Freeze!” he ordered, holding out the broadsword. The two white wolves did as he said. “State your names, ranks, and guilds!” Walker had picked out all his soldiers, so Santena didn’t really know if these were in his ranks. That was why he asked them for their guilds: nobody outside of Clandoran knew about the new system that seperated the army into guilds, based on their skill strengths. “Second Lieutenant Qentan Mc’Seron, Swiftness Guild, sir!” one whispered fiercely. He certainly looked the part, as he was tall, lean, and appeared as if he could take off at the slightest noise. “Sergeant Driv Vire . . . Force Guild, sir!” the other gasped. He was shorter by half a head and well muscled, but certainly not built for the hard running that he’d obviously been doing. He carried, instead of the typical straight sword, a broadsword like Santena’s. Besides, on his shoulder, he carried a patch with a mace and hammer crossed on it: the symbol of the Force Guild. Santena himself carried a patch with a single star on his shoulder. This symbolized his own guild -- he belonged to the Guild of Instinct. Total, there were five guilds: Swordmasters, Force Guild, Swiftness Guild, Distance Guild, and Guild of Instinct. Swordmasters excelled in all kinds of weaponry, and were mostly naturals. Force Guild were the shock troops of the army. Swiftness Guild were the messengers, spies, and backup infantry, and Distance Guild were the archers, slingers, and crossbow handlers. Those in the Guild of Instinct (there were only about a score) were trained in all the arts of all the other guilds. “Good.” He sat them down on the dirty floor of the cave. Both stripped their helmets off thankfully, sweat clotting in their fur. “How did you manage to escape?” He directed this question to Sergeant Vire. He had no questions for Mc’Seron. “Same as you . . . General.” He pulled off his pack, then chainmail. “Have you . . . eaten?” Santena shook his head. “Well, we can’t have a starving leader,” Mc’Seron joked, and pulled out some biscuits and dried fruit. Santena accepted it gladly, but a thought plagued his mind. What will we do now?
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Almost all of my stories seem to focus on and around a few things. Light versus dark, the driving out of evil, life expelling death, torment replaced by peace, and other items relating to these. But, I want to ask something: why? Why do I write about these things? It is, of course, about my obvious Christian faith, but something else is there, as well.
What is it? What is the second driving force behind that which pushes me to write tales and compose legends such as mine? The animal thing has nothing to do with it. They only represent the types of men and women in our world. The power that I have some of my characters using only stands in the place of and reveals that spiritual ability that I know I, and many others, wield by God and his Spirit’s authority. It cannot be the thing that I let control my writing. What, then? A need for fighting and action in the mix, maybe. Or, perhaps, that only shows my view on life itself, that life is a constant battle against things that we can and cannot see. I believe that I know what it is. It is the fact that I am scared. Of what, you ask? I am not completely sure, but I know that I want God to drive out the evil through me, wherever I go. I want to let my life be a force to do strong things for him. I want there to be nothing in me to hinder that: pride, selfishness, a wish to belong, self-satisfaction, or anything else of that nature. In short, I want to be “in this world, but not of it”, to quote the Book. I write to show the world this. Of course, as most writers, I’m not an extremely public person as my real self, but under the person of Icefurr, I can demonstrate all that I am for everyone (or everybeast) to see. If you like the typical type of fantasy, with magic and wizards and dragons, then leave. Right now. This is why I don’t write like that: it goes against what I am aiming to accomplish, and it diverts me from my core beliefs. If you are like me, though, and try to balance everything out, then stay. Read as much as you like. Explore my world. It’s good for the right people, but fuel for mockery to the wrong sort. And, yes, I promise to do another story with humans, for those who aren’t into my typical style. Er, I mean, among the four or five followers I have. :D Whoever’s reading this, I’m planning on changing my handle from Icefurr to something different. Any ideas? Comment if you think of something! -Icefurr Santena followed his king towards West Region’s border, where a tall pinnacle of rock shot up towards the sky. Gethnoel had utterly refused anycreature to accompany him besides Santena, and even that precaution was begrudged hesitantly.
The pair walked over the snowy, rocky ground with little difficulty. Santena’s paw rested on his broadsword, ready to draw it if the need arose, but Gethnoel didn’t let any part of him stray anywhere near his sword and shield. Noticing this, Santena protested, “Your Majesty, you must be prepared for anything!” They were nearing Highlord Rock now. “No, I won’t show any sign of hostility,” the king replied evenly. He even wrapped the sword in his cloak! Sometimes, Santena thought, you can be such a royal idiot. Nonetheless, the tall black wolf said nothing. When they arrived, nobeast was on, around, or near the rock. “What the . . .” Santena muttered. “Pompous fool, making us sit here.” Gethnoel rolled his eyes and sat down by the pillar. “You’re just going to wait?” Gethnoel nodded coolly. “You’re not upset?” The king calmly shook his head. Santena huffed, then plopped down beside his king. They sat there, side by side, for about ten minutes. Finally, a trumpet sounded from somewhere on the other side of the rock. Santena jumped up before Gethnoel and dashed around to see. A procession of rabbits and lemmings marched towards the pillar, carrying with them on a high throne a self-important looking fox with bright white floor, a red cloak, and a tall, golden crown. Beside him walked a beautiful young female fox, headfur braided in many strands down her neck and a silver circlet on her brow. She wore no fancy clothes, only a simple tan dress and leather boots with belt. Gethnoel stood behind his general and wrapped himself in his warm grey cloak. He had left his crown at the palace, Santena noted. Again: royal idiot. The general fell back and stood beside his king, drawing his sword and planting the tip in the rocky ground. The Westerners reached Highlord Rock in another two minutes. A little group of mice carried the throne to Santena and set it down in front of him. The prideful fox stood and walked to the general. “I was told that you were a FoxWolf, but perhaps my intelligence was incorrectly gathered,” he sniffed. Santena looked down his nose at Tiren Letren. “I am not King Gethnoel. I am General Santena Ironpaw, and my master stands beside me.” He gestured respectfully towards the shorter FoxWolf beside him. “Where is his crown, and robes?” The pompous fox snorted. “No king wears the garb of a peasant.” He pointed at the grey cloak. Santena looked at Gethnoel, and the king took off his hood. His silver eyes stayed calm. “You doubt that given by Doran?” he asked quietly. Tiren rolled his eyes. One of his servants whispered in his ear, attempting to soothe his ego, but the proud Spokesbeast shrugged her off. “Of course I doubt some make-believe god. Your eyes prove nothing.” Gethnoel quickly became angry. His eyes literally grew brighter, flashing in the light of the grey sky. “Doranfather is anything but false!” he roared, and threw off his cloak. The white and silver of his bright clothes matched Santena’s identically, but for the white hood and fact that his seemed far more brilliant. Santena bowed. Tiren took a full step backwards. “I . . . uh,” he stuttered, then made a valiant attempt to compose himself. “Well . . . it seems that I was mistaken.” He sniffed haughtily. “My most sincere apologies, young man. Shall we continue with our business?” Santena was tempted to explode at the old fool, but Gethnoel had calmed down as rapidly as he had grown enraged. “Yes, we may keep speaking of your wishes for your daughter,” he said. He invited Tiren to sit on the ground. In the keeping of old customs, Gethnoel and Tiren sat cross-legged across from each other, passing back and forth a vial of old, good wine. Once that was done, Letren started talking. Standing at attention behind Gethnoel, Santena got the impression that the fox didn’t care about his daughter, only viewed her as property, had a high opinion of himself, and thought of this whole exchange as a “business opportunity”. In short, everything that he had already gathered about the Spokesbeast from the message. Finally, Gethnoel said something. It was so low that Santena had to strain his ears to hear it. “Let me speak to your daughter.” Somewhat astounded, the Spokesbeast hesitated, then Santena watched as he gestured to a servant, who nodded, ran back to the caravan, and whispered in the princess’s ear. She pointed her nose in the air and shook her head. The fox servant huffed and pushed her along towards the three standing beside the rock. She grudgingly obeyed. The princess stood angrily in front of Gethnoel. She was furious. “What? What do you want, ‘king’?” she demanded. “What is your name?” the king asked softly. She didn’t say anything at first. He repeated the question. “Kaytlen,” she said hesitantly, but still casting furious glances toward her father. “Kaytlen, let me ask you something. Do you want to marry me?” She quickly shook her head. Gethnoel shook his head. “Absolutely! Your wish shall be granted. We won’t get married!” he exclaimed cheerfully, then spun on his heel and walked off towards Karenian, his capital city. Santena stayed for a moment to watch Letren’s reaction. The fox sputtered indignantly, then yelled after Gethnoel, “Don’t turn your back on me, you young pipsqueak!” Gethnoel ignored him and kept walking. “You’ll regret this! Listen to your superiors!” Santena chuckled and jogged after Gethnoel, his chainmail jingling. ***** The next day, while Gethnoel set about planning what to do about the forgotten possibility of a treaty with East Region, Santena was busy someplace else. The castle had been built at the border between North and South Regions, placing it strategically in the way of any war-seeking Westerners or Eastlivers. A temple built to honor Doran, at His command, had been built right beside Karenian. The castle paled in comparison to the golden temple, but it is not here where our story focuses. At the southern edge of the main palace, a small courtyard was spread out. The marble stones were scuffed and dirtied, but this mattered not to those creatures who used it now. Here, Santena fought. He wore a different set of armor: it was black, and had no markings. His visor covered his ears and came forward over his snout. Instead of his broadsword, the wolf wielded a long, thin rapier. It felt odd in his paws, but that was only because he was used to something bigger. Across from him, on the other side of the courtyard, a smaller wolf stood, with the same gear. Both were sweating profusely. “Do you . . . claim a respite, sir?” the other wolf gasped, smirking. Santena shook his head. “I may . . . be ten years your . . . elder, Ithiniel, but I am . . . still your teacher, and can still defeat you with all ease! Still . . . I cannot see why you chose this to train with, of all weapons,” he added. He leaped at the younger wolf, his sword flashing in a dazzling figure eight pattern, then darting forward, flipping Ithiniel’s sword back, and ending on the student’s neck. Santena’s apprentice grinned and dropped his weapon. “Once again, master, you gained the better of me in this engagement,” he admitted ruefully. He and Santena both removed their helmets, sweat dripping from their fur. Ithiniel’s appearance had obviously influenced his name, which meant “light” in the old speech. His fur was blindingly white, the same as Icefurr had left behind when his eyes and fur turned silver. His teeth were also perfectly white, and his eyes were a bright blue. Around his neck hung a pendant in the shape of a flame. Directly contrasting the rest of his attire, at his side, hung his black-steel rapier. His ears perked and turned attentively to everything that his master said. “I saw an opening in your guard. I had left plenty in the way I was holding my sword, but you must learn to look for them!” Santena sighed. His apprentice was still grinning like an idiot. “All right. Pick up your sword, and we’ll do it again. Unless, that is, you claim a respite?” He chuckled at the indignant look on Ithiniel’s face. “Only if you need one, sir! On your guard!” He put his helmet back and picked up his rapier. Santena laughed at the younger wolf’s enthusiasm and stepped back into a defensive position. The pair was about to lock swords, when a scream sounded from outside the courtyard. It came from the south wall! Ithiniel was too startled to do anything. Santena smacked him in the back of the head and dashed to the little wallgate where the scream had sounded from. The black wolf whipped it open, then stepped outside, followed closely by his now alert student. “Who’s there?” Santena called in the dusk light. Two grim-faced hooded otters bearing the Old Clandon symbol on their cloaks were carrying a young female fox away from the castle. Her pretty green eyes were frantic, her limbs thrashing. One of the otters had a dark paw over her mouth, which was already covered by a grey scarf. “Stop! Stop in the name of the king!” Ithiniel shouted, and drew his dark sword, running at the two gang members. Santena followed close behind. At the sudden interruption, the Old Clandoners dropped the fox and drew their own S-curved swords and kite shields. “Stay back, if you know what’s . . .” one started threateningly. Ithiniel stopped him by quickly snaking his flexible blade through both curves of the sword, flicking it out of the otter’s grip, then slicing his throat open. The other otter fared no better. He soon laid on the ground beside his partner, dead by the master’s steel. Santena rushed over to the fox. She laid face-down -- she’d fainted. Santena bent over and picked her up, rolling her over to see her face. “Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked. She didn’t respond through the veil. Santena pulled it down to see her better. “What in Doran’s name . . .!” he exclaimed. Laying in his arms was the Spokesbeast’s daughter, Kaytlen Letren! “To the king!” he ordered Ithiniel, and both hurried back into the castle courtyard. A Note from the Author: Some of you may have wondered: what in the world do all these strangely foreign words mean? Well, here's a dictionary, which has all the words that I've currently used, for Old Clandoranian language. I'll put it up separately in the White King Archive. ithiniel: light. sen: must. Doran: all, or abbreviated form of Doranfather. tiren: cover. akthali: forever. rithna: rule. eqtana: shall. shantali: an ancient greeting. cranathi: darkness. luthen: recede. So, as Icefurr the roleplay geek, I've decided to do something really, really cool, in my opinion.
I'm planning on a making . . . something like a roleplaying game. You heard of the Choose Your Own Adventure series? I'm going to build a Weebly site along those lines, with a bunch of pages all linked to different buttons. The first adventure, of course, will be based in Clandoran, 'cause who doesn't love that place? Apparently a lot of people . . . not a lot of traffic . . . Oh well. It's fun for me! Anyway, be on the lookout for that! (Icefurr’s back, baby! Sorry to anyone who might be reading this about the delay between Shantali and this story. 3 year split.)
The night was cool and clear in Western Clandon. The moon hung bright and full over snowcapped peaks that shone far off, and the long grass waved in the gentle breeze coming down from the Mountainous lands. Trees everywhere swished along with the smaller plants, making their own beautiful song. In a clearing near the edge of the region, shadows flitted back and forth with the moving branches. Almost all of them seemed to move in sync with the others . . . all but two. A quiet form in a black cloak, followed by another figure with its hood up, darted from dark spot to dark spot. Some distance away, a silvery-white fox sat cross-legged. His eyes were closed, and he wore a silvery chest plate, blazing with a white emblem of two paws holding up a crown. A white hood covered the back of his head and let the tip of his snout poke out. Chainmail reached down to his knees, stopping over a pair of white leather boots. His figure was majestic in the moonlight. The two figures didn’t have to see any crown to know that this was a king. His head was bowed, his paws raised, and fervent words were pouring out of his mouth. The two black-cloaked creatures drew flashing silver knives from inside their garments. The fox’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t notice. The would-be assassins crept across the open glade, behind the fox where he couldn’t see them. They froze, then crept a little closer. Soon, they were less than three yards from him. One brought his arm back. The knife glinted in the moonlight. The fox’s ear twitched, and his murmurings silenced. “Die, false king!” the assassin cried, and flung his arm forward. The knife spun through the air. The fox was too quick, though, and rolled out of the way just in time. It sailed harmlessly past. Another knife twisted from the other’s paw, but the king spun his body away, and only suffered a graze on his side. He stood and whipped out his curved sword. Now the three were at a standstill. They were within two yards of each other, and the assassins had no weapons in their paws. Their hoods had fallen from their heads, revealing a brown hare and white fox, somewhat resembling the silver king. However, now that the pair got a better look at him, the two foxes looked quite different. The king was far taller, and his snout and teeth were longer, as was his tail. His paws looked far stronger. A trace of silver ran through his fur, making him seem lit up by moonlight itself. And his eyes shone silver. “What do you want?” he asked in a deep, strong voice. The two assassins stared up at him, mesmerized by his look. Finally, the hare gathered enough courage to say, “A . . . free Clandoran!” He drew his own sword. It was curved, but not like the king’s; the sword bent twice, making the shape of an “s”, and didn’t curve straight from the hilt. His companion also drew his own strange sword, and both rushed at the white king. The Foxwolf crouched, sword at the ready, then sidestepped the hare’s lunge. He followed with a spin and slice down, severing the hare’s paw and leaving him unarmed. The hare screeched in pain and hit the earth. The other fox snatched up the fallen assassin’s sword and leaped at the king, swinging wildly. The king could easily see that he did have skill, though, and dodged the first swipe with some difficulty. He didn’t want to harm the fox. “Stop!” he yelled, but the fox lunged, swung, and finished with a figure eight swipe down towards the white king’s head. The king had no choice. “Cranathi luthen, ithiniel tiren doran!” The words flowed from King Gethnoel Swiftblade the Foxwolf’s mouth. A wave of pure white light rushed from his sword, pushing back the moonlit darkness and slamming forcefully into the fox’s eyes and driving him backwards. He cried out and collapsed to the ground. “Thank you, Doran,” Gethnoel murmured, then moved to tie both assassins up and let them be found by their own. Soon, both were struggling against their own belts, which Gethnoel had used to restrain their paws. “Wait here for your friends to find you,” he ordered. “Why you ‘Old Clandon’ clan members keep trying to kill me has me very confused,” he added, then moved off through the forest. ***** “King Gethnoel, you can’t keep going out without bodyguards, or at least me!” Santena Ironpaw was furious. In the three years since the war on Gulrag Northwind, the Rogue Captain had driven Santena mad with his ventures into West and East Regions. He would go off by himself, to see about a treaty or some other formality, then not tell his most trusted general and protector! “Those Old Clandoners could have killed you this time! You can’t always rely on your weapons skill to protect you.” Gethnoel raised his arms in protest. “I’m sorry, Santena, I’ll tell you next time! I promise!” “No you won’t. You may have Doranfather’s Spirit inside you, as many of us do, but you said yourself not too long ago that sometimes you will be required to suffer! It’s my job to keep that from happening.” Santena huffed. He was a large wolf, about half a head taller than Gethnoel, and covered in black fur. Back in the rebellion, three years ago, he had been one of Rogue Captain Icefurr’s lieutenants. Now, he was King Gethnoel’s top general. This gave him the right to wear a breastplate and tunic like Gethnoel’s, with the same emblem on the silver metal, and the same white hood with white leather boots. The one thing that distinguished Gethnoel’s outfit from Santena’s was the crown of pure silver on the king’s head. It blazed on the hood in the shape of frozen flames. “I’ll be careful next time.” Gethnoel gave Santena a look that clearly said, “This conversation is over,” and the black wolf returned with a glance that obviously meant, “No, it’s not. We’ll talk later.” Gethnoel rolled his eyes, then walked out of the throne hall of the new palace to find his chambers. Santena though, He’s going to get himself killed someday. And if he does, I’ll be there with him. The general stomped bad-temperedly out of the hall. Five minutes later, a page came running to his bedchamber door. “General Ironpaw, your services are required at the council meeting!” Santena came out in two seconds, dressed in his full gear. A straight sword dangled at his side, with -- you guessed it -- a silver hilt. And a white sheath. “They are in the smaller room this time,” the page added. The general nodded, then rushed down the hall to his right. “Um . . . sir! It’s the other way!” Santena snorted, then spun around and marched down the other passage. Stupidly large palace. When he arrived, ten members of the king’s council were in a full out argument. Some were shouting. Santena rolled his eyes. These petty advisors could get riled up over the smallest things. No wonder Gethnoel needed help. He slammed a massive paw down on the center table. “Quiet for the king!” he yelled. That shut them up very quickly. Gethnoel nodded to his general. “Thank you, Santena. Now, Lord Rake, what were you saying? Something about my potential . . . marriage?” He puncuated this last sentence with such a glare that the rabbit in question shrank back. “I . . . it . . . I was just saying . . . that you might b-b-be aided in your search for a treaty with West Region m-might be aided if . . . i-i-if you were to accept the paw of the fox Spokesbeast’s daughter in m-marriage!” Lord Rake stuttered. He gulped. Gethnoel looked about the council. “Do the rest of you feel the same way?” he inquired, gentler. Hesitantly, the rest of the lords nodded. The only one to shake his head was Santena. “Ridiculous,” the black wolf muttered. “Her father did offer it, Your Highness,” an otter at the end of the table added. “So, you believe that I should marry, not because I love another creature, but because it would be advantageous?” Again, a series of nods greeted this statement. “Would you at least look at the document, lord?” Lord Rake asked, more confident now that the silver eyes weren’t on him anymore. He instantly procured an envelope with a green wax seal on it. Gethnoel sighed and took the papers. After reading through the message, he slammed it down on the table angrily. “This is how he sends his daughter’s wish to marry? Or rather, his own wish?” He handed the paper to Santena, who stood beside him. The wolf looked over the paper. It said: King Swiftblade, Rogue Captain and defender of old Clandoran, I send you my highest regards. In light of our recent interactions, I might speak to you of a matter that has been weighing down on my intelligent mind. My daughter is of marrying age, and I believe that you would make a suitable husband for her. I would like to offer you her in return for peaceful relations between our two kingdoms . . . Santena had to read no more to determine why Gethnoel was so mad. The pompous buffoon dared to speak to the king of his own intelligence and splendour, and all the reasons that Gethnoel should listen to his wisdom, given him by many experienced years. Apparently, he still viewed Gethnoel as a young king, but Santena didn’t think that this was what infuriated the Rogue Captain. No, rather, he believed that it was the objectification of Lady Madian. “At least meet him at Highlord Rock, Your Highness,” an older ermine suggested. Gethnoel sat in fuming silence for another two minutes of silence, then finally nodded. Santena almost smacked his forehead. So, I'm writing a book, and will likely have it published in a matter of a month or two, so be on the lookout for the buying link to be posted here soon!
On another note, respond to this in the comments if you're a Rogue Captain fan. Just wanted to know if anyone actually checks these out. A single arrow.
That’s all it took. Just one. ***** Jon ran across the field. “General! They’re coming!” the little boy shouted. His older brother, Simon, slapped a hand over his mouth. “Quiet! They will hear you!” Simon handed a wooden sword to Jon with a solemn countenance. “They’ve got us surrounded, private. It’s time for war.” The two brothers picked up fake shields and put on cloth helmets that their mother had sewed for them. They crawled through the ditch that they were currently taking cover in. Jon peeked out. Four other children with the same wooden swords were coming towards them, some older, some younger. Of course, it was all in good fun, but the brothers took it very seriously. This was the third battle. All their playmates had been “killed”, and were waiting at the edge of the field for the game to end. Simon lifted his hand, then dropped it. That was the signal. The brothers bravely leaped out of the ditch and ran towards the other children, yelling war cries. Most of the other children stood their ground as the wooden playthings crashed against each other, but one ran away in fright. He hadn’t wanted to play anyway, but the other children had made him. Simon took on two of the other children, and Jon took a big one. He parried a lunge, then immediately blocked an overhead swipe with his shield. He swiped at the boy’s legs, and the other boy collapsed, pretending that his leg had been cut off. Jon tapped him on the chest with his sword. He placed his foot on the boy’s chest in triumph, then turned to see how Simon was faring. Simon had held his own fairly well. One girl had been dispatched and sent to the other dead children, but now he had to battle a boy that was at least three years his senior. Jon joined him. Now, the older boy was forced to block with his sword on one side, and with his shield on another. Jon whooped. “We’ve got him now, Simon!” he crowed. But he’d forgotten something. Seeing a chance, the boy that had run away came up as quietly as possible behind Simon, and tapped him on the back. Stunned, Jon looked at the boy. In this pause, the older one swung his sword, and Jon was out as well. “We win!” the runaway laughed. He might actually start to enjoy this game. ***** Fifteen year later, Jon was hugging his wife and giving his children tearful goodbyes. He’d been called to real war this time. He was wearing a copper helmet that glinted in the sun, and a shining breastplate. At his side dangled a sword of the same metal, and a shield was on his horse’s saddlebag. “I’ll come back,” he vowed, hugging his son and daughter. “I promise.” Jon turned to his wife and kissed her for a few seconds, then climbed up onto his horse. The soldier snapped the reins. Looking stoically forward, he rode off into the failing light. ***** Later that night, Jon arrived at the army’s camp. He could see at least two thousand tents, but he knew that their enemy had twice that many. On the morrow, they were to ride to their deaths. Torchlight lit the camp from all sides, and almost a score of hastily constructed towers stood on the edges, holding up watchmen. Five black tents stood in the center, in stark contrast with the red tents around them: these were the commanders’ tents. Campfires were dotted around the tents, with black figures huddling around them. Jon rode up and dismounted. A watchman halted him. “Name?” he asked, his spear across Jon’s chest. “Jon Ryder.” The watchman flipped through a stack of parchments, then nodded. “Go ahead. You’re in the third sector of the camp.” He pointed. Jon thanked him, then led his horse towards the area that the watchman had gestured to. Most of these men had been out here much, much longer than Jon would, he realized. Haggard faces and dreary eyes told him this. Cold hands clasped over small fires, wounds still aching throughout the body, armor dented and scraped . . . this was how most of the soldiers there must have felt. Jon found an empty tent and rolled out his blanket and bed inside, and removed his armor and sword belt. Stripping down to his tunic, he fell into his bed and was asleep in two minutes. ***** Two weeks later . . . Jon crouched behind a boulder, barely breathing. About two hundred other men were doing the exact same thing around him, all hidden and ready for an ambush. Intelligence had gathered that half of the enemy’s force was moving in this direction, and would have to pass through the ravine to take Jon’s camp on the other side. Jon had been promoted to a captain. Now, he was leading two hundred in a doomed crusade against those who would kill them anyway. He watched the bend in the ravine, three hundred yards away, with unblinking eyes. Finally, he spotted something. A scout was jogging around the corner. He stopped to have a look around, and Jon got a good look at him. He was dark-skinned, and had black armor. It looked tougher than Jon’s. He carried a light, thin spear, and a round shield, embossed with a dragon’s head. Two others stood behind him, climbing rocks for higher vantage points. One of Jon’s sergeants lifted his head from behind a fallen ash tree, but Jon waved him back down frantically. The soldier ducked his head, but in his haste, he smashed it against a branch that jutted out from the dead trunk, effectively knocking himself out. Great, Jon thought. Down another man. The scouts hopped down from their perches and disappeared back around the corner. Rather than be relieved by their absence, Jon was even more nervous and desperate. When scouts leave, armies aren’t very far behind. His troop was doomed. Unless . . . Jon scanned the valley. Was there something that could be used as a weapon? He looked upward, immediately spotting the answer. At least a dozen large, jagged boulders perched precariously at the top of one particular cliff. Quickly, he stood and whispered fiercely, “I need a score of strong soldiers! Render,” he called to his chief lieutenant. “Pick twenty of your choice and follow me!” Soon, they were standing above the rest of the troop, and above the quickly approaching enemy force. Their red helmet plumes could be seen about half a mile off, approaching the pass. “They should choose a different color,” Jon muttered. He gestured to the boulders. Now that he was on the same level as them, there were twice as many of them than he had first reasoned. “Men, do you each think that you could successfully move one of these and send it tumbling down into the ranks of the foe?” “Aye, sir!” they chorused quietly. Jon nodded. “Good. Now, each of you set your back to a stone, and be ready to push at my call.” As this pass between the mountains was the only way on the east side into Jon’s country, he planned to push the boulders into the narrowest point here and, as well as destroying a good portion of their troops, efficiently block the enemy from passing by. If they tried to get through, Jon’s archers could just pick them off from up here. We just might make it, he thought. Ten more minutes passed, and the foreign troops had almost reached the point underneath the cliff. “Ready, men!” Render and his chosen soldiers braced their backs against their stones. Closer, closer . . . Jon thought. Finally, the enemy was in place. “NOW!” the captain yelled. Twenty two boulders came crashing down with tremendous force, followed by larger pieces of rock and other debris that they knocked loose. They were immediately followed by cries of outrage and pain from below. The rocks were still falling, and when Jon looked over the edge, he saw that the smaller stones had shot in all directions and were slicing into the ranks of the other troops. “It worked!” he laughed, then turned to another soldier. “Sergeant Clipton! Go fetch the archers, as fast as possible!” Jon ordered. The man saluted. “Yes sir!” He took off towards the path down from the cliffside. By the time he returned with twoscore more men, the enemy had reformed and were ready to proceed. “Quick! Shoot! Cause confusion!” Jon ordered. Each man took a knee and drew back, waiting for command. “Fire at will! No need for commands!” Arrows flew thick and fast, each hitting home and driving the foreign men back. As each man climbing the boulders fell, he took at least another or two men with him. Soon, a commander had to call the retreat. The red plumes receded back around the pass’s corner. Ten minutes passed. Then another five. Then ten more. Finally, Jon had been convinced that the enemy wasn’t coming back, so he whooped. Then slapped a hand over his mouth. Still keeping it there, he waved his men back in the direction of the main camp, to tell his commander how two hundred men held the pass against . . . “Aargh!” one of his men screamed. Two black arrows showed sprouting out of his chest. For not the first time in his life, Jon was too stunned to think. Until three arrows entered his body at the same time. The first killed him. Icefurr strode down a misty path.
Something strange had happened. One minute, his friends had been trying to keep him alive, pumping his chest and wrapping strips of cloth around his limbs, and the next he was here. The foxwolf’s keen eyesight couldn’t pick anything out except for a bright, soft moon and the path ahead of him. Even so, everything seemed more beautiful under this light. Everything was quiet, and one or two white flowers were always glistening beside the path. The path itself wasn’t made of rock or earth, but rather silvery grass. Cool water flowed around Icefurr’s paws. The mist drifted along beside him, as if it were a river in its own right. It was still dark, though, and the military-trained soldier didn’t like it. “I wonder . . .” Icefurr thought for a moment. Doran was always with his children, and one way (though Icefurr had never tried it) was through ancient words, like those that he spoke at the battlefield. Icefurr knew quite a few from his time among the rebels, that drew never-ending strength from Doranfather. If the right intentions were had, and they were spoken through one of royal blood, then something amazing could happen. “Ithiniel sen tiren doran . . .” he said quietly, somewhat unsure, then again, louder. “Ithiniel sen tiren doran!” The foxwolf was temporarily blinded as a white light filled the air around him. It grew slowly, until it illuminated the path ahead, blending with the moonlight to create something even more wonderful. “Thank you, Doran,” he whispered, and continued down the path. His paw subconsciously reached for his sword and shield. They stopped, touching nothing. Icefurr felt all over his tunic, and there wasn’t a hint of armor, or weapons of any kind. No signs of battle, not even the wounds that had almost . . . killed him. “I’m dead?” The foxwolf almost fell. “Yes, you are,” a voice said. The Rogue Captain spun, creating ripples in the water. A strange creature stood before him. It was as tall as a wolf, but had glowing wings that stretched out behind it, giving off a soft light of their own. Its features were undefined in the mist. “Who are you?” Icefurr inquired warily. “I am who I will be.” That didn’t make any sense. “Do you have a name?” the foxwolf asked, now curious. “Yes.” “Will you tell me?” “Why tell you when you already know it?” Icefurr moved closer. The closer he came, the bigger this creature seemed, yet grew no larger. “I do not believe that we have met,” he answered. “You believe that you have met me, but never will until you learn to depend on me, and me alone,” the creature said. Another set of wings blossomed from its back. “Yet you have called me Father.” Icefurr’s jaw dropped. “Doran?” He stumbled back, then fell to the ground, bowing his head. A soft paw lifted his face. “Gethnoel Swiftblade, I have loved you since the day you were born. I created you. I’ve adored you through all of the things that you have ever done, even under the command of the warlord Gulrag,” Doran said, smiling. That much Icefurr could see. “Gethnoel?” “Yes. Your true name.” Doran stood, bringing Icefurr up. “Your mother named you. I named you, through her. She is waiting to see you. She always has been.” “Can I see her?” “You’ll have to wait a little longer, son.” Somecreature else strode out of the mist. He looked almost exactly like Icefurr, but with green eyes and silvery fur. “Do you know me? My name is Mc’Kenthon!” He laughed, and hugged Icefurr . . . Gethnoel tightly. “Father? Father!” Gethnoel hugged Mc’Kenthon back. “Father!” Tears streamed down his face unchecked. He pulled back. “Why can I not see Mother?” “It is not time yet.” Doran’s shape became suddenly clear. His head was covered by a huge shaggy mane, and golden fur covered his body. Gethnoel could tell, though, that it was just a shape, not his Father’s true form. “I know somebeast else that you would like to see, though!” With that, Doran laughed such a joyful laugh that Gethnoel and Mc’Kenthon couldn’t help joining in. It rung all around them, surrounding them with mirth. Another voice joined in, a hearty one full of wonderful amazement. “Captain!” Leo Gundar came through the mist. “Shantali!” Gethnoel ran to him and embraced him. “Shantali!” he replied, echoing the old greeting. “Leo, how . . . when did you . . . Doran?” The prince turned to his creator. “He came to me on the day that he died, on his way to find you. A sick rebel had come to him two days before, bleeding and on the doorstep of Afterlife, and begging for help. Leo took him in and bandaged his wounds. As he did so, My servant told him of everything: who you were, who I was, and many other things. Immediately, Leo pledged his allegiance to Clandoran and I. He is newly made, in Me!” Doran laughed again. Gethnoel looked around. “Am I to stay here?” he asked. “Yes, someday, but now is not your time,” Leo answered him. “You are needed for other purposes, in new Clandoran!” Doran placed a paw on Gethnoel’s shoulder. “But first, you must learn something.” “What?” “It will be difficult, but you must be taught to know Me. Go back the way you came, My son.” Gethnoel turned to ask a question, but his father, Doranfather, and Leo were nowhere in the mist. ***** Back at the battlefield, Jennter and two other fighters -- Keefe and Ryder -- were carrying Captain Icefurr’s broken body back to the rebel encampment. Tears dripped down the fox’s, wolf’s, and hare’s face. Suddenly, Icefurr’s mouth opened, and a strangled gasp came out. His eyes shot open. “He’s alive!” Keefe cried, but Ryder stopped him with another exclamation. “No! Something’s not right!” Indeed, Icefurr’s eyes were still cloudy, and the pupils were black! ***** Gethnoel looked around. The light was gone, and a wave of darkness was coming towards him. “What . . .?” he whispered. There was only one opening in the fog, and that was the pathway. The foxwolf ran towards it, but the darkness rushed towards him. He sped up. “Aargh!” he screamed. When it touched him, it felt like fire burning his flesh and fur. “Get back! Father! Leo!” He stumbled away, tripped in the shallows of the water and landing muzzle first in the grass. “Father . . .” he whispered again. The darkness closed in . . . ***** On the battlefield, Icefurr’s body twisted, and he let out a strained scream. “What’s happening?” Jennter asked frantically. “Get a physician!” The prince’s eyes suddenly shut, and his breathing calmed. ***** Gethnoel suddenly had a moment of quiet thought, even as the fire spread over his body. Only one voice could ever command this to leave, and it was the one that he almost always ignored. Only one person could ever drive out darkness, inside and out. Only, forever, and always one. “Doran! Doranfather!” The call erupted from the Rogue Captain’s mouth. “I love you! Help me! I believe!” Light flashed around the foxwolf, pushing back against the force of shadows, and swirling around and around him. Finally, it drove the darkness away. White light filled the air. All at once, Gethnoel felt something enter his soul, like a breath of cool wind, or a never stopping flow of water. “Doran!” he breathed. My Spirit shall forevermore abide in you, Gethnoel, my servant and son. ***** Icefurr’s eyes opened. This time, they were silver, and clear as crystal. Jennter watched in wonder as sparks of white light erupted around his captain, and every single wound on the foxwolf closed. When they vanished, Icefurr was standing before his soldiers, smiling. “Icefurr?” Keefe ventured. “No longer am I Icefurr, Keefe. I am Gethnoel Swiftblade, King of Clandoran and forever servant of Doranfather.” Something about him made Jennter want to bow. And he did. Icefurr strode off towards South Region. It would take him two or three hours at a run to reach the village. Sundown was coming quickly. The foxwolf sped up to a sprint, but had to settle for a jog, as his armor was weighing him down.
The sun was almost gone from the horizon when Icefurr had the old rebel settlement in sight. His paws barely kicked up snow as he finally neared the edge of the wreckage. Since he had been here last, months ago, the houses had fallen down, the wall was burnt up, and everything was strewn about. Icefurr had to cover his muzzle with his sleeve. The smell -- he didn’t want to think about what it was from -- was horrible, and reeked of decay and terrible things. The Rogue Captain looked around, but didn’t see a soul. Where are you, Gulrag? he thought. He sniffed the smelly air. Just rot, but besides that . . . something else . . . His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a laugh. “Captain Swiftblade, hello!” Gulrag stepped out from behind the framework of a hut. He flicked it, and the whole thing fell down. He was still wearing the same red cloak that he always did, and a chain mail tunic. He carried a massive scimitar. Icefurr looked at it and drew his own curved sword. “What do you want?” “Among other things? Your death. However, that’s of no consequence right now,” the wolverine chuckled. “Right now, we can discuss your probable surrender.” “Why would I do that?” Icefurr growled. He was still taking in the scents around him. “If you do, I promise that I will leave North Region alone.” Icefurr started. This was unexpected; the warlord could still be planning something. He swung his shield around onto his arm. Gulrag looked at his shield, then the surcoat. “Oh! Ha! What’s this?” He pointed a claw at the foxwolf’s chain mail. “How quaint. A badge of rebellion, is it?” He paused. “Well, what say you?” Gulrag stepped closer. Icefurr stepped back. “No.” Gulrag’s face became a mask of fury. “No? NO?!?” He took a huge, round black shield from his back. It made Icefurr’s diamond shield look small. However, Icefurr noticed something. Gulrag was, indeed, thicker than Icefurr and very tall, but Icefurr’s wolf ancestry caused him to stand at the same height as the wolverine. “If you won’t give up, then you WILL fight!” the wolverine yelled. He swung the scimitar in circles above his head, then brought it down in what would have been a killing stroke if Icefurr hadn’t jumped out of the way. The foxwolf looked about hastily. Ermine, wolves, hawks, and even a few otters surrounded him. He was to die this day. “Doranfather, help me!” he breathed. Suddenly, a shout came from the snowy hills behind the Rogue Captain. Blue and green and silver and white all flashed behind him as rebelcreatures poured down into the village. “No!” Gulrag cried. “You said that you’d come alone!” Icefurr looked around, then jumped at the wolverine. “I’m never alone!” He jabbed with his sword. Gulrag deflected it with his shield. “I will make you alone!” he screamed. His scimitar thrust towards Icefurr, catching him in the footpaw. The foxwolf smiled. “I have something that you don’t, Gulrag, something that you can never have!” The Rogue Captain suddenly looked much taller than Gulrag. The wolverine backed away, the clamor of battle almost drowning out Icefurr’s voice. “I have a Father.” “I killed him!” The wolverine’s fury was evident. “No! He cannot be killed!” Icefurr’s voice was rising in power. Disregarding the wounds being inflicted on him by the warlord’s creatures, he pushed towards Gulrag. “Aah!” he suddenly breathed. A fox cackled behind him, with a spear in his paw. It was thrust through Icefurr’s back. An otter struck the fox down, but the damage was done. Icefurr sank to the ground. Strike the ground, Rogue Captain. Icefurr could hear a voice speaking to him. “Doran?” he whispered. Yes. “He is Doranfather! Father of all . . .” Something flew out of his mouth. "Akthali Doran eqtana rithna!" With one final burst of strength, Icefurr drove his sword down deep into the snow, ice, and earth. Gulrag screamed, “NO!” This had happened before; scars twisted down his back, evidence of another king, in another battle, with another sword. He ran, paws pounding the cold ground and scimitar batting away creatures in his way. A blast of white-hot light rippled out through the air in a circle around the dying prince. The enemies of Doran’s creatures shrieked in pain as their bodies disappeared, leaving nothing but armor and weapons. Gulrag was last. His back twisted in agony as the light tore across his hulking muscles, burning his fur and sending him to Darkdoor, where all persecutors of Doranfather’s children went. “Nooo--!” His scream was cut off as he vanished. Icefurr had no time to wonder at what had just happened. His blood was almost run out, and his eyes were getting misty. “Captain!” a voice yelled, and Jennter ran to his commander’s side. “No, no! Why? Why did you do it? You knew it was a trap . . .” The big wolf couldn’t stop a tear from running down his cheek. “Doran’s . . . will . . .” Icefurr’s voice trailed off. “Months . . . of fighting . . . we did it . . . Leo? Where have you been, you old soldier?” Jennter started. What was Icefurr saying? “I’m . . . alone here except for you . . . no, Doran . . .” The brave young foxwolf stopped again, and his eyes misted over. TO BE CONTINUED . . . Icefurr woke to the hushed voices of a pair of otters outside his door.
“You tell ‘im, mate!” “No, you tell ‘im!” The foxwolf crept to the door, put his mouth to the keyhole, and whispered along with them. “Tell me what?” “Oh, tell ‘im that the force we sent out . . .” The otter trailed off. “Oops.” Icefurr slammed the door open. “What happened to them?” “They haven’t come back.” Jennter was walking down the hall towards them. “We sent them out two nights ago to help the smaller forces on the border of Eastern Region. We still haven’t heard from them.” The wolf pointed for the otters to leave. They both nodded, their chain mail jingling as they left. “Have we sent anybeast after them?” Icefurr asked. He was only dressed in a light tunic, so he closed the door as Jennter kept talking through the door. “No. We’re planning to today,” the wolf said through the door. Icefurr pulled on his mail and surcoat, then slung his shield and sword over his back. Then he added a pair of tough leather boots, a helmet, and strong steel gauntlets to the gear. He opened the door. “I’m going with them.” The foxwolf brushed past Jennter and walked down to the hall. “He cares too much,” Jennter muttered. “He is a good leader.” ***** About two hours later, Icefurr was jogging beside a troop of wolves and otters, the stronger rebels. Above them flew five or six kites and eagles. They were there to watch out for trouble, and stop any if it came too close. “Which way now, Captain?” an otter asked, running up beside the foxwolf. Icefurr pointed north and east. “The village is that way,” he shouted, and the whole company made a slight turn. The Rogue Captain did some quick mental math in his head, and estimated that they’d arrive in another hour or so. He was exactly right. Judging by the winter sun’s position, no more than an hour and a quarter had passed by the time they sited small roofs and smoke from chimneys in the distance. “Speed up, and not a sound,” a wolf ordered. He was a lieutenant. Icefurr nodded in confirmation, and the rebels broke into dead run. When they reached the village, they all skidded to a halt. Nothing was left. The roofs that they’d seen were falling apart, and the smoke was smoke from a huge fire. It had died down, but was still burning. Icefurr looked around at the carnage. Dead bodies of sparrows, lemmings, and mice littered the ground, draped over fences and inside ruins. The group walked through the evidence of destruction, averting their eyes from the more horrific scenes. Finally, they came to the biggest building in the complex. It was round, and had burned down completely. Icefurr could only distinguish its outline, and what lay inside . . . the foxwolf retched. The wolf lieutenant, Santena Ironpaw, backed away in terror. “Who would do this? It looks like they were . . . locked inside . . . and burned alive!” All Icefurr could distinguish in the mess were the shields: all blue and green and silver and white. Piercing one of the shields was an arrow. Icefurr yanked it out and took a closer look. It was silver, fletched with red: one of his own. It matched exactly the arrows in his quiver at his side. Rolled around it was a piece of yellowed parchment. Santena walked up behind the Rogue Captain, taking deep breaths. He was obviously younger than Icefurr, maybe seventeen, and hadn’t seen much bloodshed. “What is it, Commander?” the wolf asked. He looked at the arrow, then at the quiver at Icefurr’s side. “It’s one of yours!” The message read thus: “King” Swiftblade. So, you’re this Rogue Captain. I thought you dead months ago. Oh well, nobeast is correct all the time. Meet me where you left, at sundown tomorrow . . . alone. If not, then I won’t stop until I kill you and take all of Clandon. Gulrag Northwind, Warlord of Clandon Icefurr led his troop back and didn’t tell anycreature else until the next day. ***** “What?” Jennter was angry. “He expects you to go alone! I can’t let you! You’re too important to Clandoran.” Icefurr ignored him as he pulled on his mail and clasped his helmet with gauntleted paws. His sword glinted in torchlight at his side, and his shield swung back and forth on his back. Jennter stayed the Rogue Captain’s paw as he reached for his boots. “At least take somebeast with you,” he begged. He was bigger than Icefurr, but knew that he couldn’t stop the foxwolf if he was determined. Icefurr had been raised to fight. “There’s only one creature that I would agree to have at my side in battle with Gulrag, and he isn’t here. I’m going alone,” Icefurr said, and moved out into the dormitory. The rebels were all talking, but went silent as their commander passed. “Where’s he going?” O’Malley asked Keefe, who was beside him. Icefurr was out of hearing range, almost out of the cavern, with Jennter behind him. “I don’t know, but wherever it is, Mc’Kallen’s not to happy about it,” the fox answered. “Who would you bring?” Jennter asked, now giving up all hope of persuading his commander to stay. “My final soldier.” With that, Icefurr swept out of the hidden entrance to the cavern, which was screened by bushes. Jennter got a face-full of leaves for his trouble. |
AuthorI love fiction, fantasy, roleplaying, and reading. Nice to meet you too. All of my tales are little kid-friendly, except perhaps a few stories in the Rogue Captain universe. Those are more geared towards teens. Check with your parents, just in case. Archives
August 2019
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