Author:
Mossyra of the II
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Date Posted: 21:21:12 09/03/07 Mon
Whitestripe Shortblade calmly drew his raiper and eyed the three vermin in front of him. They were holding nicked cutlasses and smiling eagerly, doubtless thinking he was to be taken easily.
"Well, chaps, you appear to be blocking my path. You'd do well to move, wot wot."
One of the vermin snickered. "Don't he talk nice? Can I carve his throat for 'im?" Another, a weasel, shook his head and sneered, "Naw. This 'un 'ill give us some sport before he dies." The others grinned and Whitestripe gave a brief sigh. If the fools thought he was going to go without a fight, they were dead already.
The only warning he had was the quiet rustle from behind and a soft whirring sound.
Whitestripe threw himself to the ground and rolled to the left, sheathing his raiper and drawing a dagger as he leapt up.
Where he had been mere moments before were two arrows and a small dart, probably poisoned. The weasel was lying dead on the ground, a stone potruding from his head and a surprised expression on his face. They had really thought to kill him quickly. Then he recognized the curved red sword stitched into the left shoulder of the dead vermin's tunic and he realized that Juntil was looking for hares from Salamandastron so he could interrogate them. The weapons intended for him had come from somewhere else.
turning quickly, he melted into the forest and searched for the attackers, the other foes forgotten for the moment.
Martin hauled a large stone across the half-finished courtyard and placed it with the rest before turning back wearily. His resolution hadn't faded in the slightest, but he could find no way to harm the enemies. The rest of the slaves were totally cowed and followed orders unquestioningly, unwilling to risk themselves by gathering defiance. He was on his own.
The past few weeks had been harsh and unforgiving. After arriving at the wooden fort of the vermin, he and his fellow captives had been put to work in the quarry, carrying rocks into the fortress and leaving them to be worked and fitted by yet more slaves. The buiding was now in the final stages of construction, with only the walls and courtyard to finish. In less than a week the vermin would be permanently established and all chance of escape gone. It had to be done tonight.
He wasn't sure how he would do it without the support of the others, but he was determined to do it and it was a now-or-never scenerio. Once they had a firm hold on the surrounding land, they wouldn't give up an inch or let anyone get away. So he began to persuade the slaves in his own way.
Martin wasn't a forceful speaker, but he had an idea they all dreamed about and a steadfast will to carry it out. That alone was his weapon, for it came from deep within the heart and nothing could waver his opinion.
So, he set to work by talking, seemingly to himself, about what freedom was like. He painted a picture of his old life, his friends and family, his home. He spoke of the horrors and joys evenly, making sure that the other slaves heard but the vermin did not. he talked of his mother and how she had been injured, how his father had been killed protecting their shores, how Dan had fought with him, though both were hardly more than Dibbuns. He spoke of fighting for freedom, and the others began bto understand. Hope revived and soared; smiles broke out where there had been none and laughter where there had been sorrow. He was getting to them.
Noon came and went as they worked, the sun beating down on their unprotected heads, but he brought back previously forgotten joy as he spoke of childhood games and harvests. They understood his message, of course, and replied with nods and smiles, determined to be free or die trying. Twilight was rapidly approaching and they began to prepare themselves, working out what to do in low voices. In a single day he had accomplished the impossible, rekindling hope and beating back doubt.
Then the hare appeared.
Rose staggered and almost fell when the ground shifted in front of her. they had been trekking all day across the sands and she was weary, long since exhausting the last of their water.
Now, the very ground beneath her paws moved and revealed a hare coated liberally with sand. He peered up at them curiously, obviously annoyed, and asked, "Wot ho, chaps, do you mind not stepping on a body while he's scanning the bloomin' countryside, wot wot? Rather bad form, doncha know." Rose stared at him in amazement and replied hesitantly, "Er, sorry, but what are you doing here?" The hare chuckled. "Scouting, of course. The bally vermin are always on the move and we want to know when they're in range." Sam interceeded at this point, adopting the hare accent easily and imitating his mannerism. "Scouting for who, old lad? There's nothin' in this bloomin' wasteland but sand, sand and more sand, wot wot!" The hare chuckled again. "No need to get cheeky, sirrah. I'm scouting out the way for the Long Patrol and co, ya see, making sure the flamin' foe don't steal a march on us. Capital camouflage, sand, hides just about anything. There's plenty out here, ya just don't see it. By an' by, me name's Jangur. And you?" Rose smiled beautifully and shook the proferred paw, explaining, "I'm Rose and this pestilence is Sam. We're searching for my brother because he's been taking by vermin. Can you help us?" Jangur nodded, standing up, and replied, "'Course I can, old gal. Simple as knockin' two gourds together. Hang on a tick, I'll signal the Patrol." Saying this, he brought out a shell and blew into it, producing a single, clear note. A distant reply came and they watched in awe as the Long Patrol appeared on the horizon, marching at double pace as they came onward.
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