High Rhulain

The wildcat raised his single-bladed war axe. “Gather my catguards. Tell them to take bows and quivers of arrows. My command is that they kill every bird in the skies, large or small. We will feast on their flesh. Destroy the birds, slay them all!”

He strode to the alcove window. Leaning out, he bellowed, “Death to all birds! Death! Death!”

On the lake below, two otter slaves heard the din from the tower window. Looking up, they beheld the wildcat, recognisable even with his face masked.

One of the otters shook his head sadly. “Ah, ’twas a mistake ye made sayin’ Felis was dead. That villain will never die! D’ye not hear him?”

The other otter began hauling in his nets. “Aye, sure he’ll only get wickeder by the day, worse luck for us. Y’know the trouble with us, mate? We’re weak. It takes a beast like Leatho Shellhound to defy that Riggu Felis an’ his scurvy cats. Aye, Leatho’s the buckoe, sure enough!”

Whulky, the elder of the two otters, rounded on his companion. “Keep yore voice down! Ye know wot’ll happen if’n yore caught even mentionin’ that name. Ye’ll end up bein’ slung into Deeplough with a stone tied to yore neck, t’be eaten by Slothunog. Now get rowin’ for shore. Can’t ye see Weilmark Scaut waitin’ on our catch?”

As Chab, the younger otter, sculled their coracle toward the pier, Whulky lectured him. “Lissen, Chab, don’t ye ever say we’re weak. Us otters have to stay an’ obey Felis because we’ve all got families an’ young ’uns to worry about. They’d be the ones to suffer if ever we tried anythin’. Shellhound’s free as the air. That rogue can afford t’be an outlaw, an’ besides, he’s a seadog, not a stream otter like us.”

Chab rested his paddle. “But wasn’t it us that were once the warriors of Green Isle, an’ haven’t we got the blood of the High Queen Rhulain¹ Wildlough runnin’ in our veins?”

Whulky sighed. “Aye, that’s truth to tell, Chab, but ’tis many a hundred seasons since those days. The High Queen is nought but a thing for songs an’ poems to tell our little’uns now.”

An irate voice called to them from on shore. “If you two don’t move yerselves, I’ll skin the hide from yer rudders!” This threat was followed by the crack of a whip.

Weilmark Scaut was a burly, ginger feral cat, hated by all the otters for his arrogance and cruelty. He stood on the pier end, coiling his long whip, watching the little fishing coracle heave to. As a weilmark he was a high-ranking officer of the catguards.

Strutting back and forth, Weilmark Scaut began haranguing the otters. “Stir yer stumps, waterdogs! Git that catch up’ere, an’ stand t’be searched. Move yerselves!”

Whulky and Chab spread their net with its small catch of trout and gudgeon. They both stood to one side, paws spread wide, as a feral cat soldier searched them for concealed weapons (which otters were forbidden to carry) or any type of contraband.

Scaut took five of the eight fish they had caught, leaving them the three smallest. He scowled at the searcher. “Well, are they clear?”

The soldier tossed two sharpened musselshells (which the fisherbeasts were allowed to carry in the course of their trade) down onto the pier. He saluted with his spear. “Aye, they’re clear, Weilmark!”

Scaut watched Whulky and Chab carefully. “Go on then, get goin’, both of ye.”

As they walked away, Scaut’s keen gaze was still inspecting them. “Halt right there, don’t move!”

The two otter slaves froze in their tracks. Scaut walked over and placed his face close to Chab’s, grinning wickedly at him. “You there, guard, lift this ’uns left footpaw.”

The soldier hastened to obey. Scaut struck the raised footpaw with his whipstock, and two perfectly symmetrical, purple mussel pearls rolled out onto the pier.

Scaut feigned surprise. “By my claws, what’s this?”

Chab murmured awkwardly, “Sir, they’re only baubles for me liddle daughter t’play with.”

The weilmark swaggered in a circle around Chab. “Baubles fer yer liddle daughter, eh? They’re the property of yore warlord, Riggu Felis, the same as everythin’ else on Green Isle. Nothin’ belongs to waterdogs, nothin!”

He turned to the soldiers, bellowing, “This beast is a thief, take ’im away an’ bind ’im under the pier fer the night. No vittles an’ a night freezin’ ’is rudder off down there’ll teach ’im a lesson!”

He scooped up the pearls and admired them. “Lady Kaltag’ll like these fer ’er collection!”

Whulky was dismissed to go back to his family. As Chab was being prodded at spearpoint to the pylons beneath the pier, another feral cat soldier came panting along the lakeshore. Throwing a hasty salute with his bow, he called to Scaut.

“Weilmark! There’s trouble down on the river. We’ve got one of ’em pinned down there. They say ’tis the Shellhound!”

Scaut grabbed a spear, leaping down onto the shore. “The Shell’ound, eh? Quick, take me there!”

He dashed off behind the stumbling soldier. “Cummon, cummon, shift yerself. I need to catch that rogue!”