High Rhulain

Tiria gazed at the small object. “I see what you mean. So this is my Brinty! What do we do with him now?”

The outlaw explained. “Well, we ties him to a stone, with a few flowers bound around. Then we puts him in the lake with the others who fell today. That way he’s in good company amid warriors like himself, Lady.”

They gathered some meadowsweet and spearwort blossoms and bound them to a paw-sized pebble along with the figure. Together they waded out into the lake until the water was at waist height. Tiria took the package in her sling and threw it, up and out. The few golden blossoms were lost in the night sky. Then they heard a splash. Leatho watched the ripples drifting back at them.

“Yore friend Brinty is at rest now.”

They held paws as the outlaw recited the verse which Tiria had heard the clanbeasts saying earlier in ancient otter tongue. Heaving a great gusty sigh, Tiria straightened her back.

“Thank you, Mr. Shellhound. I feel much better now!”

The outlaw grinned roguishly. “Aye, an’ I’m still hungry. Let’s get back to the vittles, Lady!”

As he turned to wade shoreward, Tiria pulled him back. “I don’t think I could bear you calling me lady, queen or majesty for the rest of my life. So from now on it’s Tiria to you, sir!”

She waded past him, but this time it was he who pulled her back. “Fair enough, as long as ye never calls me sir or Mr. Shellhound. Let’s call each other ‘mate.’ ”

Tiria laughed at this. “Righto, mate. Mate it is!”

Pitru stood on the highest point of the vast crater, congratulating himself. His scheme was successful: Soon he would be Ruler of Green Isle. The young cat had pitched his camp right across the narrow path which ran over the crater’s rim. Behind him his followers had erected a barricade of rocks. Now nobeast could come over by this way, since he held the pass. Balur and Hinso, his confederates, listened as he outlined his plan. Pitru gazed off into the clear morning distance.

“See, the last of the smoke, I saw the glow from afar last night. The fortress has fallen. Are you not glad you came with me, eh?”

Balur bowed respectfully. “You saved our lives, Sire!”

Hinso placed a paw over her heart, affirming loyalty. “We were with ye from the first, commander.”

Pitru drew himself up, leaning on his broad scimitar proudly. “Henceforth you will call me Warlord of Green Isle!”

Balur and Hinso glanced at each other, not daring to ask the question. It was Pitru who answered it for them.

“You will soon learn that Riggu Felis is dead. Look, down there in the foothills, here come the runaways.”

Threading its way up the lower path, a band of catguards could be seen. Pitru smiled smugly. “That’s Scaut leading the group. Take my guards and surround that lot, disarm them and bring them to me.”

The mission was accomplished swiftly. By midmorning, Pitru had a dispirited bunch of catguards, refugees from the defeat of the fortress, sitting on the ground in front of him. His first act was to place his scimitar at Scaut’s throat.

“Ah, the mighty weilmark, eh? You were ever my enemy, Scaut. So tell me, why should I not slay you right now?”

The weilmark gulped as the blade pressing against his throat bobbed slightly. “Spare me an’ I will serve ye faithfully. I give ye my oath, Commander Pitru!”

Hinso sprang forward and kicked Scaut. “Our leader is Warlord of Green Isle now, an’ ye will address him so!”

Pitru smiled thinly, enjoying his triumph. “That is, unless Riggu Felis still lives. Is he dead, Scaut? Did you see him die? How did it happen?”

Still with the blade threatening his throat, Scaut answered, “Lord, I was not there to see it, but some of these guards say that Riggu Felis was slain by an ottermaid with a sling, down on the pier.”

Pitru shook his head in mock pity. “The great wildcat ruler, killed by an ottermaid. How sad! But you ran off and left him to his fate. What sort of a weilmark would you call yourself now, Scaut?”

Trying to bend his neck back from the pressure of the heavy blade, Scaut managed to gasp, “I am wot ye say I am, Lord!”

Pitru withdrew the blade, suddenly kicking Scaut flat. He grabbed the long whip, which had once been the weilmark’s favourite weapon, and began beating his helpless victim with it, yelling at him, “You are no weilmark at all! From now on you will be my lackey—fetching, carrying and licking the dust from my paws!”

Breathing heavily, the young warlord turned upon the bunch of catguards who had followed Scaut. “And you, who do you serve now? A dead wildcat, or me?”

The subdued guards were only too ready to go over to Pitru. They bowed before him as he tossed the whip to Hinso. “Give them back their weapons and let them join my guards.”