High Rhulain

Weilmark Scaut and two catguards held her tight, dragging her back from the windowsill. Kaltag bit, scratched and kicked at them, but to no avail, as the three cats hauled her roughly from the chamber.

Riggu Felis stood outside. Quickly he slammed the door shut, snarling, “Get her downstairs. Nobeast comes into this room but me!”

Kaltag was borne away, yelling accusations at the wildcat. “Coward! Traitor! Will you see Jeefra’s killer left alive?”

The warlord yelled down the stairwell after her, “Keep that madbeast away from here. She’ll ruin all my plans. I need Shellhound alive!”

Felis went into the chamber and stole across to the window. Leaning out, he rattled the cage with his axehaft, taunting the captive. “Well, I’m glad to see you still alive, my friend.”

As Leatho looked up, he could see the disfigured face beneath the chain mail half-mask. He growled scornfully at the wildcat. “That’s more’n I can say for you, ripface!”

Felis continued baiting his prisoner. “Would you like a drink of water? I’ll spare you some if you beg for it. Lovely cold, fresh, clear water, just beg nicely and I’ll tell the guards to fetch some.”

For answer, Leatho bared his teeth and rattled the cage. “All I’ll beg for is a chance to get out of here an’ stand facin’ yore ugly mug. Then it’ll be yore turn to beg!”

The wildcat backed off slowly, calling to his captive, “Oh, I’ll let you loose soon enough, the moment your friends surrender to me. Then they can watch you licking my footpaws every day, with Scaut whipping you whenever you stop. That should make a pretty sight, eh?”

The outlaw heard the chamber door slam shut. He sagged forward in his bonds, head drooping. To his surprise, the rope holding his left paw creaked, stretching slightly. Hope surged anew through Leatho. He jerked and tugged on the rope, feeling the fibres starting to part. The spear, of course, it had to be! In the darkness, Kaltag’s frenzied stabs must have hit the rope, partially slicing through and weakening it.

Leatho could not twist his head far enough to inspect the rope, but he knew he could eventually snap it. Even though his limbs were swollen and numbed with cramp, the tenacious otter pulled, twisted and jerked against his bond. Each fresh assault tore more of the fibres, snapping away the closely woven strands. He grunted with pain as one final wrench parted the rope, allowing the deadened paw to hang limply at his side. Dizzy with the effort, Leatho rested for a moment. Then, with no firm plan in mind, he set about freeing his other paw. Hauling himself up on the bars, the outlaw got his teeth into the other rope. He gnawed away, strand by strand, until he had chewed right through it. With a deep sigh, he allowed himself the luxury of sitting down on the cage floor. Leatho slowly rubbed the life back into his aching limbs and shoulders, thinking hard. Now, what next?

Early birds began their twittering chorus in the first rays of dawn as the otterclans arrived at the far shores of the lake. Crouching in the rushes, surrounded by his warriors, Big Kolun Galedeep cooled his paws in the cold water. He peered through the mist, which hung like a milky veil over the stillwater.

“Wot d’ye think, should we go in now?”

His brother, the tall, sombre Lorgo, spat on his paws, rubbing them together in anticipation. “Aye, dawn’s a good time to attack. The cats won’t be up an’ about just yet!”

Banya Streamdog interrupted them. “Hold on, mates. We can’t go chargin’ in without a plan. If’n the Felis cat’s got Leatho a prisoner, he’s bound to have the fortress well guarded. Stands t’reason he’ll be expectin’ us to try somethin’.”

Kolun dug his big oar into the water moodily. “I s’pose yore right, so wot d’ye suggest we do? We can’t just lie here all day twiddlin’ our rudders!”

Besides being a tough warriormaid, Banya was seldom short of practical ideas. “A sensible plan would be t’send out scouts first. Whulky, Chab, you take the left bank. Lugg, Ganno, you take the right. See if they’re patrollin’ the pier an’ the slave compound. Make a count of the cats y’can see an’ wot sort of weapons they’re totin’. That way we’ll know just wot we’re up against. Oh, an’ most important, keep yore eyes skinned for the Shellhound.”

In the main gate lodge which led onto the pier, Riggu Felis took a leisurely breakfast. The wildcat felt that, with his plans reaching fruition, his position was becoming more secure. Picking at a freshly caught trout and sipping pale wine, he reflected on other matters which required his attention. It was one of the warlord’s strengths: He never left loose ends untied.

Weilmark Scaut stood attendance upon his master, a task which invariably made him nervous, owing to the wildcat’s unpredictable nature. After accidentally slopping wine onto the table while refilling the warlord’s beaker, Scaut murmured apologetically, “Yore pardon, Lord.”