Chapter Text
The guest chamber – or his prison cell, as Keyla couldn’t help but think of it as – was probably the most upscale place Keyla had ever slept in his life. Used to bedding down on rags in the dirt with nothing softer than a blanket covering a rock to act as his pillow, when confronted with a featherbed like the kind Badrang used, complete with pleasantly fluffy pillows, the otter had absolutely no idea how to react. On one paw, it certainly was comfortable; on the other, the softness was unnerving to the point that Keyla was actively considering the idea of sleeping on the floor.
At least that way it won’t feel like I’m about to sink into a pit of sand, Keyla thought as he tried to pat a little bit of stiffness into the pillows.
Another new experience for him was the fact that a roaring fire had been kindled in the fireplace shortly after Blacktooth had all but shoved him into the room, and so after giving up his endeavor with the pillows Keyla promptly sat down in front of the fireplace and let the warmth gently spread across his paws.
Several blissful minutes later, easily the most blissful in Keyla’s recent memory, the locks on the door snapped open and the door itself opened a tad.
“Keyla?” It was Martin. “It’s me. I want to talk some more.”
“Alright, sire. But may I ask a favor?”
“Oh?” Martin tilted his head. “Is something the matter?”
“No, I, ah, would really enjoy getting to stay by the fireplace. Forgive me, but I’m still feeling the blizzard.”
Martin smiled before walking over and seating himself next to the otter. “Don’t worry about it. Stay right here as long as you need to. On one condition, though.”
“Sire?”
“Stop calling me that.” Martin made a face. “Sire. Ugh. Now there’s a title only the vile use.”
“Sorry, si – I mean, sorry. Old habit.” Keyla looked at Martin. “So then, what exactly should I call you? Not really familiar with southron titles.”
Martin shrugged. “Just ‘Martin’ or ‘Matey’ is fine if it’s informal like this.”
“Okay then, uh, Martin.” Keyla pronounced the name slowly, as though he’d never heard it before. “By the fur, that feels weird. Anyways, what was it you wanted to talk about?”
Fidgeting in place on the floor, Martin bit his lip. “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I wanted to hear more about it. About Badrang and Marshank, I mean.”
The request, although far from unexpected, still made Keyla feel as though all the warmth was being sucked out of the room. A thousand memories began to flare up: mornings in which he was awoken by a kick to the stomach by angry paws, afternoons toiling in the summer heat building Badrang’s fortress, nights trying to ignore the moans from other slaves long enough to fall asleep. Each memory felt as fresh as though it had only happened yesterday, but all the same Keyla forced them back down. I can’t lose my nerve in front of him. Not after I’ve come all this way.
Keyla took a deep breath and then began.
“Marshank is, in a word…cruel. Think the outer wall of this castle, except maybe about two-thirds, and with a second wall right behind made out of wood. It sits on the Eastern Coast far to the north of here, surrounded by cliffs and hills to the south and north and a bog to the west. The fortress, and us slaves, are ruled over by the vilest band of corsairs ever to sail the seas, as you probably remember from a few years ago.”
Martin nodded. “Aye. They certainly seemed quite terrible.” Martin’s paws grasped the air, as though holding an invisible neck. “Particularly that one-eyed weasel.”
Keyla let out a humorless laugh. “You mean Hisk? Killing him was the best thing you ever did. Trust me on that, Martin. He was the worst of them, although the fox Skalrag’s pretty close.
“Anyways, the corsairs of Marshank are a hardened bunch. They still train daily with mock battles, and I’d wager an apple to an acorn that they’re still as deadly now as they were on the high seas. And believe me, Martin, when I say that there’s not a lick of decency to be found in any of ‘em.” Now it was Keyla that seemed to be strangling somebeast. “If I began counting the number of times I saw somebeast beaten for some stupid reason or another, we’d be here until spring at the very earliest. With rods, with paws, with spears…” Keyla shook his head. “I doubt there’s anybeast older than five that doesn’t have at least a few scars on their back.”
Martin paled. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘five years old’?”
“It’s the truth. There’s this one squirrel I know named Felldoh, Badrang himself used to give him regular beatings when Felldoh was just a babe.”
“A babe?” Martin’s eyes widened. “That’s…”
“Horrid? I know, matey. But it’s what Badrang is, when you get down to it: a great, big, bully.”
“What’s he like?”
Keyla thought for a moment: how best to describe the tyrant that had dominated his life as long as he could remember?
“Well, everything you need to know about Badrang you can get from the title he gave himself: Badrang the Tyrant. Or, as we call him, Badrang Ironpaw.” Keyla tried to keep the mingled scorn and rage out of his voice, but found it impossible. “He fancies himself some great lord and the destined ruler of the entire East Coast, with everybeast he encounters crushed underpaw, and all decent creatures his slaves. He works us from sunup to sundown, and on every task, you can think of: building, fishing, farming. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if you sat me down and told me that he was going to start breeding us as a little side venture.” Keyla looked around and snorted. “Count yourself lucky that you’ve never had to suffer the company of a creature that vile.”
“I have.” When Keyla looked back at Martin the mouse was gazing into the fireplace, visibly caught up in some memory of his own. “I knew somebeast that set an entire forest ablaze just because innocent goodbeasts dared speak against them.”
“Oh…” Keyla took another look at the mouse’s face, one that had thus far seemed full of confidence and vigor, and was surprised to see a little of the same haunted look carried by all the slaves in Marshank. Not much, not nearly the amount Keyla saw when he looked at his own reflection, but more than he would have expected given Martin’s apparent status. “I’m sorry, matey, I never would’ve guessed.”
Martin waved a paw in dismissal. “It’s not your fault. And besides, my father was able to keep it from being nearly as bad as it could have been. Not to mention that we’re talking about Badrang here, not my sister.”
His SISTER? THAT’s unexpected. Keyla blinked, trying to process the information, before continuing.
“Oh, right. Now when I say that Badrang fancies himself a lord, I really mean it: he’d kill everybeast in a heartbeat to live in a castle like this, and the way that your brother talks actually reminds me a bit of him.” Seeing the look on Martin’s face, Keyla waved his paws and hastily added “But Badrang’s a lot less nice than your brother is.”
Martin decided to ignore the accidental slight. “How is he at fighting? He gave me quite the fight three years ago, to be sure, but that was back when I was only thirteen.” The mouse struggled valiantly to conceal a grin of pride before giving up. “Not to mention that he’s down a paw nowadays.”
Keyla found himself grinning as well. “Sorry to burst your bubble, matey, but Badrang’s still a formidable fighter. Trains with the spear and cutlass every single day, rain or shine, and I think he’s determined to never lose again.”
“So says them all.” Martin was quiet again, thinking. “But still, it’s good to know that I wouldn’t be facing down some crippled has-been so much as a formidable warrior.” He spat into the fireplace, getting a round of angry sizzles in response. “No, not a warrior. I won’t dirty that word.”
“Whether or not you call him a warrior won’t change the fact that he’s dangerous, although I suppose you’re probably stronger now as well?”
“Hmm? I…yes, I am.” Martin rubbed his left arm, looking away from Keyla as he did so before shaking his head. “At least, I’d like to think so.” Looking out the window, he sighed. “At any rate, it’s getting late, and you’ve given me a fair bit to think about.” Martin pushed himself up off the floor before turning and looking down at the otter still sitting in front of the fireplace. “Now is there anything that you want to know? About Mossflower? About Kotir?”
Keyla did have questions, in fact, several dozen at the very least, but for some reason the one that came out of his mouth was the one that led him to ask “so, uh, how does that…work?”
“How does what work?”
“Well, um, you know.” Keyla gestured vaguely upwards in the direction of the Lord’s bedchamber. “You’re a mouse, your father and brother are cats… I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, how do a mouse and a cat…erm…ah…you know…” Keyla was blushing furiously at this point, and completely regretted opening his mouth, fully expecting Martin to reach over and hit him for asking that sort of question.
Instead, Martin’s reaction – after gaping for a good half minute as his brain processed the implication of the otter’s stuttered and half-incoherent question – was to burst out laughing. It was a fully, hearty sound, and it immediately lifted the room’s mood.
“Oh, by the fur, no! Keyla, that’s disgusting!” Shaking his head, Martin smiled and wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “That’s not what happened. Not even close.”
“So then what did? You didn’t just spring from the ground or something, did you?”
“No, I had a normal mother and father. Both mice, I will note. Anyways, to make a very, very long story short, my mother passed away from the fever when I was a babe, and not long after my blood father gave his life to save Lord Verdauga, and because of that he took me in as his son. But before you ask, yes, he is my father. No ifs, ands, or buts. Now, if you excuse me, I really do need to think over what you’ve told me.”
Martin turned and left after that, and as he did so Keyla heard him chuckling to himself.
“A mouse and a wildcat, by the fur, what exactly are they doing up north?”
Keyla’s guest room was only a landing below Martin’s own chambers, and when he’d left the otter Martin had truly intended to go back to them and think, but instead he found himself passing up the landing entirely and going up another flight, lost in thought, until he found himself outside Gingivere’s rooms. The crack under the doorway flickered with candlelight, and Martin guessed that his brother was reading some old judgement or another.
Standing on the landing, paw outstretched, Martin hesitated. Is it really fair that I bother him? This is sort of my own personal problem, the whole Badrang situation, after all. Maybe I should just leave him be.
Turning around, Martin started back down the steps, resolved to reach a decision on his own.
Five pawsteps later he stopped again, the enormity of the decision crashing down upon him: if he refused Keyla and remained in Mossflower everybeast that the poor otter knew would remain a slave, he was well aware, not to mention that the guilt he still felt from his wager with Badrang would only intensify.
Yet at the same time…
If I leave I’ll be gone for a while, and then father will… He’ll…
Before Martin knew it, he’d run back up the steps and was knocking on Gingivere’s door.
“Gingivere? It’s me. I need to talk. Now. Please, it’s important.”
The door opened, and in the doorway Gingivere stood with a concerned look on his face. “I thought you’d be talking with the otter for a while longer.”
“I think we went over all we could for the night. He told me everything – about what it’s like up there, and about how cruel Badrang is, and I – I just don’t know what to do.” The words started to spill out before Martin could get the chance to control them. “Honestly he sounds almost as vile as Tsarmina, and the thought of leaving innocent creatures to suffer his rule just – it curdles my stomach. It really does. I want to help Keyla, I do, but… at the same time…”
“But?” Gingivere raised an eyebrow.
“If I go, then what if I – you saw how father was tonight, didn’t you? He – he thought I was Luke. He thought I was my blood father, Gingivere, even though he’s been dead for a decade and a half.” Martin realized he was crying now, and realized he was unable to stop that either. “If I go, what if by the time I return he’s – he’s gone?”
“Well,” Gingivere answered in a soft voice that Martin guessed meant that he’d spent a fair bit of time thinking about their father as well, “then it that case he will have passed knowing that you’re doing something that would make him proud. And you know how our father always prattles on about that.”
Martin half laughed, half hiccupped. “Yeah, I can’t argue with that.”
“And if you’re really worried about what he’d think, talk with him about it. It’s not like you can go anywhere else, what with us all getting snowed in like this.”
“Perhaps I will.” Martin felt somewhat lighter, he realized, and at the same time somewhat more resolved to go and help Keyla.
He had only crossed the threshold out to the landing when he heard Gingivere call out his name. Turning, half expecting to see his brother about to leap out for a hug, Martin was amused to see that the wildcat was instead casually reclining against the doorframe.
“Before you go, I’m curious: is it annoying when your brother’s right all the time?”
Martin snorted. “I’ll tell you whenever I find that out.”
Gingivere closed the door with a jaunty wave, after which Martin started back down the steps.
As he did so he heard a great, tremulous sigh coming from his brother’s bedroom, as though somebeast was letting a hundred suppressed emotions loose at once.