CHAPTER FORTY

 

Two guards hustled the jackrabbit molt to stand before Tresset, the captive trembling to the point of near nausea, his short gray fur on end, his small white eyes darting from side-to-side. Tresset turned, glaring at his people as if they might just be fools. “It took two of you to bring a bunny rabbit forward?” The compound was burning down around them and they wasted their time with this?

The senior of the two molts mumbled an apology and then both scampered away at Tresset’s terse command.

“So,” said Tresset as he moved toward the molt. “You are again brought before me as messenger. Or is it that you were again caught spying?”

The jackrabbit shuffled in place, his right foot thumping involuntarily upon the ground. “I am a messenger only.”

Pathetic. Tresset would never allow one such as this to exist within his ranks.

“Noavor surrenders?” mused Tresset, though he knew better. His compound was falling. Though his molts would likely drive Noavor back, their settlement was in ruin. It would take months to rebuild. No, Noavor was playing his advantage, possibly toying with Tresset, attempting to rile him further, hoping he’d make a catastrophic mistake. Whatever the message was to be, it was a ploy, a maneuver.

“Bytneht Noavor does not surrender,” offered the jackrabbit molt in response to Tresset’s question.

“Then what?” asked Tresset. Already he was playing through possible responses to each imagined scenario. Battles were won by words as well as by bloodshed. He wondered what information he could glean from this cowering molt, if he might best secure information through torture or through guile. Neither, he surmised. It was doubtful that Noavor would entrust any but the most rudimentary tidbits to such a cowardly creature.

The messenger seemed certain to flee, his legs jerking, nose twitching; but somehow he managed to stand his ground. “I bear a demand for your immediate surrender.”

Tresset nearly lunged at the trembling molt, but restrained himself only because the jackrabbit had use as a messenger. No, the battle had not gone well, but they had been caught unawares. Now that his pack had assumed formation, the tide would turn. “You expect me to surrender to that—pup?”

“Bytneht Noavor promises that upon your surrender there will be no further loss of life. Your pack will be absorbed by ours, and you, being the only true liability, would be exiled.”

Liability! Noavor was audacious, that was a certainty. Pulling his cloth from his pocket, Tresset paced before the molt, rubbing the sterile cloth furiously between his hands. “Noavor does not seriously expect me to accept such an offer.” Of course he couldn’t think that. He was goading Tresset, seeking to enrage him. He hoped Tresset would behave rashly, deviate from his strategy. No. Noavor was yet a young fool. Did he really believe Tresset might be duped by such a simple maneuver? Madness. The thought was madness.

“There is another aspect to our position as well,” offered the trembling messenger. And here he stood just a bit taller, his twitching lips curling almost imperceptivity at the corners.

“Yes?” asked Tresset as he stepped one way, then the other, his hands rubbing harder, harder against the cloth.

“Dolnaraq is our captive.”

* * * *

 

Tresset marched forward, five of his best lieutenants following close behind, the jackrabbit molt leading the way through Noavor’s ranks. Even now, Tresset saw the figure upon the rise just south of the compound. They had stripped Dolnaraq naked, and, using wooden beams from a dilapidated building, had fashioned an x-shaped cross on which to hang him. And though this cross was not the more traditional T, still Tresset knew enough of human history to recognize the imagery. If the circumstances hadn’t been so grim, he might have found the scene amusing. Yes, Dolnaraq did have a bit of a messiah complex at that. But the old fool was well intentioned, he always had been. It was just that his academic mind had difficulty grasping the real world. What made perfect sense in theory did not often play out well in practice. Now here he was, a fool tethered to rotting pieces of wood—bargaining fodder for two warring factions. Pathetic.

Still, he could not pull his eyes from Dolnaraq. His friend’s face was bruised and swollen, his limbs bloodied. A patch of his beard had been ripped free. Even in the dim light of the flaming compound, Tresset saw the way his chest heaved, could almost hear the labored breaths and tight agonized gasps. Dolnaraq was conscious, as was evidenced by the periodic tightening of his arms as he sought to heave himself up on the torturous planks in order to better breathe. But otherwise his chin rested on his breast, his tangled red hair clumping loosely just above his eyes.

“Dolnaraq is not of my pack!” shouted Tresset as he drew close to his adversary.

“Yet you come running to protect him,” smiled the young Noavor as he made his way down the uneven slope to meet his foe.

“No, I came to see a pup who fancies himself a chieftain,” answered Tresset. Already, he’d pulled the disinfectant cloth from his pocket.

Noavor swaggered forward, his lieutenants close behind. “I’m young. So what? Can your old brain even remember your youth?”

“I remember being a fool.”

Noavor laughed. “Then, maybe you haven’t changed as much as I thought.” Noavor’s companions howled in exaggerated laughter at this middling joke.

Tresset glared at the other. “Dolnaraq was right in one aspect. If we are to survive, the reyaqc do need to unite. I offered an alliance. You responded with a raid.”

Noavor chuckled. “That’s a simple way of looking at it.” He stepped to within ten feet of Tresset, stood straight, his head cocked just slightly to the left. “In your plan, you became the leader and I the follower.”

Tresset squeezed his cloth. “My experience is far greater than yours, my long-term strategies sound.”

“My drive and energy make you look old and pathetic. Look at this place, oh great strategist. Your pack is beaten. For every minute we stand here yakking, more of your people die.”

“As do yours, Noavor. Look closer. It is not we that near defeat.”

The young chieftain chuckled.

Dolnaraq lifted his head. It seemed a great effort for him to draw breath, but with obvious pain, he hauled himself up and shouted, “Stop the fighting! While you’re negotiating, stop the fighting.” Then he slumped down again, his lungs heaving, bloodied spittle dripping from swollen lips. It seemed that in such a position, arms extended, head down, his entire weight supported by his wrists, that breathing had become an extreme burden.

Tresset despised weakness, and surely asking a favor of his enemy would be just that. But Dolnaraq suffered, and despite all that had come between them, this agonized the senior chieftain at a level much deeper than conscious thought. “Release Dolnaraq. He has nothing to do with this.”

Noavor smiled. “I thought you said he was not of your pack.”

“He came only earlier today on another matter. Release him. His wisdom may not be as infallible as he would like to believe, but he’s done much for the reyaqc. There’s no need to make a spectacle of him.”

Noavor seemed to contemplate this for a moment, and then, smiling, he turned, strolling up the dusty incline to where Dolnaraq hung, and before Tresset realized what he was doing, he’d freed his claws, raking them across Dolnaraq’s chest.

With a roaring howl of utmost agony, Tresset burst through Noavor’s startled lieutenants and fell upon the smarmy chieftain.