Come dawn (and a weak and sickly dawn it was to be sure) I poked my head out from between the Old Man Willow’s roots and sniffed. The nobble-nosed spirit of the tree reared up besides me, his long nose quivering, and together we both peered out into the gloom.
“I don’t see anything,” I whispered.
The tree spirit grunted in agreement.
Nothing to see but the forest was uneasy. It still reeked of rot and death. The shadows beneath the boughs were darker than they should be. Or was that my imagination? I had a weird sensation that someone was watching me, but there was nothing. Just me and Old Man Willow.
A sluggish wind stirred through his branches and the willow spirit shuddered, withdrawing back into his trunk to hunker down within. Hush and Thimble crawled out on their bellies and came to stand alongside me.
We all checked each other over, to make sure we were okay. We were. After another brief conference, and some hurried grooming, my siblings left, declaring their intention of finding Wuot. I knew my duty was to hunt rats, but first I wanted to check that everything at my cottage was as it should be. I set off, padding quickly over moss and woodland.
A short time later I arrived at my cottage, and leapt over the garden wall with a single, graceful bound.
To my relief, all was peaceful, although Maud was conspicuous by her absence. My heart squeezed a little at the thought that she might be injured, but I reminded myself that I had smelt her steps striding away from the corpses. She would wander home when she got hungry, as she always did. There was no need to be concerned, I could focus on ridding my forest from demonic pests.
The garden was in a much better state than when I had left it, the Small Folk having an insatiable need to tidy up - a curious trait in such chaotic creatures, but one that I appreciated. Berryman and his friends had removed the rat corpses and were in the process of burying them out in the woods. After some consideration I decided it would be better to set them on fire instead. Not wanting to waste any precious qi from my dantian I used just enough to start them burning, rather than incinerating the flesh from their bones. It was the work of moments, but the scent was appalling.
Hurriedly, we all moved out of the smoke that billowed up in foul waves. It was noxious in the extreme, and I hated the idea of having any part of these vile creatures in my body. There was nothing on those corpses that would nourish anything, not even the earth. I glanced uneasily in the direction where I had buried the last lot of rats. I knew the earth qi there was already corrupted and the soil above the graves turned to blackened sludge. I would need to do something about it, but not today.
The ones that had been cultivators left behind their cores - smooth, dark and stinky. These would not burn, so I buried them with the other remains. More problems for later.
From demonic rat disposal duties to more sorrowful matters. I next attended a funeral. Two pixies had perished in the fray. Their tiny bodies were being laid to rest beneath a bramble rose against the western wall of the garden. Berryman stood on the garden wall, gesticulating, wailing and chattering in his high-pitched pixie voice, too fast for me to make out the words, but the grief was plain. I did not need to know their exact meaning.
I stood next to a sniffing Polly-wally and a small, subdued crowd of Small Folk, all of them clutching blossoms, while he spoke. At the end I spat a bloom into the grave with the rest of them. It was the least I could do.
When we left the diminutive corpses were covered with flowers. I think they would have liked that. If I ever die I would like to be buried under a pile of flowers, happy-mint, and maybe balls of wool.
These important matters attended to, I set off with vengeance in my heart and fire qi sparking through my veins. Now that the necromancer was dead I did not think the demonic rats would return to their nest in the ruins. No. I think they would turn their attention to hunting cultivators. Of course, two could play at that game.
The trick was not to die, at least not too many times. Not to overextend.
I stalked through my forest, listening to all the titbits the wind had to share, sniffing attentively through my nose, every part of my body alert. Moððe joined me after a few minutes, ghosting up out of the gloom.
“The rat-king holds court,” he whispered. “He gathers his inner sect.”
There was no need for more talk.
We set off together. Carefully, carefully, cloaking ourselves in mist and the essence of the forest itself. Moððe flitted through the canopy, while I followed more slowly, leaping from branch to branch on soft paws, making sure not to set a foot wrong, or rustle a single leaf.
Following the stench of decay we soon arrived at a clearing. Why For-Molsnian chose that clearing I will never know, but there he was, barely visible in the gloomy light: bloated, hairy, foul, and five times as big as a squeaker should be. The rat-king lounged in pestilent state, perched atop a teetering pile of bones. The corpse pile was not quite as impressive as the one in his dreams, but it was substantial, and growing by the moment. It made me feel strange, and I was no stranger to bones.
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His sect presented him with creature after creature, in a long line. Awake, Awakened and Radiant rats carried their prey, squealing and struggling, some limp, some dead, some half-way between, offering up their bodies to their king. Each sacrifice was presented, then drained. Rage filled my belly as I watched.
My forest creatures. He was doing this to my things. My mice, birds, pixies, brownies, gnomes, deer, grass-snakes, squirrels, nothing, none of them left the clearing alive. All had their qi consumed until they withered away into dust.
Occasionally For-Molsnian would merely take the flesh and organs, adding what I assumed was a particularly pleasing or interesting skeleton to his pile. I could understand this impulse. I too enjoyed a good trophy (I kept my collection of Nice Wool, Interesting Tails and Pleasing Heads at the back of my cupboard next to the hearth). Still, these were not his things, and he was damaging the forest. The trees, ferns and flowers around the glade were fading slowly, sagging, dying, as if his very presence was draining them. I assume it was.
Moððe and I watched grimly from the high tops for some time, unsure of our next move.
He was beyond Radiant, a king of squeakers, a sect leader. I could feel his presence leaking all over, oppressive, slick, putrid, sliding right up my nose till it was all I could do not to sneeze. I could no more challenge him and win than I could expect to challenge Montadie and win. I was amazing but I was not delusional. The king was a problem but the rest…. Well. Brosnod stood to one side, and the scar faced vermin I recognised as Málester to the other. My claws twitched. Rats. Squeakers. Prey. That was the natural order.
“Let them hunt me,” I murmured after a while. “Let them think me an idiot cauldron. Let them think I am afraid of dying.”
“Bait?” said Moððe, and his already ghostly luminous wings dimmed even more.
I nodded. “The more we can draw off... Separate them out. We know they do not care for each other.”
Moððe nodded, a little dust dropping from his antennae.
“Be careful, friend,” he muttered.
I slipped away, as silently as I had come.
Then, I circled back around, and approached once more. This time I made deliberate small mistakes, letting my qi signature waver. A twig cracked, softly, I froze, as if in terror. It was easy to pretend to be scared. A very, very small part of me was scared. A very tiny part.
Soon a torrent of rats poured after me through the trees.
I sprang nimbly from branch to branch and then sped away over the mossy ground. Pretending I was senseless with fear, my belly pressed close to the ground, I careened away, always always away from For-Molsnian. This was my home and I knew every inch. Every stump, every fern, every tree. My path was intentional, but filled with twists and turns to appear as if chosen by blind panic. Once the rats were strung out, I then turned suddenly, gutting the closest, one, two. Before they had the sense to realise what was happening. Then I ran again, my claws red, my heart smug.
As I knew they would not, the rats did not care about their fallen fellows, they trampled their bodies as they snapped and snarled trying to get to me. They were not bound by the bonds of friendship, only by power and need.
I, however, was surrounded by friends. Moððe coasted ahead, whispering suggestions, making sure I was never stuck. The spirits of my territory were more than happy to help. They cheered me on, doing what they could. I was speed, I was grace, as the demonic rats stumbled over roots that appeared as if out of nowhere, subtle shiftings underfoot, holes opening, sudden mists that hid me from them for precious seconds when they got too close. Moððe performed his own murders as and when he could, swooping down from on high to slash, and bite and impale.
Together, cat, moth and forest spirits, we were a formidable team.
This strategy we repeated again and again until, at last, they got wiser. Or rather until the smarter ones started paying attention. So entranced were they by their gluttony that it took a surprisingly long time. How many did we kill? I had lost track. But these were the lowest of the low, Awake and a few low level Awakened. I knew I needed to save my best for the fights to come, and already the breath was coming fast in my lungs, my muscles working overtime as I cycled and cycled, legs burning, joints cramping.
Still, I enjoyed the merry murder dance. Outwitting the demonic squeakers brought me joy, even as my energy waned. Each death was one less demonic rat in my forest. One less source of corruption. Like ticks I would pick them out and slay them.
After an hour or two of intense hide and seek I was forced to stop and rest, drinking my fill from an anxious River. The day was growing older, the light dimming as twilight approached. The hollows between the trees filled with thick mist as I lapped, eyes on the shadows beneath the boughs. I could swear some of the shadows were looking back at me. But they did not come closer. I could not tell if the shadows were friend or foe. All I knew is that they were not rats.
“Another round?” I asked Moððe.
There was no answer.
“Moððe?”
Only the whispering trees. But what did they whisper?
To your right….
I jumped and a swarm of darkness hurtled past, slicing the tips off three of my most magnificent whiskers. Red eyes glinted at me from the suddenly thickened shadows. These shadows I recognised as being distinctly ratty.
Excellent.
My murder game had become more than a distraction to the rodent court.
Invisible paws snatched at my qi from every direction. I took one step back. Then another, then dove into River’s depths. Blinking through the water I kicked frantically. Splashes behind me let me know the rats were following close behind. River roared so loudly my ears momentarily stopped working. I powered myself up, and out of the turbulence as the furious spirit laid into any rats stupid enough to enter her domain. She grabbed them with fierce hands, dragging their squirming bodies underwater, dashing them against her rocks, then tossing the pestilent corpses out of her body as fast as she could.
It had taken a while, and much fast talking to convince River to help me.
She did not like the idea of the diseased creatures entering her waters, and I did not blame her, but I pointed out that not killing the rats would lead to a much higher chance of her waters being fouled long term. The sky rained drowned and smashed rats for a good few minutes. I took the opportunity to lick my fur back into place.