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~ Chapter 17: Infest The Rats' Nest ~

"It feels a little odd, to be holding a ball at a time like this." Salem whispered, adjusting his doublet's collar as he scanned the room. Roland merely shrugged, feeling quite at home in his finely-pressed blue coat.

"If there is one thing the Ferrin aristocracy excels at, it's throwing a party in the face of a devastating loss." He said, knocking back half his wine in one quick go. The social was ostensibly for morale boosting, a show of Union solidarity to brighten the long shadow cast by Astmoor's recent slew of victories. As Roland stared at the dancing and drinking lords and ladies, tittering politely at inane joke after inane joke, flapping their paws with falsetto cries of 'oh you', it occurred to him how totally and utterly fucked they truly all were. A soothing melody was being played across a small array of stringed instruments to one corner, but for Roland's ears they may as well have been caterwauling mollies. Every pawshake, every bashful invite to dance, every couple's painfully indiscreet leave of absence grated on him, cutting away at his patience like a butcher's knife to a carcass.

Soon there'll be nothing left of me to take, and then what will they be left with? A seething, slightly drunk husk of spiteful rage. Maybe they could do without me, just a month or so, to learn how valuable I truly am to this ridiculous excuse for a kingdom.

"Gentlemen." A crisp voice said, interrupting his thoughts. With a start, Roland realised the paw clutching his goblet was trembling, and stilled it. He turned his head to see a tall fox with light grey fur approaching, armed with more wine, a long purple coat pulled over his dark shirt. His clothes were excessively intricate, and he wore a thin gold chain around his neck.

"Y-Your highness!" Salem stammered, stepping back and giving Prince Halder Niven a soft half-bow.

"Bah." The Prince sighed, rolling his clear green eyes with a self-satisfied grin. He loved to play the role of one flustered by tradition and form, but everyone knew he bathed in it like a pig in shit. "You needn't grovel for the likes of me, truly."

"Your highness." Roland demurred politely, giving the slightest inclination of his torso. "Might I introduce Salem D'Lange, my... current understudy."

"Pleasure." The king-to-be replied tartly. "Tell me young man, has our esteemed Lord Earl given you a hard time? Cracked the metaphorical whip to keep you in line, as it were?" Roland winced, knuckles white on his goblet stem.

"Rola-- er, Lord Estoc, is one of the best men in the kingdom, far as I'm concerned." Salem said, a little too quickly. Roland shuddered, as a memory marinated in shame flashed through his mind's eye; his own snow white paw, locked around Salem's neck and squeezing harder. "I'm extremely lucky for such an opportunity." Salem finished, glancing quickly to Roland, who shrugged.

"It's the perfect time to get swept up in Lord Estoc's coat-tails!" The prince said, throwing a paw up. "Our Lord Earl has been quickly rising through the political ranks, why with all he's contributed to the hundred, he's making Arch Brigadier Audric look quite the fool. I have the utmost confidence with both men on side, we can give those godless wolves what-for, and send them back into the sea come spring."

You said that about winter, last season. Roland thought snidely. Nurjan is crushing us at every turn, but no, we're only just getting warmed up. We'll be dragged to the gallows, hanged in the Unshakeable Emperor's great name, all to the tune of 'we got them right where we want 'em!'

The Prince went on. "In _fact,_I've come over to fetch him now on the behest of his eminent authority - High Chaplain Wrast. He was in attendance earlier, but I'm afraid he's not much for drink."

Roland swallowed. "Prince of the Union, sent as an errand boy for the Inquisitors? What is the world coming to?"

"Desperate times." Halder replied with a quick grin. "I've found my rather socialite reputation makes for a decent excuse to move around and chat, certainly moreso than the likes of Wrast, it's all quite hush-hush." He paused as two ladies in flowing dresses drifted by, giving first the prince, and then Roland, short giggling waves. After they'd moved on, the Prince leaned in. "I do suspect the invitation was not a plus-one sort of affair." And he gave a side-eye to Salem.

Roland felt a sudden flash of anger. "No, Salem comes too. He hears all I hear; he doesn't need to be excluded."

Prince Halder merely shrugged. "Tell it to Wrast, I'm certain he'll respond well." And he emptied his goblet with one wet slurp, whirling back towards the crowd and loudly exclaiming: "All very well and good my Lord! Yes, we'll have Nurjan's head in a vice this time next year, and the Emperor begging at our toes! Until then, I'm afraid I'm quite parched." And he waddled off to assault a poor, unsuspecting waiter.

"I don't need to go, there's really no need." Salem said quietly, as Roland turned to leave the ball. The cat stuck his paw out, grabbing Salem around the wrist and tugging it close.

"Of course you do." He hissed, face burning hot with shame. "You're my most trusted assistant, I can't be allowed to be so weak. To just dismiss you, why... would I dismiss the king's soothers?"

"Roland." Salem said firmly, tugging his wrist free. "I'll wait here. Claude Morgan, Brigadier Audric, that slimy fuck Baine, we've enough enemies. The last thing you need is to get on the bad side of the High Chaplain."

But I feel so guilty. Roland thought icily. Instead, he pursed his lips, reaching out to a waiter and replacing his empty goblet with a full one.

"Very well." He relented. "You wait here, socialise some, tell a story about how exciting Hieron is to live in, and by the Triumvirate's tits avoid the subject of the army of thieves at all costs, nobody wants to hear about a crushing defeat on a night like this."

"Of course." Salem replied, turning away and disappearing into the sea of mingling aristocrats. With a pang of loss echoing in his chest, Roland made for the door, but right as he was pushing to leave the spacious ballroom, someone caught him by the collar.

"And just where the bloody hell are you off to?" He groaned as he recognised the voice of his loyal wife, Fantine san Estoc. "I swear to the Triumvirate Roland, if you're about try and pull some move during a glorified jingling of keys..."

"Hello, love." He said tersely, turning back. "Just stepping out for some air."

Fantine wasn't having it. "The last time you tried to get a leg up it cleaved my social circle in two. How you've managed such a refined reputation as of late I'll never know, but you've blundered into some sort of good standing, so do your best not to piss it all away. Please, for once, at least give me something I can actually use."

"Fine. His royal authority High Chaplain Wrast has demanded my presence, sans assistants." Roland admitted. "If I knew what he wanted, I'd tell you, but I suspect he's going to try and make me push a bill his Inquisitor has been putting together."

Fantine cocked an eyebrow. "Which inquisitor? Claude Morgan?" Roland merely stared back, as his wife's face softened. "Roland... are you fucking that bastard again? You said you were done with him, that it was over, I don't want to do this, not again."

"No. Never." Roland muttered. "There's nothing for anyone to gossip over, you can relax. I remain faithful as ever."

"Good." And Fantine straightened her corset. "Because we nearly lost everything thanks to your little lovers' tiff, so if you do start letting him mount you again, at least don't quit this time. The inquisition is an unlikely ally, but it's at the minimum one I can work with."

"I will... keep that in mind." Roland replied, and before she could add some other scathing comment he was out the door, and scaling the winding stairs two at a time. Directly above the ballroom he found a small office guarded by two Artificers, and they ushered him inside as he approached.

Roland stepped into a lavishly furnished office, with thick red carpet, the intricate stained-glass windows looking out to the city. High Chaplain Wrast lounged behind a behemoth of a mahogany desk, while Claude Morgan waited in the corner like a spider, one foot cocked against the wall, a knife poised in his delicate fingers.

"Lord Estoc." Wrast said cleanly, and Roland gave a bow. Preston Wrast was a towering monster of a fox, everyone knew it. Even behind a desk that would dwarf most wolves, the man gave a foreboding presence, long paws folded on the benchtop, a crystalline glass of scotch pushed to one side. He wore a simply grey tailcoat, with brass buttons and the seal of the inquisition embossed across the shoulders.

"Your eminent authority." Roland replied.

"So, our army of thieves has been completely and utterly annihilated." Wrast spat. Roland didn't fail to notice the 'our' Wrast had thrown in, despite the fact Roland had done nothing but let his name be tacked onto the plan. "It is technically unannounced news, but as is to be expected the entire bloody Union knows it already. Nurjan's forces intercepted them before they'd even taken position, the fools. It was an excellent try, but we need to keep pressing if we're to remain in the king's graces."

"Well, there is no higher priority than remaining in his good favour." Roland muttered.

"Naturally." Purred Claude, turning his knife over in a paw. "If the Inquisition goes down, which Magister Baine would like nothing more than to see happen as soon as damn well possible, we'll taking you with us Roland."

Wrast cleared his throat. "The inquisition is not going down." He snarled. "We need to keep Astmoor off our backs a little longer, that's all." He glanced to Claude. "Any word from your northman?"

The snow leopard shrugged. "I'm beginning to feel quite certain they're dead, but if not, I'm starting to doubt it would do much good."

"I'm still holding out hope they're alive. You never know." Roland added.

"Lord Estoc." Wrast said testily, pinching his snout. "In case you've not noticed, we are losing this fucking war. I need you to do a bit more than hold out hope." He slapped a paw down on the desk. "All you've done these last few weeks is prance around and make others look bad. It is becoming increasingly clear that yours and Inquisitor Morgan's gamble has not paid off, the northman is likely dead, as is the king's granddaughter. If that delicate, feline skull of yours has any good fucking ideas, then now would be the time to air them."

Roland glanced to Claude, blood boiling at just the thought of their last encounter. The snow leopard was a spiteful cunt of a man, and even the thought of touching him again made Roland want to gag.

That said... He thought, fumbling for something proactive he could wave in Wrast's face.

"There has been talk of invading Pahran." Roland said confidently. "A handful of Audric's men have been caught discussing plans, and Magister Baine spent half a day arguing at the shipyards the other day. I suspect he was trying to barter for a small fleet in secret." They were all lies, but in Roland's defence he would happily bet money they were true.

"Bah, there's always talk of invading Pahran, from both sides." Wrast spat, lounging back in his seat. "The island is the perfect staging ground for a full-scale invasion, but in ten decades of blood and madness, neither us nor Emperor Kinborough has been willing to risk drawing the Alavakian ire. Whoever strikes the first blow there will surely regret it, only a fool would mistake Alavakia's neutrality for weakness."

Thank you, for stating the fucking obvious. Roland thought, grinding his teeth. He wanted Salem there, he needed Salem there. He wanted to be drunk, forgetting about all this, burying his cock in the gentle young fox, hearing how much he was loved.

"They're doing what I would, given the circumstance." Claude added, chuckling softly. "Playing both sides and waiting for the winner to come clear. Shame it's taken a century to resolve itself."

"We will be the winners, make no mistake." Wrast warned. "But Pahran has been a gossip darling of the kingdom for almost as long as this war has dragged on, so for your sake I hope you have something beyond bland rumour, Lord Estoc?"

Is this why you called me here? Roland wondered. To berate and shit on me, because your damn plan didn't work? Who knew, that arming untrained traitors to the kingdom and sending them off to fight a military better equipped and more disciplined than our own would end in tragedy? You're running out of allies as much as I am Wrast, maybe you shouldn't be pissing on the one person trying to keep this war from ending tomorrow.

"I would suggest..." He glanced to Claude, already feeling queasy at the notion of agreeing with the leopard. "A bill, a kind of pledge for no further aggression so long as Astmoor remains a present threat."

"You think that would stop them?" Wrast asked, narrowing his already narrow eyes. "Are you that naïve, my Lord?"

"Of course not, but it might give some pause, and you said you needed time." Roland replied. "I'll put it forward, and your inquisitors can push on the right people to get it through. If we were to then expose Magister Baine as trying to circumvent such a decree..."

"It could sink him." Claude chimed.

"Sink who?" A cheery voice called, as the door to the office clattered shut. Roland glanced across to see the striking Prince Halder had deigned to join them. The handsome fox sauntered over to the stained window, clasping his paws behind his coat and peering at the artwork. "The only sinking I want to hear about, is that of Astmoor ships, it's about time they got their own Bay of Blood."

"We were discussing Magister Baine, and his many machinations." Wrast said, before hastily adding; "your highness."

"Ah, politics." Halder said lazily. "I'm afraid I have little time for such things."

You're the next king of the fucking Union, but politics is too boring? Roland thought snidely, wondering not for the first time if maybe Astmoor deserved to win.

The prince whirled on his heel, giving Wrast and Roland a clean glare. "I want to know about this traitor business. Why just the thought of a rat infesting our den makes my hackles rise. The inquisition exists to root out this kind of rot, no? What have you done so far?"

"Your highness, it is not so simple..." Wrast said slowly, as if explaining to a toddler why they needed a nap. "This kingdom is rife with gossip and socialites, unfortunately once _one_person knows of our investigation, they _all_will. I've no doubt this is by design, the culmination of decades of Astmoor infiltration."

"We need to sow seeds, and let them sprout." Claude said, talking no different to the prince than he would a clerk. "A small casting of varying lies, the kinds of actionable ones that might prompt some movement from Nurjan. Person A is told the army is going north, person B that they are moving east, C hears it they're going south-west... then we wait to see which way the wolves hunt."

"Some of our own men will have to be sacrificed. It's the only way." Roland added softly.

"Precisely." Wrast said, picking up Claude's thread and running. Halder watched all the while, nodding sagely. "Once we see that, we must close in on the branch most suspected, pruning away false leads and interrogating the weak links. It is very possible we have more than one traitor, and that it is someone very close to us."

"It could be anyone, indeed." Prince Halder concluded, talking as if he hadn't just had it all explained to him.

"A trusted clerk, a squire, a politician..." Claude said, his eyes finding Roland's. "Even a treasured lover, I'd caution us all about starting any... new affairs."

"Fuck yourself Claude." Roland snapped, before he'd realised what he was saying. He slammed his jaw shut, glancing to Prince Halder, who merely blinked.

"Alright then." He added. "Anything else to discuss? Sow the web of lies, the origins of which do not leave this room. My father, bless his heart, is becoming increasingly agitated at the loss of Niverron. He still thinks of it as his home, and every day it remains in Nurjan's claws is another day harder on him. We need a win, gentlemen."

"Heavy is the crown." Claude snickered.

"Inquisitor." Wrast whipped at him. "Your highness, we beg your leave."

"Granted," Halder said with a limp-wristed wave. "But might I beg a word with Lord Estoc in private?" Wrast stood, a little impetuously, but bowed his head.

"Of course." And he began to shuffle around the desk.

"We'll speak soon." Claude whispered, as he passed Roland by.

When the two had left, Halder wandered to the desk and sat back against it. "Have you ever tasted royal cock, Lord Estoc?" He asked the question plainly, and Roland was a little taken aback.

"I... beg your pardon, your highness?" He stammered. Prince Halder had already undone his belt, and as Roland watched his shoved his trousers down to reveal a swollen sheath, the shiny tip of a pink cock poking free.

"Come now, it's no secret to me you've rather... unusual tastes." He hummed, slowly stroking his growing prick. Already stiffening at the unexpected turn of events, Roland let himself stumble forward, eyes locked on the prince's dick. "The inquisition gives me reports on everyone."

"Do I..." Roland asked, glancing to the door. "Do I have to?"

Halder bit his lip, tugging his sheath lower. "I'd recommend it."

"Of course, your highness." Roland said, slowly getting to his knees. He inhaled through his nose, smelling the thick scent of the royal musk. A mixture of shame and excitement swirled in his belly. Tentatively, he reached forward and wrapped a few fingers around the prince's sheath, slowly squeezing.

"Aaaaah." Halder sighed. "It's been far too long since I experienced this. Nobody understands how _bored_one can get, once you're allowed to try anything. Tell me, have you ever fucked a soother, Lord Estoc?"

"No, your highness." Roland said, his skin on fire beneath his fur. The sheer forbidden nature of the act has his prick already leaking pre into his trousers, and a lone paw wandered down to rub at himself.

"Now that is an experience." The prince said, scratching at Roland's head as he leaned in, taking the pink dick in his muzzle. The prince groaned, thrusting forwards slightly as Roland ran his coarse tongue up the front, swirled it around the tip, and then pressed it to the base of his sheath. "Fuck, you are talented."

"Mhmm." Roland mumbled, around a mouthful. He tugged on Halder's balls, slowly working his lips and tongue around the thick cock. He'd always assumed that king's and princes would have tiny pricks, but Halder was more than slightly well endowed.

"I've got a plan to tell you, little cat." The prince said between gasps and moans, as Roland sucked and nipped at his flesh, pulling back, almost stopping, then diving right down again, slowly coaxing his knot free of his sheath fur. "Now, ah, now of course - I can't publically suggest that we need foreign aid to win back our old capital. To... gah, fuck, to show such weakness from the heir would be.... mmmmmm...." He put a paw on the back of Roland's head and forced him down a half-inch more. "Unacceptable."

Roland's prick was straining in his trousers, and his free paw continued stroking out the outside of his bulge, feeling the steady wet patch growing there. It had been some time since he sucked a cock, and the submissive, semi-forced nature of it was having the opposite effect he would have expected. He pulled himself off the prince, a thin glistening string of saliva connecting his lips to Halder's tip.

"What are you suggesting, your highness?" He asked, cocking his head.

"Don't stop." The prince whispered, and Roland dived back down, plunging his nose into the rough pubic fur at the base of Halder's sheath. "I am... rrngh... suggesting that the Inquisition has been in talks with a northern warlord, who goes by the name of Slaugh Morningbreaker."

The name rung a faint bell in Roland's mind, but he was too busy sucking and leaking to bother digging it up.

"This Morningbreaker is the closest thing to a king that those mad savages... ah, fuck, yes... have. We will remain in control of the mines, for a pithy stipend, but in exchange for his assistance in defeating Astmoor, Morningbreaker wants our support to legitimise the Madlands as a new kingdom state."

Roland picked up his pace, rubbing himself more firmly through his trousers, sucking harder at Halder's prick.

"Ah, Lord... I'm getting close, fuck, I'm ready." Halder gasped, squirming in place, pushing down on Roland's head. "Swallow it, drink my seed, down your throat, fuck." Roland pulled on his balls and let his tongue brush against the knot, and a moment later the prince's words had descended into mindless, guttural growls. Thick, tangy ropes of cum shot into the back of Roland's throat, while his own cock began orgasming simultaneously, a thick stain spreading in his trousers as his own seed was sprayed straight onto the fabric. The prince growled, another spurt of cum jetting out, panting as Roland pulled off his cock, wiping the cum from his lips.

"Enjoy yourself, your highness?" He asked coyly, already feeling used as his orgasm faded.

"Of course." Halder said quickly, already stuffing his flaccid prick back into his trousers, standing abruptly.

"And so, Morningbreaker wants the Union to legitimise the Madlands?" Roland prompted, climbing to his feet and trying to tug his jacket down far enough to cover the cum stain. Halder nodded, as if the blowjob had never happened.

"Yes, yes quite. The second inquisitor... a one uh... Gallus san Marsh, I believe. He has been ferrying messages. They want a little more of course, some taxes paid for their land, some men to help solidify Morningbreaker's hold, but other than that, very reasonable demands."

"And what is my part to play in this?" Roland asked, already wary.

"You are going to bring it to me, the idea of siding with him, the deal, all of it. This will be your plan, and you'll reap whatever rewards come." Halder explained proudly, as if it were such a generous offer he could not believe his ears.

Reap any rewards, and suffer any fallout as well. So I get to play scapegoat one more time.

"Just think, Lord Estoc, this could be our ticket to ending the hundred. Morningbreaker can promise us six thousand men, it might be enough to turn the tide."

Might, maybe, perhaps. Always just a guess. And who's to say Morningbreaker won't turn on us right after?

"And if I don't?"

Halder paused, his dark brow creasing. "If you don't?" He came closer, eyes going hard. "That's your decision, I can't force you. Of course though it would be terrible if your young assistant, Salem D'Lange, were to be deported back to Ustric. He seemed such a charming young fox, with such promise in the court. You seem to be fond of him, if nothing else."

"Don't hurt him." Roland squeaked. It had been meant as a threat, but it came out as a beg.

"Although, maybe that report I had on you and your extramarital affairs could be made public? Wrast said it himself, Hieron is a glutton for gossip, and once one person knows..." Halder shrugged. "Then there's our dear Magister of Auspice. I'm certain_we could convince Marricus san Baine and his lapdog Audric to tell anyone and everyone how _you signed off of that foolish levying of traitors, no? It was your responsibility to give them the go ahead, your plan, and it was utterly bungled in every way, a clear-cut fucking disaster. Now almost a thousand men have been butchered, and for what? Nurjan is no worse off than before."

"You've made your point, your highness." Roland relented, staring to the ground.

"That's right. You people are my family's hounds, and I'm tugging on your leash. So do as you're told, Lord Estoc, because I'd likely pull all three. I play the fool act, but I can be very vindictive when the need arises."

"Of course." Halder pushed past him, tugging open the door to the office, and pausing. Below them, the sounds of the ballroom music continued to warble.

"One last thing, Lord Estoc." The prince cooed. Roland glanced up, and found the man grinning.

"You should know better than to let it slip I let you suck my cock, if you'd like to avoid being flayed." His eyes flicked to the cold wet patch at Roland's crotch, and then he slammed the door and was gone.

Roland just stared after him.

"Well, shit."

~ X ~

Roland groaned, feeling invigorated as his climax built. His hips slapped against Salem's rear, both of the men hissing and squirming on the bed. The fox was on his knees, head slumped down and pushed into the blankets, Roland towering behind him, his spined cock sliding in and out with each thrust. Mounting Salem like this filled Roland with pride, and strength. Up here, balls-deep in the submissive fox, he felt he could take anyone head-on, whether they were an inquisitor or a prince. He needed it, needed to be powerful. After what happened with Halder, the shame of it, Roland was almost unable to believe how cowed and pathetic he'd been.

Damned aristocracy, damn this whole fucking country. All they do is backstab and betray, and for what? If the Emperor wants this cursed land so bad, just let him. We're not doing anything better with it.

"Roland, gah, fuck..." Salem gasped, his whole body rocking with the effort. Roland took hold of his tail, pulling on it slightly, bending over him, other paw snaking around the fox's waist and squeezing his cock, fingers tightening around the knot. Salem whined. "Bite me, bite my neck, like a fox."

Roland obliged, sinking his fangs into the scruff as his balls tightened, burying his cock as deep as it might go. With the fox's scruff pinched in his teeth, Roland hissed, feeling Salem's hot cum shoot free of his cock, covering his paw as he squeezed and worked it, rocking his own hips and letting his own orgasm overtake him, cum firing rope after rope into the younger fox.

Finally, the two collapsed in a huff, Roland atop Salem, his pure white belly flush against the fox's brown back. "I need you." Roland found he was saying, whispering, into Salem's ear. His fingers danced down the fox's side, counting his ribs, drawing swirls in his fur.

"And I need you." Salem said back. "I love you."

"I'll never let them hurt you, you're mine; nobody else gets to decide what happens to you."

"Who would want to hurt me?" Salem asked, shifting slightly. "You mean someone who might want to get at you? Who?"

"At this point?" Roland murmured, letting his heavy eyelids slowly close. "Could be any one of them."

~ X ~

"The Cleric-General will be along soon." Miverwak said stately, giving the sergeant his best sneer. The four prisoners were lined up on the ground, bound with rope, blood and cuts covering their face. "Perhaps you'd consider changing your surcoat, to something less muddied?"

The sergeant bared his teeth. "This mud, shit, and blood came from the hard-earned victory of the unshakeable Emperor's greatest men. Perhaps some of us can bend over to avoid getting out paws a little filthy, but we're real men down here, and we do real work."

"I'll remind you you're speaking to Cleric-General Nurjan's foremost clerk." Miverwak snapped, leaning in. "So watch your fucking tongue, or I'll have it cut out." The sergeant spat to one side, right onto one of the captured foxes, but said nothing. Miverwak turned away with a satisfied grin, folding his arms behind his back, heart beating. It felt insane to think he was speaking to people like that, but what else was he to do? He was second to one of the greatest minds of the age, to one of the most important and dangerous people in the Empire, nay, the whole world. Disrespect could simply not be tolerated.

After we're done mopping up the dregs of the Union, we won't stop. They're at the end of their wits, turning on themselves like rabid beasts. Miverwak thought, imagining how glorious a wholly-united Ciracade would be. One world, one banner. No more war or pain, no more soothers pulling on the puppet strings, no more false Triumvirates. Nurjan will take it all, one nation at a time, whittling them away until nothing stands between us and the gods. And perhaps then we'll take them too.

"Stay down, filthy mutt!" One of the sergeant's men barked, smashing the pommel of his spear into the prisoner's gut. The bound fox doubled over, heaving his pathetic scraps up onto the soldier's boot and earing himself a stomp to the ribs.

"They must know their place." Miverwak said, to no one in particular.

"Any hints as to what the Cleric-General may want with four scum of the soil?" The sergeant asked, a wary tone to his voice. "Sir."

Miverwak liked the sound of it. "Lord Nurjan is much too busy to trouble me with each one of his thoughts, sergeant. I am simply given my commands, and I carry them out. As your regiment did, when it smashed this foolish excuse for reinforcements upon the rocks."

"Truly, we are all tools in the unshakeable army." The sergeant demurred, and Miverwak got the vaguest sense he was being mocked somehow. Before he could press further however, one of the captured foxes was up on his feet. Shouting, he slammed into the spearman that stomped on his friend, knocking the soldier down. A third prisoner scrambled forward and grabbed the weapon, immediately running it through the other guard and stealing his dagger. The fourth got to his feet, slipped face-first in the mud, then stood just in time for three arrows to slam into his side, killing him instantly.

Miverwak screamed, and then the fox with the dagger had him around the neck, dragging them both to the wall, the sharp edge of his blade pressed against his throat. The one with the captured spear stood just next to him, brandishing the weapon at the encircled wolves.

"There's six of us right here, boy!" The sergeant barked at the foxes, in barely passable Union Common. "More on the way, and archers squaring up even now."

"Come any closer we'll fuckin' neck him" The one holding Miverwak snarled, pressing the dagger tight enough to draw blood. The young husky felt something warm on his leg, and realised he'd pissed himself.

"Don't! Don't, please!" He whimpered, but nobody was listening.

"Let him go, and you'll be granted swift deaths." The sergeant growled. "Kill him, and you won't be permitted to die!"

"We was listening to you wolf cunts!" The spear-fox cried, waving the weapon back and forth. "This here's an important little pup, huh? Ain't gonna be risking him!"

"Important to himself, maybe." The sergeant said. "We will do what needs to be done, I'm warning you!"

"Get back!"

"Men, ready yourselves."

"No!" Miverwak wailed.

"HALT!" A booming voice called, as a thick, oppressive wave of calm washing over them all. Miverwak felt warmth blossom in his chest as Nurjan came storming through the prison camp, gleaming white armour hot in the sun. He snatched the sword right out of the sergeant's paw, pointed it at the one holding tight of Miverwak. "You, fox."

"Me!"

"Release my clerk, and I give you my word as a wolf you won't be harmed." Nurjan spoke in near-perfect Union common.

"Piss on your words!" The fox snarled back, waving his dagger about. "Wolf words are less than nothing!"

"We want horses!" The one with the spear barked. "And clear passage all the way back to the Union!"

"You cannot be serious." The sergeant mumbled, and Nurjan showed him a paw.

"And my clerk?" The giant wolf asked of the foxes.

"Released when we're safe, course." The one clutching Miverwak said. "You've my word as a fox."

Nurjan paused, glanced around. "Then I've nothing to choose but trust." He lowered his sword, signalled his men. "This is no trick men, you are to bring these foxes two of the fastest horses, some dried fruits, and water!"

"Nurjan, please!" Miverwak whimpered, astounded this was actually happening. It had happened in the blink of an eye; he was still reeling from being grabbed like that.

"It's alright, Miverwak." The wolf said. "This is an opportunity for us to communicate with the enemy, outside of official channels. They will interrogate you, and you will do your best to withstand it. Beyond all, remember this name for me."

"What is happening?" The husky said, vision blurring as he began to cry. The horses were brought out, and he felt himself shoved towards them. "Nurjan, what name?!"

"Salem." The wolf said, somewhat softly, in the most jumbled Astmoor tongue he could manage. "Salem D'Lange."

Miverwak sobbed as he was shoved onto the horse at spear-point, the fox with the dagger climbing up behind him, sharp blade aimed at his kidneys. "Now ride, wolf cunt." He whispered, as Miverwak took the reins.

"Be safe Miverwak." Nurjan called, as he flicked the reigns. "Don't hurt my man! Hold to your word as foxes!"

Miverwak rode as he was ordered, he did exactly as he was ordered. As they left the prison camp in the distance behind, he kept looking around and hoping for an ambush, for a backstabbing archer to pop up from the trees and shoot both the foxes down. The longer they rode however, the clearer it became that this was for real.

After a decisive victory, Miverwak was a prisoner of the Union. And all he had been told was a single name, and it meant nothing to him.

Salem D'Lange.