Jewel: Chapter Four
#5 of Jewel
Vedran was content with his little kingdom and the domain that he governed. For the moment, at least. There were other all-controlling tyrants, true, like Malkariss; whose scope was much more powerful and far-reaching, but Malkariss had been a doddering old fool, and a dead one at that. Vedran was young and cunning.
He knew there would soon be a day- and likely in the near future as well- where the time would come to expand his horizons, but for now; he was happy enough with what he had. And yet.....
He still could not help but yearn for what was not yet his. In fact, much of the warlord's life thus far could be characterized as longing for things that were not quite within his reach.
To say the least, Vedran's start in life had not at all been opulent. He was born in the distant north, where the winters were brutal and seemingly endless and the summers were equally harsh. He and his family lived in the city; whose streets were teeming with lechers, oddly-garbed assassins, con men, and women of the night.
The air was foul and claustrophobic, even outside; the fetid stench of death and disease seemed to permeate everything.
Vedran's mother was a bar wench, and to say the least; she was little better than a whore. Every day she left the house and dressed for work in a daringly low brown leather skirt and an off-white blouse that exposed her cleavage. It was not a job very many females desired, but at the very least it put food on the tables and almost-fresh milk in the children's mouths.
This was better, at least, than Vedran's father; who was a mercenary and hired assassin but rarely found employ in this squalid, urban abyss. It also did not help that Vedran was the eldest child of six siblings, and sometimes felt like something of a replacement father to the youngest: He'd put his youngest three brothers and sister to bed more often than he didn't, gave them bottles, kept them entertained, etc.
It was certainly not always easy work; especially for a young boy of just under ten, but his parents were always a bit _too_distant to acknowledge his efforts.
A pat on the head from his father and a
"You're such a responsible young lad, Vedran. Bless you."
And a few words of praise from his mother- ("Oh, there's my boy. So strong. Always lookin' out for the little ones...."), but all of it had rang hollow.
His parents were out of the house more often than they weren't; and did not always consistently care for the younger members of their brood apart from seeing that their most basic needs were met.
By the time Vedran was fourteen, though, his father's work prospects became much better. Creatures were actually hiring him for his mercenary services; and suddenly life at last began to improve. Eventually, the family was able to move into a house on the edge of the city, which was only a few minutes away from the yawning expanse of forest that lay beyond.
Although the quality varied, the family would almost always have three meals a day. The younger children began to grow healthier now that they had so much room outside to bound and play; and Vedran's parents were so emotionally stable and attentive they almost seemed different creatures entirely.
But Vedran was nearly fifteen now, and too old to fully appreciate such pleasures. The now-distant memories of his earlier life hung over him like a shadow, omnipresent. His younger siblings, at least, would have a happier upbringing with decent food and housing, and parents who were mostly home. But he, though, was just too cynical and embittered to fully embrace this more comfortable lifestyle- who knew how long it would even last?
In the end, Vedran left home when he was sixteen. By then, his youngest three siblings were respectively nine and seven (the boys were twins), and could for the most part take care of themselves. The youngest children cried, of course, and begged him to return soon; which the fox knew was not a promise that he could keep.
He did tell them, however, to watch for his letters; which cheered them to a degree. And so, he left the filth and perpetual squalor of urban life to make his living elsewhere.
~ Vedran nomadically roved the countryside for what had felt like several months. At first, it was exhilarating and freeing; walking down dusty, deserted highways and verdant meadows without having to fear his parents scolding him for this or that. He made a point of never staying in one place for very long; preferring a soft bed of grass and plants to sleep on and a sky full of stars to observe in the nighttime.
Occasionally, he would inevitably pass by another traveler. Sometimes it would be a trader or a wandering merchant who would swap stories and rations with him; typically a friendly older creature who could use a little company on the road. Sometimes, however, he would encounter the more hostile sort; such as the infrequent, glowering squirrel or a shrew who would shoot accusatory glances at him and mutter
"Filthy vermin,"
Or something of the sort.
After several months of this, though, Vedran was growing tired of wandering. One of the main reasons he had left home was to seek work; it was such things that made one an adult, was it not? He did not want to become a mercenary like his father. Such occupations were too riskily unpredictable. Vedran was in search of something
more stable, grounded.
He resolved to join up with a warlord's horde; become a soldier. It certainly seemed like an easy job enough. Travel with the horde, make sure not to displease his superiors, and made sure the enemy was always soundly slaughtered. The young fox was relatively sure he'd be able to adapt.
And so; he was relatively quick to join the ranks of the first vermin horde he encountered: That of Arnulf, a graying and partially-blinded weasel who was far more cunning than he initially seemed. Despite being fairly elderly (in his middle fifties), Arnulf was still young enough and fairly spry despite having had one eye blinded during a long-ago sword duel.
Arnulf approved of the young fox enough, and so Vedran started as one foot soldier in a group of a few dozen (Arnulf's ranks were at about three hundred during their most successful years), whose main weapon was a pike. As time passed and Vedran grew older, he eventually passed through the ranks and into Arnulf's favor. He was a Captain by the time he was twenty-five.
As the years went on, things changed; sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. Young creatures, relatively strong and adept (as well as older veterans who were more seasoned) would join Arnulf, and sometimes the ranks would be distressingly thin after a especially hard-fought battle or two. Vedran remained a captain- if anything, he'd won his chief's favor.
The oddly-colored fox was praised for his excellent leadership and firm, consistent command over the beasts he commanded, as well as his bravery in battle. All in all, there were few things he desired more. Few things. But not many.
At thirty-one, Vedran knew that he wanted more. His present position was simply not enough. He wanted more power still, more influence, and where was he going to get that? Why, only by overthrowing Arnulf!
To say the least, he did have second thoughts about it; more than once, in fact. Far too many times than he wanted to think about, Vedran had hesitated in thinking over an adequate plan. He would not have killed the older creature if he felt he did not have to- Arnulf had shown him nothing but kindness and even something of a paternal support, and clearly trusted him with his life.
What Vedran was about to do would be the ultimate betrayal of the other male's trust in him. And as much as it pained him and saddened him to do this, it was something he simply had to do. And besides; the rewards the fox knew he would receive for this would be far worth the effort....
One night, Vedran had crept into Arnulf's tent as silently and carefully as he could and stood beside the old weasel's bed. For the last time, he hesitated. He didn't have to do this. There was still time to back out. And yet..... Vedran knew he was unable to ignore the allure of all he would command and the riches he would rake in once Arnulf was gone. It was simply too much for him to resist.
And besides, the whole thing would be fairly quick and painless enough.... Provided the weasel never awoke. (Although he probably would; Vedran would simply have to deal with it as a possibility....)
After only a few seconds, Arnulf's eyes flew open; and he stared gapingly at his inferior and confidant with a look of horror.
Reaching down, Vedran took the weasel's thin, bony-looking neck in muscled and much stronger paws and gripped it tightly to the point of strangulation.
"Don't struggle, old man...."
Vedran grated, his voice like ice.
"The less you resist, the less painful this will be for both of us....."
The fox determinedly kept his paws on the older beast's throat; and did not remove them until Arnulf's eyes began to turn glassy, he let out a few weak, pitiable gasps, and expired minutes later. Vedran was smiling as he carefully closed Arnulf's vacant, staring eyes. There was not so much as a bruise on Arnulf's throat.
Why, practically anything could have caused his demise!
Certainly, the healer who would inevitably come to look at him in the morning would simply pronounce it had simply been old age....
The following morning, Vedran could barely keep a sly smile from his face as it was announced that Arnulf had passed away during the night, and that now he was to lead the horde. After a brief period of mourning (And Vedran was certain some creatures inevitably suspected him for being the cause of Arnulf's sudden death, about which they were right. He would deal with them if they were to grow...Too skeptical.), they were traveling again.
After a string of conquests farther south, some lost, some won; Vedran decided to trim his ranks considerably, making sure that his horde consisted only of creatures he knew he could trust. After a few more years of looting and conquering; Vedran and his ranks settled in an abandoned palace south of Mossflower, buying (or else capturing) various woodlanders as slaves to see to its upkeep.
This was more than enough to do for now. Vedran had never set his sights on the Abbey of Redwall- Every creature who had been fool enough to attack that place had ended up dying in quite grisly manners. He was not about to be the next.
And yet.... The fox could not help but long for what he did not have, and the distant Abbey was certainly no exception......
~
Vedran's musings over his past and his present were interrupted as a terrified, harried-looking Jewel came rushing over to him, eyes wide with fear and perhaps revulsion.
"...Hello, sire,"
She panted, stopping to catch her breath.
"Terribly sorry if I startled you, it's just.... I saw..... Milord, I saw Slagar's face."
"And?"
".....It's horrible.....He's terribly deformed....."
He, like many of Slagar's other contemporaries, could not pretend he knew what had been lurking behind that mask. But to say the least, he truly wasn't at all surprised that was what the slaver had been hiding. Monstrous deformities. He could not help but be morbidly curious, however, as to how the other fox had received such injuries as Jewel frantically rattled away descriptions of Slagar's facial features.
"....It was like half his face had just....Had just been torn off. The right side of his face....Disgusting to look at; just horrific, I don't know how he survived. Rotted, and bluish-looking; no fur at all, just exposed skin...."
Vedran only nodded in the manner of a sage grandfather, having heard enough.
"I think that's more than I need to hear."
His tone, though, was cool and gentle; and so Jewel took heed of this and said no more.
"I understand, milord. I've been meaning to tell you, though... I have no reason to further tend Slagar. His leg and ribs seem to have nearly healed and he seems more than capable of treating himself for the rest of the way."
Indeed, if Slagar was half an accomplished a healer as he claimed to be- including how he had survived those terrible facial wounds in the first place- he would have little difficulty in healing himself the rest of the way.
"True enough.... You may do as you will. Go on now, you're dismissed."
Jewel briefly bowed her head in acknowledgment.
"Thank you, sire."
"No, no, the pleasure is mine."
He smiled fondly, lingeringly at the pretty young vixen after she had departed down a shadowed corridor.
He would speak with Slagar again. It was a matter of when, but not if. Vedran had to be certain, after all, that there were no loopholes through which Slagar could outsmart him and therefore manipulate him with. Yes, Slagar the Cruel may have been known as the Sly One (as well as a plethora of other nicknames if the rumors were correct), but Vedran would see to it he would be the one who controlled the outcome of this little bargain....