The Triple Death

A Javen Silvertail adventure - in which a traitor is named, and a critter flees.

The Triple Death

In which, a traitor is named, and a critter flees.

Griswold the barge toad sat at his usual booth in the corner of the Rotten Acorn. A hard day’s work on the fast-running brook had left him aching. He was getting old, proven by the fact he ached more than yesterday, and yesterday he ached more than the day before. But now he could relax, his webbed fingers wrapped around the waxed leaf tankard. The dark ale looked inviting, it smelled inviting, and if this batch of Old Brock’s ale was like his last one, (and why wouldn’t it be? The old badger had been brewing in the dell as long as anyone could remember) then the taste would be like moonlight streaming through the canopy of the oaks that littered the dell.

He looked through the small window across the bar. The sky was the shade of mulberry and orange, that wondrous hue announcing fair weather in the morn. Perhaps there was only an hour or so of daylight left. Time to enjoy the ale he had earned before hopping back down to the bank of the brook and back to his wife. Raising the tankard towards his mouth, he closed his eyes and inhaled the subtle aromas.

The crash of the door jarred him from his reverie, causing him to slop ale over his fingers. The room hushed as the occupants all turned to stare at the newcomers. Three rats strode in, each carrying a spear which leant a further degree of menace to their demeanour and swagger. The dark blue caps they wore announced to all that they were members of the Rat Guard, bodyguard and soldiers of Mariuz II, King of the Dell. Their noses twitched as the made their way towards the bar. A path seemed to melt as the critters of the dell shrank aside. No-one in their right mind messed with the King’s Guard. A starling walked with them; a satchel worn close to the iridescent feathers of his chest, a sword at his hip that made his gait even more awkward.

Griswold recognized him, as did many of the customers of the Rotten Acorn. Samel, the king’s Chancellor. His piercing eyes scanned the room before settling upon Old Brock, the bar badger. He squawked, causing the old badger to jump.

“Your attention is mandatory!” As if to accentuate his staccato address, one of the rat guards stepped across the doorway, just in time to bar the path of a couple of mice, eager to withdraw from the proceedings. The appearance of the rat guards and Chancellor Samel meant trouble for someone.

The chancellor rooted through his satchel with his yellow beak, producing a roll of paper. He shook it towards one of the guards, who took it and unrolled it. The guard drew a small hammer and four nails from his own pouch and proceeded to nail the scroll to the board that stood upon the bar proclaiming Old Brock’s wares and prices. With just one blow each, the four nails were driven into the old wood of the sign. From where Griswold sat, he could make out the headline scrawl. ‘Exiled!’ A sketch of a rat sat underneath, one eye blackened and bruised. The ears were torn and bloody.

“In the name of Mariuz II, King of the Dell, Lord of all Rats and Critters, Baron of the Beasts, let it be known to all citizens of the Dell that a traitor has been uncovered, here in our sacred and peaceful land.” Samel paused whilst the inside of the Rotten Acorn filled with an increasing murmur of astonishment. Whilst many of the clientele of Brock’s bar cared little for the chancellor, the mere mention of a traitor had certainly piqued their interest. As it was with any community, sensational sleaze caught the ear and tempted the attention. The starling felt the eyes of the entire bar upon him as he continued with his delivery.

“A member of the Rat Guard, once a loyal servant of the king, has been found guilty of treason against His Majesty. The dirty traitor has been subjected to the sentence of the Triple Death!” Griswold sucked his breath in, the Triple Death indeed. Not since his early years and the tales told by his grandfather, had he heard of a critter being subjected to such ignominy. The punishment hadn’t been levied in the reign of Mariuz’s father, or his grandfather, yet the new king was intent on ruling with a rod of iron. The Triple Death; Shredding, Exiled and Outlawed, with a price on upon the unfortunate criminal’s head. The toad saw a few younger critters look blankly at the proclamation.

“It is hereby proclaimed that Javen Silvertail,” Samel paused again, knowing full well the effect the name would have on the occupants of the bar. He waited for the simmering to die down. How the mighty had fallen, he thought as he smiled to himself and witnessed the confusion and astonishment within. That’s right, he thought. The one-time favourite of King Memfraz, Mariuz’s father, was a traitor. The saviour of the resin mines, the dog-killer and many more feats of heroism would be talked about no more, all overshadowed by the darkest crime of all. Treason.

“That’s right! Javen Silvertail has been Shredded. Javen Silvertail has been exiled upon pain of death should he ever return to the Dell. Javen Silvertail is now outlaw, with a price of five silver crowns upon his head. Anyone found harbouring the criminal will be subjected to Shredding.” Griswold felt many within the small bar wince. Shredding involved the ears of the guilty being torn to shreds, marking the unfortunate for the rest of their life.

“What did he do?” the old voice of Brock crackled into life.

“Treason. Is that not enough! Is the word of your king not enough?”

“Of course…” stammered the old badger.

“But what exactly did he do?” echoed Dam the Bard, the old beaver who sat next to the fire in the corner of the bar. Some thought the old bard mad, yet all agreed that he could sing, and keep, a tune. “The rat who stood against a dog and won. The rat who saved many when the banks of the brook broke and flooded Berrytown. What wrong did he do?” The tone was mocking with a hint of confrontation layered within the words. It was obvious to Chancellor Samel where the bard’s allegiance lay.

“Very well.” Samel paused and stared first at Dam, and then various others in the crowded room. Only Dam the Bard met and kept his gaze. “Several hours ago, the Rat Guard were called to a warehouse on the lake side. Word had been given that members of the Red Paw were meeting, plotting the downfall and murder of His Majesty, King Mariuz II.” His dramatic address fell flat as a hedgehog near to Dam the Bard collapsed in giggles. He yelped as one of the blue capped rats jabbed him with the butt of their spear.

“Enough!” Shouted the starling, his voice rising above the murmur that threatened to claim the room. “Your hero, Silvertail, was a member of that cell. Then when our brave rats assaulted the building, he not only claimed the life of one of his old comrades, but he also slew his new compatriots in a cowardly act.” His wings fluttered slightly as he listened to the sharp intakes of breath from the clientele. They didn’t want to believe it, not of the hero of the dell. He waited to deliver the coup-de-grace.

“And then, in one final, failed attempt to escape the blades of justice, your flawed hero found himself in the path of Fisherwoman Boort. The blackhearted knave cut her down without a second thought.” There was a sharp intake of breath from the four corners of the room. Fisherwoman Boort was well known throughout the Dell, well known and well loved. The Chancellor continued, pointing to the poster on the bar board. “That is your hero! That is the traitor, Javen Silvertail. He was taken prisoner shortly afterwards, and Mariuz the Merciful took pity on him.”

“By giving him the Triple Death?” Dam the Bard thumped the floor with the flat of his tail. “It would have been kinder to have killed him outright.”

Chancellor Samel nodded, trying to look thoughtful.

“Who dare question the words and thoughts of a king?” It wasn’t a threat or accusation but a rhetorical question. Who indeed? He though. The Triple Death, a punishment for the most heinous of crimes. The pain of the Shredding came first. That act this evening had been carried out by Mariuz’s chief bodyguard, the weasel myrmidon, Art Sevrance. Fierce, unyielding and slightly psychotic, the weasel was the better of any critter in the Dell when it came to fighting, with either sword or claw.

He thought back and shuddered at the memory of the flashing claws and teeth, and the spray of blood that splashed from the thin membranous ears of the fallen hero. Most of all, though, he remembered the pain etched onto the rat’s face and the pitiful cries that had finally escaped from between the teeth of Javen’s clamped jaw.

After the pain would come the Humiliation of the Exile. Forsaken by friends and family, shunned by all, the torn ears a traumatic branding of a heart most foul. Alone and banished from the community of the Dell, myths told of those of old who had suffered the Triple Death. Many had succumbed to the depths of blackness and madness, as the feeling of solitude worked its deadly blade into their very psyche.

Finally, Outlaw; the true meaning of the word. The traitor was removed from the protective shield of Justice and Law. Any act could be done unto the outlaw, and it would be justified in the eyes of the law. Unruly youths could throw stones to force them on their way, and their goods and riches could be stolen with impunity. Nothing could help the reputation, not to mention the purse, of a young sword more than returning home to the Dell with the head of an outlaw on a stick.

“Let the King’s word be done.” Samel smiled. The upstart would be well on his way beyond the borders of the Dell by now, that is, if he had any sense. He made his way from the hushed crowd, his accompanying guards covering his path and ushered others out of the way.

Griswold bent to sup his pint. Now, there was a turn up for the books, he thought. Old Silvertail a traitor. Could it really be? When the voice spoke, it came from behind Griswold, further back in the booth that had been empty when he had first sat down. The words were quiet but were announced clearly with a tinge of pain bleeding between them.

“It was not like that.”

Griswold jumped as if the old barge hand had sat upon a thistle. He managed to quell any sound though a few suds of ale again splashed from his tankard.

“He lies.”

He looked across the bar as the chancellor and his guards stood by the doorway, about to hammer another poster to the door itself. Griswald knew the voice, he knew whose words lingered in the smoke laden air of Old Brock’s Bar. He knew without looking who sat next to him. Something deep within his heart forced him to stay silent, overriding the urging of his brain to cry out in alarm.

He glanced sideways. The figure was shrouded in the folds of a dark cloak, formed more from patches than the original material. Griswold could just make out the whiskers and a grey snout poking out from within. The soft grey fur was flecked with still wet blood.

“It was not like that. He lies.” The figure repeated his words, speaking so softly that Griswold’s beating heart nearly drowned them out. The barge toad raised his tankard to his mouth, more to disguise his words than to drink.

“Give me one good reason not to call out right now.”

“Because you know it’s not true. Deep down, you do.”

“Try me.” He growled, trying to sound unimpressed, but the rat spoke the truth. He doubted many in Brock’s Bar believed the account told by the starling. There had to be more to it than that. The cloaked figure sat back, shrinking into the corner of the booth. He all but disappeared into the shadow cast by the lantern that hung from the ceiling over the neighbouring booth. Finally, he spoke.

“I had retired to my cell after evening repast, my duty done for the day, or so I thought. There came a knock at my door. It was the sergeant calling me to arms. A warning of a Red Paw cell had been raised and Albrus Longsnout had called for reinforcements. I quickly armed and made my way down past the bramble fields to the lake. It was there that I met Fisherwoman Boort.”

He raised a hand to rub the end of his snout. Griswold couldn’t help but notice the battered fingers on the hand of the rat.

“I swear as the brook runs fast and deep, that I left Otter Boort alive and well. Though the news she gave me disturbed me somewhat, and I hurried along the path to Albrus.” He turned towards the barge toad so that Griswold could see his eyes, bright within the hood.

“She told me that it was not a Red Paw cell, just some youths from Elderwood meeting and passing time. True, they had no time for Mariuz.” As Javen mentioned the king’s name, Griswold grunted as if to agree and say who did. “The only thing they were plotting was finding some bramble wine and possibly scrumping from Old Dan’s orchard. She wanted to tell Albrus that the youths weren’t armed, and that they weren’t terrorists. One of them was the son of her neighbour. A good lad.

“So, I hurried along and caught Albrus and his squad near the warehouse. Just in time, or so I thought, as they were about to storm the building. When I told him what Otter Boort had said, he believed me not. I begged and begged for a chance to talk to the youths but to no avail. It was then the weasel appeared, something thrown over his shoulder.” The rat shuddered as an uncomfortable memory flooded his mind. Griswold could hear the tempo of the words slow down.

“I finally recognised the dress, that purple that Boort favoured. My heart was in my mouth as Art asked me which way I had approached from. When I replied ‘from the bramble fields’, I could see the wry smile he gave Albrus as he dumped his burden on the ground before us. ‘Did you run into Fisherwoman Boort?’ he asked me. It was all I could do to stammer out an answer as I looked down upon her broken and bloodied body. I didn’t think I had to announce my innocence either. That is, until they both accused me of murdering poor Boort! I have no time for that weasel, but Albrus enlisted in the Rat Guard in the same four-season as I did. We were barrack mates for many a season. I couldn’t believe that he would be taken in by such falsehood.”

Griswold drained his tankard and contemplated getting another. He thought better of it, unwilling to call attention to Javen whilst he was talking, but also not trusting himself to give the fugitive away, either consciously or subconsciously.

“They grabbed me and took Thorn.” Javen mentioned the sword that was almost as famous as he was. Infamous now, Griswold corrected himself. The rat continued. “Then Albrus passed judgement in Mariuz’s name and then the weasel did this.” He raised his hands to the hood, ready to show the old barge toad the Shredding.

“No. I do not need to see it.” He shook his head and looked furtively about the room. “Besides, someone might see you. And then we are both in trouble.”

Javen Silvertail reflected on the toad’s words. Slowly his hands lowered to his lap. Griswold spoke again.

“So old Fatty Mariuz didn’t pass judgement on you himself?”

“He wasn’t there, but he knew. It was always his plan. After all, he hadn’t forgotten that I had apparently insulted him at his coronation, when I heaped praise on his father, Memfraz, for being a great king – and then said nothing about him.” He paused and rubbed his snout again. “But if you feel insulted if someone tells the truth, then maybe you need to listen carefully.”

“Oh, it seemed he listened. And remembered.” Griswold grimaced. Where Javen had started to push his hood back, his grey nose now poked out further. A solitary speck of blood had formed upon a whisker, weighing the hair down as it edged towards the point. Any second now, it would plummet to the table below.

“And the youngsters? Samel said that you brought them down as well.”

“No, Albrus’s rats led them out, bound and blindfolded. They are already in the mines, Griswold. They won’t see the sun set on the Dell again.” He paused, thinking of the youngsters. The mines beyond Briar Hill were reserved for only the worst criminals in the Dell. Find yourself there, and you never came out. “Both you and I know, if I had killed them as the starling said, I would have done them a great service. Something is rotten here in the Dell, Griswold. Rotten and stinking.”

“We all think that, old friend.” The barge toad gulped at his words. He hadn’t thought about Javen as a friend before, but it was true. Javen was well liked by many of the Dell’s critters. It was just that no one called him ‘friend’. Now he had, turning himself into an accomplice of the so-called traitor.

“But I must leave now, it isn’t safe for me here. Just get by as best you can until I can find out what is afoot and return.”

“Then why have you come here? If it were me, I would be halfway to Salthaven by now. And past it by morning.”

“I need Thorn. She was my father’s sword and his father’s sword, and before that, his father’s. For one hundred four-seasons Thorn has been a blade for a Silvertail, no-one else. I cannot allow her to fall into infamy and ill repute in the hands of Albrus or the king.” He paused and shuddered again. “Or that weasel.”

“You are quite mad.”

“Yes. I suppose I am. Mad at having put up with Mariuz and his paranoia for the last four-season, that is. I should have retired when Memfraz passed away.”

“Who would have looked over the critters in the Dell, then?”

The rat fell silent, unable to answer the barge toad’s question. Finally, he stood. Griswold pushed out an arm, pulling him back down in his seat.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“I need to go.”

“Yes, but not out of the front door. Samel has only just left. He could be waiting.”

“He thinks I am, as you say, halfway to Salthaven.”

“And Albrus?”

Javen paused. Then clenched his fists in frustration.

“No, he knows I will come for Thorn. He will be outside.”

“Then do the unexpected. Leave through the window. Go, and leave Thorn for now. You think of it as an extension of your family, but in truth, it is but a blade. There are hundred, thousands more blades under the sun.”

Javen chuckled.

“Why not do both? Now, that will be very unexpected.”

The barge toad looked confused. The rat leant in conspiratorially and whispered.

“This is what I need you to do.”

Albrus Longsnout pulled his cloak about him a little tighter than he liked. At his age, he should be back in the nest, curled up with a flagon of ale. You knew you were old when the flagons of berry ale appealed more than the curves and fur of a young mate, that much he knew. Maybe Javen had been right when the old rat had mentioned retiring. It had been a joke, but maybe they should both have gone by now. If he had, then he wouldn’t be in this mess now. And if Javen had, well… maybe if he was one to keep his nose down and keep himself to himself, he would have been okay too. But as it was, Javen was the Critters’ Hero, the dog killer, and many more claims to fame. He wouldn’t sit back and see Mariuz bring the Dell down. Not like Albrus. That was why he had to go.

A little rain had started, nothing more than a drizzle, but it nonetheless made the evening more unpleasant. He looked about at the others crouched in the nettles across from the bar. The Rat Guards were all youngsters, keen and ready to do their king’s bidding. Art Sevrance, the psychotic weasel, was cleaning his claws with the tip of a dagger. His stomach churned at the memory of the Shredding of his one-time friend. He had wanted to stop it, to shout ‘No!’ and push the weasel away, but he would then have shared Javen’s fate. Maybe several four-seasons ago, he would have done so, but now, he was so far under Mariuz’s claw.

A Rat Guard hollered from the far side of the nettle lane. The wind had got up and the words were nearly drowned out, but the weasel laughed, popping the dagger back into its sheath.

“We’ve got him now. I was right, he wouldn’t go straight away.” He called his men together and they started to run off into the drizzle. When he realised that Albrus wasn’t moving, the weasel stopped and called out.

“Have you seen enough blood, old rat?”

Far too much, thought Albrus. The weasel ran off, laughing and calling to his guards.

“A silver crown for the one that catches the traitor. If you leave him alive, that is!” Albrus watched as they darted into the undergrowth on the far side of the road, chasing their prey. He shook his head slowly. They won’t catch him, he thought. Then he said it aloud.

“You won’t catch him.” He turned to face deeper into the undergrowth. “Because he is right here with me.”

A figure stepped forward from behind a fallen log, a hooded cloak pulled up over his head and face. The cloak was heavily patched, and the different colours helped the figure blend in with the vegetation and underwood beyond. The tip of a silver tail protruded from under the hem of the cloak.

“That’s right, Albrus.” The figure whispered, his words barely carrying to where the old soldier stood.

“Hello, old friend.” Albrus said, making no move for his sword. He let the cloak slip open a bit, to show the newcomer his blade, and also the second scabbard on his other hip.

“Do not ‘old friend’ me. Does an old friend do this?” The figure raised his hands to his hood and pushed it back. A bloodied mess was revealed, the cuts to the ears still smarting and bleeding. The smur that seemed to hang in the air thinned the blood causing it to run in rivers down the face of Javen Silvertail.

“I had to. Don’t you see. I had no choice.”

“Just as I have no choice but to think of the critters that I serve. That we,” he pointed to Albrus and then himself, “were meant to serve.”

“You don’t know what he is like…”

“I do. Which is why I am here, Shredded. What does Mariuz want from the Dell, Albrus. What is his final plan?”

“Whom do they chase?” Albrus ignored the question and nodded his head in the general direction that Art and his guards had taken.

“Someone in Brock’s Bar told Johnny Lop-ear that his wife was ready to drop her litter. But the route to the door was blocked – and someone kindly offered him an open window, and a cloak not unlike one a King’s Guard would wear.”

“Johnny Lop-ear, you say? He’s fast. I don’t think they will catch him.”

“And if they do track him, he lives the far side of the lake.”

“Very good, Javen. Why aren’t you over the borders by now. I know I would be. What do you want?”

The bloodied figure pointed to the sword on Albrus’s hip.

“I have come for Thorn.”

“The weasel will be upset when he returns from his wild rabbit chase, only to find out that my scheme worked and his didn’t.”

Javen pulled a thick bladed knife from his belt. It was no match against the length of a sword but was better than an open hand. Albrus nodded towards it, acknowledging the weapon.

“A barge knife, Javen. Do I need to see old Griswold after I deal with you? After all, consorting with a traitor is to share in his crime.”

“You leave the old fool alone, Albrus. He’s only guilty for leaving his lockers undone and his tools strewn about his barge.”

Albrus laughed, pulling his own sword from its scabbard. The rain was coming down faster and harder now, splashing on the ground.

“Intent on finishing the weasel’s work, eh, old friend?” Javen retorted. His tone stabbed Albrus, reminding the old soldier of his betrayal. “You could always give me Thorn now and save us both the trouble. You know she will end up in my hand anyway.”

Albrus leapt forward, closing the gap between them in the blink of an eye. His sword snaked out, intent on seeking out Javen’s heart. The bloodied rat was just as quick. In the twitch of a whisker, he had sidestepped and parried, the thick blade clanking against the longer, but thinner sword. Albrus stood back, his free hand on his hip, his sword arm turned towards his opponent.

“You could always let me finish it and save us both the trouble.”

“That does seem more trouble for me, so I will decline.”

“Enough words, traitor! Now fight!” He lunged forward again, and once more Javen parried.

“Does that make it easier, old friend? Does it? You know in your heart that I am innocent.”

Albrus snarled in response and darted in again for another attack. This time, Javen whipped his cloak off as he sidestepped, wrapping his opponent’s sword arm with it. As he spun round, he flung the end of the cloak over Albrus’s face, then kicked his knee. The old rat cursed, trying to free himself. Javen took advantage, driving his fist that gripped the hilt of his knife into Albrus’s chest. Albrus went down with a curse, his arm still wrapped and trapped. Suddenly, Javen was upon him, pushing back down into the thick, worsening mud. Rain splattered all around and Javen struck him several times more. Finally, he leant down close to Albrus and whispered in his ear, the point of the knife held against his cheek.

“An eye for an eye, that is what they say, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t take your eye.” spat Albrus, his snout covered in blood.

“No! But you took my ears, damn you!” Javen whipped the blade across the fallen rat’s ears, slicing the tips off. Albrus shrieked in pain.

“Now we are both disfigured.” Javen Silvertail smiled and smashed the hilt down on his opponent’s head. The world went black for Albrus.

Javen Silvertail stepped onto the riverbank, letting the small raft he had used to cross, drift away. Behind him was the Dell; the land and critters that he had sworn to protect. Now, he was exiled, but he would still fight for those critters. That was his way of life; to help those in need of aid, to draw a sword for those who couldn’t, to bleed for those who had no more blood to give.

He tentatively touched his bandaged ears. The bleeding had finally stopped. His hand fell to the sword on his hip, the hilt a familiar feeling in his grip. He climbed the bank without looking back. He had no need. At some point, when he was ready, he would return to the Dell. He hoped then, to mete out justice to the foul beast that was Mariuz II. But for now, he was Javen Silvertail, outlaw.