Forbidden Truce: The Madness's End. (Tammo's competition.) WARNING: VIOLENCE

[The Skarzs]

The Madness's End

     Night faded into dawn, shedding light onto the sparsely-forested side of a mountain, and the scene that the darkness had kept hidden. Donavin pressed himself against the trunk of a tree, sucking in large breaths of air. The otter dared to take a look at his leg, now that he had a little light, but immediately shut his eyes tightly. A curse escaped his lips.
     A large splinter of wood stuck out of the side of his thigh, oozing blood through the cloth of his pants. It had not hurt as bad when he did not know what it looked like.
     "Damn it, Orvil, where are you?" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Mother always said I was the brash one. . . So why'd you hafta be the one to run off alone?"
     Donavin peered around the trunk. The rocks and brush made eerie shapes in the half-light, but nothing moved except by a silent wind. A bird chirped somewhere in the trees, heralding in the day with his song, and mocking the events of the night with his cheer. Donavin cursed the bird. He looked back down the slope; two bodies could still be seen, one of them a squirrel, and the other an otter.
     He checked his quiver; there were two arrows left, and one nocked go his bow. The rest he had shot off into the darkness.
     "Just one weasel. . . How could one weasel do this?" Donavin whispered. He reached for a bottle on his belt, his paw shaking as he undid the stopper and brought the rim to his lips. A fiery liquid poured down his throat, and he breathed out through his teeth as he put the bottle back. Not even a drink could calm his nerves. Orvil always said that would happen someday.
     Where were the others?
     After one more look around the tree, Donavin dropped his bow and sat down, tearing off the sleeve of his tunic and cutting it into strips with his knife. He had to at least try to staunch the bleeding. He wrapped some cloth around the thing in his leg, then tightly strapped it down with more around his thigh.
     An unearthly cry echoed off the rocks, and Donavin jumped up at the sound, eyes wide. He listened for more, but the only thing he heard was his own heart racing faster than it ever had before.
     "Where?" he asked himself.
     Most everyone else was dead, or scattered. But Orvil was out there, and so was that weasel. Donavin had to find him.
     Gritting his teeth against the pain, the otter stood up and limped up the hill, his bow held ready to pull and release. His breath came out as light wisps of steam in the cold morning, and the dew on the brush and grass soaked his fur and clothing. He had no idea where he was going; there were either no signs to track, or too many to follow. The cry could have been from any part of the hills, carried along by the wind miles from its origin. All Donavin knew was that they had tracked and pursued the weasel to this section of hill, and there he terrorized them through the whole night. How many were left, he did not know, but he knew the death toll was high among the Lonel squirrels and his own Grethegs. Whatever the case, the vermin knew the land like the back of his paw.
     Donavin scrambled over some jagged rocks, gasping in pain from his wound. How much further did he have to go?
     As far as he needed to, he answered. He could not let his brother Orvil go off without help, not with this creature.
     A sheer rock face rose up in front of him, and he pressed himself against it, taking a breather to rest his leg. The wound throbbed. Suddenly, from above, came the sound of scraping, and rocks and dirt showered down on Donavin. He jumped away from the rock, pulling his bow back. A figure slid down from the top, raising his paws above his head when he reached the ground.
     "Lord Donavin Gretheg, don't shoot!"
     "Who are you?" snapped the otter.
     "My name is Fabany, I'm a squirrel, a soldier of the Lonel family. I came with you and Lord Orvil."
     Donavin relaxed his bow. "Have you seen Orvil? And anyone else? Did you hear that cry"
     Fabany shook his head. "No, sir, I haven't seen any others from the group for well over an hour. . . I've seen the weasel, Zuzucath. I thought that sound was him."
     Donavin breathed in sharply at the name. "Curse him! Where did you see him? What happened?"
     The squirrel showed his spear. "I managed to wound him, in the arm I think. He was trying to sneak up on me, but he ran away. I've been tracking him since."
     "This isn't a normal weasel, Fabany. Here, let me come with you. We'll be better off sticking together."
     "Yes. He seems to be up higher, but I am not good at tracking. There are dozens of little trails all over the place."
     "Then it's a good thing you found me," grunted Donavin as he set off to find a way up. "I'm the best tracker in th' land. If I can find the freshest trail, then I can find him."
     The two found their way back up to where Fabany had dropped down from, and Donavin used the waxing light to search the ground for any sign of Zuzucath. Fabany brought the otter back along his path, where a trail, worn into the dirt and shrub from use, wound away up into the rocks.
     "Like I said, there are dozens of these. They'll lead you in circles if you don't pay attention."
     Donavin nodded at Fabany's words. "Show me where you first saw him."
     "I can do better than that: I can show you where I last saw sign of him. This way." Around a quarter mile further along the side of the hill, the squirrel pointed out some specks of blood on the ground. Three trails branched out from one. "Here. I went down two of these, but didn't find anything. He must have stopped bleeding. By now he could be anywhere."
     After another pull on his flask, Donavin stooped down and looked at the blood. It was still mostly red, not brown yet. But it was not the only thing he could track. He checked along the paths, including the one they had come from. The ground was hard, and did not leave footprints well, but a scuffed rock, a crushed spear of grass, or a disturbed rock were all Donavin would need for evidence. The next path over from the one they had come from caught the otter's interest.
     "I already went down that one," said Fabany.
     "But that was when it was dark, and you're not me. Come on." He went along the trail bent double, looking closely at both sides of the beaten path, especially on the side that was toward the higher ground. With a small smile, Donavin pulled back a wiry brush, revealing a small, previously hidden way up into the hill.
     ". . . I hadn't seen that before!" exclaimed Fabany.
     "That's why I'm the best," grunted Donavin.
     They pushed on, following the new trail with greater hope. They stayed silent, for the most part, more focused on the hunt than anything else. Besides, Donavin knew that he was a Lord of the Gretheg house; Fabany was nothing more than a soldier of the Lonels. There was an unspoken rule that they should not speak together as equals.
     Despite this, the squirrel finally broke the ice. "What happened to your leg?"
     The reminder of his wound made Donavin wince. "The mangy weasel stuck me, and broke off his spear in my leg. I'll kill him for that."
     "I don't doubt it." The path widened, and they were walking shoulder to shoulder. Fabany looked off to the side, then back at the otter. "Lord Donavin, may I ask you something?"
     "I hope it's quick."
     Fabany took a moment to think before asking his question. "Do you think we can have peace?"
     Donavin stiffened, and his brows furrowed. He remembered a similar conversation with his brother, and it was not a quiet discussion. "Our feud goes back beyond our years. It's ingrained in us."
     "But we've proven we can work together. Do we even remember how this all started? Should we care?"
     Donavin spun on the squirrel and knocked him to the ground, his bowstring tightening just a little as he pointed his arrow at Fabany. "This is beyond just us. Our families aren't gonna just join paws because of one weasel."
     Fabany raised his paws in front of him; his spear dropped when he fell. "Very well, sir. But I think we still ought to keep each other alive up here."
     The otter grimaced, then turned away. "Not another word."
     In frigid silence they moved on, Donavin knowing they were getting close to something. There was more debris, like bones and feathers and rotten fruit cores, and more than a few filthy, torn, rags of cloth. All brush and grasses were burnt and charred; only blackened stumps remained of trees. The smell of smoke hung in the air like some noxious incense to welcome newcomers. Rocks were painted strange colors, mostly a reddish-brown, strange strange shapes and patterns and faces, if they could be called faces.
     Even more bizarre, however, were standing figures on either side of the path, mockings of life made from large bones and sticks and cloth, lashed together in crooked manner and hung with random decorations. Some bore sun-bleached skulls that stared at the two hunters with empty sockets and grinning teeth: remains of the victims of a crazed killer.
     "What is this place?" Fabany choked out. "What manner of creature would do this! Look, there's the skull of a weasel! He kills his own kind!"
     "This is the home of a monster," muttered Donavin.
     The eerie path made a curve, and with it came an awful stench. Both creatures covered their noses in an attempt to keep from smelling it. Donavin felt like throwing up; he knew what the smell was. Something was burning. He dropped his bow and took his flask from his belt again, quickly uncorking it and taking a deep swig. He could feel the heat of the liquor in his belly, but it could not hide the smell. Fabany gagged beside him.
     They forced themselves to go on, breathing through their mouths so they would not succumb to the foul reek. Both of them were tensed to the smallest muscle from warning signs blaring at them from all sides, crying out for them to stop and turn back, but Donavin's loyalty to his brother kept him moving. Something in his instincts told him that he needed to hurry, otherwise it would be too late. He ignored the pain in his leg and threw caution to the winds as he picked up the pace, clambering uphill without waiting for Fabany.
     "Lord Donavin!"
     There was just one more rise before the hill evened out into a plateau, and when Donavin reached the top, he let out a long cry of anguish. There, laying on his stomach in a puddle of blood, was the still form of Lord Donavin's brother, Orvil Gretheg. His strong arms lay stretched out limp in front of him, his tail and legs out the other way with a trail of blood behind, as if he had been dragged there. Donavin hobbled up to Orvil and dropped to his knees. Then, with shaking paws, he turned Orvil over to reveal the deep cut across his throat. The face stared blankly up at Donavin, once proud and handsome and full of confidence, but now disfigured with dirt and scratches.
     "Please, please no, please!" Maybe it was not Orvi! Maybe it was another soldier! But no. . . Donavin knew the truth.
     Fabany caught up with him, and stood watching the sad scene in grim silence. Donavin clutched Orvil in arms, and tried to clean the dirt out of the dead otter's eyes to look into one more time; the eyes that so often had shown great kindness while he scolded yet another brash action made by his brother, warm eyes that inspired trust and demanded loyalty, soft yet hard, guarded but open, always watching out for his subjects. Those eyes no longer had warmth left in them. They were dimmed, clouded, and unresponsive. The gray light of morning did not even reflect in them any more.
     "I would give anything. . ." Donavin whispered.
     "Donaa-!" Crack!
     Donavin spun around the moment he heard Fabany scream. For a moment, the squirrel stood with his head turned at an impossible angle, then two paws released him, and he dropped to the ground like a ragdoll.
     "Squirrelly, wirly! Too bad, sad, yesss, he could have made more screams! I don't like lots of noises, but screams are good, yessssss. . ."
     A weasel stood in the place where Fabany had been moments before. His body was thin like a reed, yet every muscle that could be seen under his worn fur was like a metal rope. A motley assortment of stolen rags made up his clothes, burned and cut in some places, and broken up by little trinkets hung on his body with no order or care. But his eyes captured Donavin's attention. They were dark, almost completely black, devoid of emotion and sane thought. His lids blinked constantly as he jerked his head from side to side slightly, observing Donavin curiously.
     "Otter's dead, like other otters. He will be good, yesss. . . How will you be? Will you scream?" His face nearly cracked in half with a smile that would forever be burned into Donavin's memory. "We will see! But others were quiet, but we killed them quickly, but we didn't use fire. . . Fire!"
     He danced about suddenly, hopping over to a pit in the earth that smoked faintly. "Fire, yesss!"
     "You. . ." Donavin gaped at the weasel, then stood up slowly with rage covering his face in a terrible mask. "You killed them! You killed him! Zuzucath!"
     The weasel almost turned his head completely around to look at Donavin, and his boy followed behind as his eyes locked on the otter. "Kill them? Kill them! Yess, I killed. . . You thought it was them, the little squirrellies! They thought it was you! Zuzucath laughed and laughed. He played with lots of pretty fires. But you ruined his-my fun! Zuzucath. . . Zuzucath will burn!"
     With a terrifying scream, the mad weasel held up a dried fur branch that suddenly crackled and burst into flame. He rushed at Donavin, who picked up his bow and arrow, but could not aim it properly. His arrow flew off and hit a rock, shattering into splinters. With surprising strength and speed, Zuzucath was on him in, trying to brand Donavin's face with the burning branch. He closed his eyes against the hot sparks that showered down on him, and kicked the weasel back with his good leg with all his might.
     Zuzucath stumbled back into the fire pit, letting out another scream as he landed on the hot coals. Donavin scrambled back on his feet and limped away as fast as he could, climbing over rocks and bushes with Zuzucath's shouts following him.
     "Hurt otter can't run! Can't hide! You will burn!"
     "You first, weasel!" Donavin shouted back. He stumbled, and fell, but got back up and continued on, desperately looking for a vantage point. He was in a little ravine made by two walls of rock on either side of the path, and there was only one way to go. He nocked his arrow to the bowstring.
     A singsong voice that sounded too close for comfort assaulted Donavin's ears. "Run, run, running away! Why do they all run away? Smiles, smiles, smiling me! Running from the smiles? Come back, little otter! I want to show you something pretty!"
     There! Donavin found what he needed. He came out of the ravine and ran to a large boulder directly in front of him. His injured leg hit the rock, and he cried out in pain, but clambered up anyway. He sat on top with his bowstring tight, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he watched the path.
     "I've only got one shot, but you've only got one way through," he growled.
     "Found yoouuu!"
     Donavin shouted in surprise. Zuzucath was perched on another rock further up the hill to his left, and was jumping down to run at the otter with a knife in one paw and a flaming torch in the other. Donavin turned, drew back his bow, and-
     Shiff!
     The deadly shaft hissed as it flew from the bow straight and true. . . straight into the dirt behind the running weasel. Donavin's heart stopped.
     Zuzucath came at him, unaffected by the near-miss. He mounted the boulder Donavin had struggled up as if he were a spider, and pounced on the otter with a screaming laugh. They rolled over one another, trying to get the upper paw, but with Zuzucath's weapons, and Donavin's injury, time told quickly where the fight was going.
     Zuzucath pressed his knee into Donavin's wounded thigh, and the otter let out a cry of pain; it was all the distraction the weasel needed. He bore down on his victim with his knife, and pressed the burning tip of the torch into Donavin's skin, not even minding the flames that licked his own paws. His face was contorted into a smile of murderous delight as Donavin struggled.
     "Firelight, bright flame! Beauty that kills, I answer its wills!"
     Donavin felt his flesh bubble and cook from the torch; the weasel had driven a metal spike into the end to heat in the flames. "Ah!" he cried. That made Zuzucath press harder.
     The otter racked his brain for a way to escape. His opponent held down his legs with his own, and his paws were occupied dealing with the torch and dagger. Though it hardly seemed possible, Zuzucath grinned wider when he saw the desperation in Donavin's face, and he leaned closer.
     "Scream more! Yess-oh!"
     With a lunge, Donavin threw his head at Zuzucath, and grabbed him by the muzzle with his own teeth. Zuzucath pulled away with a muffled scream, dropping his torch, but redirecting his dagger to Donavin's head. The blade cut across the otter's right eye and the bridge of his nose.
     "It bites!" Zuzucath screeched as he leapt up and hopped around, holding his bleeding face. "Not right, not good! Hurt me, hurt him! Burn, cook, slow!"
     But Donavin did not wait for the other to come after him again, and he crawled backwards as the weasel raved, fumbling around for his bow as he tried to wipe blood from his eye. But just as he felt wood in his paw, he felt the rock slope away from him, and he fell.
     Mountain earth does not provide a soft landing, and it made no exception for Lord Donavin Gretheg; he felt something crack in his chest. Breathing suddenly became laborious, and he could not even make a cry to sound his pain. He opened his good eye to see Zuzucath above him on the boulder with legs bent to spring.
     "Buuurrn!" screamed the weasel as he leapt into the air, knife poised for a killing blow.
     Time seemed to slow as Donavin held his weapon up in front of him to try to ward off the impending attack, closing his eyes and expecting to feel the cold touch of steel inside his body at any moment. So be it, he thought. At least I will see Orvil.
     The two collided, and Donavin felt the impact on his whole hurting body. But instead of finding yet another source of pain, there was only an odd pressure, mostly against his arms. He opened his eyes, and gasped in shock at the face before him.
     Zuzucath's features were frozen in a look of surprise and pain, and he looked down at the smoldering torch imbedded in his stomach. Blood dripped from his mouth as he let out a gurgle, and rolled off of Donavin into a curled up ball of pain. Donavin sat up and looked at him making strange twitching movements, sometimes letting out a silent scream, other times releasing a quiet, pained grunt.
     Donavin stared at the weasel for a short time, then dragged himself to his feet. "You. . ." he gritted out. He could hardly see, but he knew where the weasel was. "You took from my family more lives than any other. You burned, you murdered, you plotted, you tricked, and you laughed the whole time!" He sucked in a painful, hissing breath. "You killed my brother! What have you to say?"
     Zuzucath's wild eye looked at him, jumping around crazily. He whimpered in answer.
     "I said, what have you to say!" yelled Donavin. He kicked the form on the ground. He took a few more short breaths. "In the name of my forefathers, in the name of my brother, in the name of all the creatures of the Grethegs, and, aye, even the Lonels, and the memory of the souls they have lost, I curse you, Zuzucath! May you never find peace after death! May the voices of your victims torture you! May the crows come and pick your bones clean of your damned flesh! May! You! Burn!"
     With a final shudder at the last word, Zuzucath went limp. The mad weasel was dead.
     Donavin stared down at his fallen enemy, the fire still alight in his eyes. But then, he collapsed. The fight was over, and the adrenaline that had been fueling him from the moment he saw Orvil's body was gone. He could do no more.
     He dragged himself to the rock and sat up against it, starting out over the slope as the sun rose higher. There were still many hours left in the day, and with one threat gone, it laid open a new path.
     When he turned his thoughts away from the sorrow and loss he felt, Lord Donavin remembered Fabany, the Lonel soldier. He was a good lad, and reminded him of some people he knew in his own house. He would remember him like no other Lonel to that point.
     Donavin held his eye. He would probably lose it, or at least never see with it again. But finally, he could see something he could not see before: peace.
     The sound of a flask opening and liquid sloshing broke the silence on the mountainside. Donavin held up his bottle as if in a toast. "Maybe, Fabany of the Lonels," he murmured. "Maybe."
     He lifted the brim to his lips, and drank.




I hope you enjoyed that little piece of literature!
This is based on characters from an old roleplay started by Faiyloe called Forbidden Truce. The story itself was never finished, so because I enjoyed playing Zuzucath in it so much, I decided to create this as a way to end the story. The characters Donavin and Orvil Gretheg belonged to @rachel25 , and I hope I at least did Donavin justice.
If you want to read over the roleplay, parts one and two are in the Completed Roleplay section. They were a lot of fun. (Look for Forbidden Truce: Bloodied Families.)
I didn't edit this at all, so if my fat fingers misspelled, I apologise.

[Captain Tammo]

OK! My thoughts on this story:

I got excited when I saw the title. You have a certain style to your writing that always has a more action-focused mindset (at least in the fics I've read through from you). You had a nice hook in the beginning which really made me feel the sense of urgency.

Think of it: you're hurt. You've got only two arrows in your quiver. You're limping through the morning mist with a nauseating gash in your leg and the knowledge that somewhere out there in the silence are your brother and a killer. Pretty chilling!

Maybe this will sound weird, but when I first read this I thought things were rushed (I mean, it's a oneshot). But in a way, it kept with the story for me. What I mean by that is that I knew Donavin didn't have much time to take things in. You can see it from the beginning, to the hunt with Fabany and shrugging off any of her questions, to the final battle. It was all a rush to find Orvil and there wasn't any time to slow down and give intense detail. Kind of neat to think about!

Overall, sir Skarzs, you've written yet another good yarn and I thank you for entering it into the contest

[The Skarzs]

Thanks for the review, Tammo! I'm glad it gave you that feeling.
Yeah, I know it was rushed. But that's my fault! If I had started earlier, I probably would have been more cognizant of that