Vengeance Quest

Chapter 14: Love and Loss

Time crawled on—hours to days to weeks, and slowly Kiern’s life returned to normal. He began sparring with Skyfire daily, and soon began winning all their matches. He began sparring with others in the horde and winning all of those, too. He just hadn’t resumed sparring with the Longclaws—not just yet.

As he headed back to his tent one morning, cool air drying the sweat from his fur, he noticed a strange tension in the horde, murmurs through the breezy air.

“Longclaws not looking too pleasant…”

“…death for somebeast…”

“…wonder what it is?”

Kiern’s mouth pressed into a thin line and he quickened his pace. An execution? He’d better get into his dress uniform, then… in case the rumors were true.

He ducked into his tent, tore off his sweaty marching clothes, dug into his pack for the carefully folded dress uniform, black crisper than night. He’d just pulled on his breeches when a whisper of cloth and air alerted him to somebeast’s entrance.

Kiern turned to see Stormsong, gray face seeming grayer than normal, eyes holding a sort of desperation and despair. “Stormsong—“ Kiern stared, concerned. “Are you—well?”

A harsh laugh from the gentle bard. “For the moment, Kiern… for the moment.” He took a step closer. “I be needing to apologize to thee… because I be about to do something fair selfish.”

Confusion crossed Kiern’s face. “What—“

—but his words were stifled by another mouth on his, by arms wrapping around him, by a lithe body pressed against his own.

What—

He was too stunned to resist, too shocked to pull away, and before he could marshal his scattered senses to push Stormsong from him the weasel had released him, had stepped back with a sad soft smile.

“Fare the well… Kiern.”

A whisper, achingly wistful, and Stormsong stepped back to the tent entrance.

“Farewell.”

And he was gone.

Kiern stood frozen in time by stunned confusion, shock, incredulosity, staring blankly at the motionless tent flap. What… just… happened…?

He lost track of time’s passage, unmoving, mind utterly blank. He didn’t stir until Skyfire swept into the tent, gave him an odd look. “Kiern?”

He started, shook his head as if to clear it from its fog. “Yes?”

The stoat handed him a scroll. “From the Longclaws…”

“I see…” Kiern took it, broke the seal, read it quickly. “Seasons…” His knees dropped out from under him and he plopped on the cot, staring at the scroll.

Skyfire stepped closer, concern etched on her russet face. “What is it?”

He passed her the scroll. She read it, and a gasp hissed from her lungs. “Hellsteeth… he’s executing Stormsong? Why?”

Kiern’s mind flashed to Stormsong’s strange actions not long before, and his stomach turned with sickening realization. “…I think I might know why…”

He stood, grabbed for the rest of his uniform. “Form up the Nightclaws,” he said, sharp and brusque.

“…Yes sir,” Skyfire said heavily, setting the crumpled scroll down and plodding out of the tent.

Kiern’s mouth pressed into a tight line. He reached for his cloak, clasped it about his throat. Stormsong… why did you do this? He looked down at the angry black lines raking across the parchment. His paw lashed out, grabbed the paper, crunched it into a ball of smearing ink, threw it against the tent canvas with a growl.

He glared at the crumpled ball for a long moment before his shoulders slumped. A long sigh; he straightened, turned, and slipped out of the tent.



Kiern met the Longclaws before the wolverine’s tent in silence, flanked him with the three tent guards. Their chief stalked, wordless and tightlipped, to the parade grounds. Kiern and the guards followed close behind, having to half-run to keep up with the wolverine’s long strides.

They stopped before the entire horde standing in stiff formation, and the Longclaws stepped forward. “Bring him out,” he commanded, and his voice was colder than northland ice.

A rat in Nighteye greens and a ferret in the red gloves of the Nightfangs stepped out of a tent, dragging a bound and beaten Stormsong between them. Kiern stiffened at the Longclaws side at the sight of empty gray eyes and bleeding jaw.

Hellsteeth…

“There is much that I tolerate,” Nightdeath began, dark gaze piercing through the horde. “Whoring. Dueling. Plundering. And if none care for life here, they are always free to leave.”

Silence, and Stormsong and his two “escorts” stopped just behind the Longclaws. The weasel stood like some soulless being, devoid of hope and life and light. The Longclaws didn’t turn, didn’t deign to glare at the beaten healer, only let his intense stare rake across the ranks.

“But there is one thing that I will never accept within my ranks,” he said, voice growing colder still. “And that is the unnatural, disgusting, abhorrent desire of a beast for those of his own sex!” Murmurs rippled through the stunned horde as he whirled, struck Stormsong on the cheek with an open paw, leaving four parallel lines of red.

“This—thing,” he spat, loathing thick in every syllable, “I trusted with captaincy, with the tending of my own wounds, with the healing of my guard captain! Never knowing that he cares nothing for females.. but that he lusts for other males!”

The murmurs grew in volume, disgust rippling across the faces of many, repulsion and anger buzzing through the air.

“This male-lover,” the Longclaws proclaimed, each word like the death-knell of Dark Forest’s solemn bells, “will be chained to a tree until morning. Anybeast in the horde may do anything they wish—anything they wish—as long as he is not killed.” The murmurs rose to drowning chatter slithering from sadistic grins, but quieted when Nightdeath lifted a clawed paw. “His death,” he said, fangs flashing in a feral sort of grin, “is for me to deal.”

He turned to the rat on Stormsong’s right. “You, Sharsek—for telling me of your captain’s abomination, you shall be captain of the Nighteyes.” The rat straightened and grinned in ferocious pleasure. “Now—chain him,” Nightdeath said. “And do as you will.”

The Longclaws swept away with darkly graceful strides, and it took the stunned and sickened Kiern a few seconds before he managed to remember to signal four Nightclaws to follow and guard the chief. He turned back as they left, staring numb at the scene before him—a mob of laughing, jeering Nighthunt flocking behind the rat and ferret dragging a stumbling Stormsong to a stout oak. No… this is…

He twisted around. The well-trained Nightclaws remained in formation, watching him, waiting for a command. He closed his paw into a fist, drew in a deep breath. “Do not join in on torturing Stormsong,” he said, quiet and firm. “We are above that.” No dissent from the Nightclaws. Kiern nodded, sharp and painful. “Dismissed.”

As the Nightclaws dispersed in silence, Skyfire made her way to Kiern’s side, shaking all the while. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her presence, just stood stiff and silent, gaze fixed on the jeering crowd helping with vicious enthusiasm to chain Stormsong’s arms to the tree, spread-eagled, helpless.

“Filthy male-lover,” a stoat snarled, spitting on Stormsong in disgust. The weasel didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t react; just stared into nothing with empty eyes.

A hiss of air sounded from Skyfire. “How can you… just stand here?” Anguish and anger gripped her quiet voice, ripping into Kiern like a barbed whip.

“I have to,” he managed at last through teeth clenched against his revulsion. “I owe him… this much.” A shaky breath, paws clenching into fists so tight that his claws pierced calloused pads. “I owe him… my life…”

“Then help him!” She almost shouted it, whirling on her captain. “For seasons’ sake, do something!” He didn’t move. “Anything!”

Stormsong’s tormenters were growing frustrated with the continued lack of reaction from their prey. Finally the newly appointed Nighteyes captain barked something, disappeared into the cluster of tents. Cruel laughter rippled through the ranks when he returned, holding aloft a strangely shaped object—

Stormsong’s lute case, Kiern realized with a shock.

“Oh, no…” An anguished moan from Skyfire. “Kiern… you value honor—how can you condone this?!”

He flinched under the lash of her words, and his answer came in an agonized whisper. “There is… nothing I can do…”

The rat unlatched the case, kicked it open with rough disdain. He pulled out the delicate instrument with a sneer, said something to the mob, who responded with laughter. The rat struck a mock musical pose, holding the lute awkwardly, and raked his claws across the strings.

The jangling noise drew a wince from Kiern and a stare from Stormsong. The weasel’s head lifted, gaze focusing on the lute as the rat strummed it again. The silvery strings seemed to cry in pain from the mishandling.

“No…” A hoarse plea from the healer bard, a laugh from the mob. Another clanging chord, the rat’s claws scarring the intricate designs.

“What’s wrong, cap’n?” he asked, smirking and drawing another cry from the lute, a flinch from Stormsong. “It’s just a bit of wood…”

“No…” This from Skyfire. “Stop them… this is wrong…”

As if an echo, Stormsong rasped out “stop…”, tortured and pleading, but that just urged the mob on.

“Just a little piece of wood.” The rat winked broadly at his sniggering audience, and he raised the lute above his head.

”NO—“

—but Stormsong’s cry was futile, and the precious instrument smashed to the ground with a last agonized chord clashing at the soul.

“What a fool,” the rat said, glowing in the shadow of Stormsong’s broken stare. “You’d think the silly thing was his life or somethin’.”

Stormsong just stared at the shattered wood and curled strings at his feet. What had once been his soul’s sole voice… now as broken as his life. He sagged in his chains, the agonizing despair in his haggard face striking Kiern’s like the arrows Stormsong had healed him from not months before.

“I can’t…”

The broken sob drew his gaze to Skyfire, her face buried in her paws. “I can’t watch… No more…”

Kiern nodded, gaze softening in silent understanding, but she didn’t see him. She whirled away, took off at a staggering run for her tent, fleeing from the sneering laughter and Stormsong’s pain.

He watched her for but a few moments before forcing his attention back to Stormsong. I owe him this much… to watch to the end…

The rat kicked a fragment of lute away. “I’m done here,” he declared, and grinned at the rest of the mob. “Have fun.”

Kiern tensed as the rat passed by not a length away, and his paw clenched spasmodically on his sword hilt. But he forced himself to inaction, forced his shaking fists to remain at his side. Bastard…!

“’Ey, I’ve got an idea…” A snicker from a ferret, and he gave a weasel fem a little push. “Show ‘im wot ‘e’s missin’ by hatin’ fems!”

Cruel laughter from the mob, and Stormsong went rigid. Kiern’s fists clenched tighter yet, jaw grinding so as to nearly drown out the taunts and encouragement. Hellsteeth… no…

Three buxom fems stepped forward, all sneering seduction—a weasel, a rat, a vixen. Kiern’s mouth twisted into a bitter line that could almost be mistaken for a smile. Would almost expect Darkmoon there…

The three approached the tense Stormsong slowly, tittering, smiling, teasing. They brushed against him, pressed against him, paws wandering over and under torn clothing as Stormsong struggled helplessly. The weasel fem kissed him soundly, slipped her tongue into his mouth, pressed her body tight to his—

Kiern winced as he heard a keening, a sort of whimpering, as he realized it was coming from Stormsong’s throat—part cry, part scream, pure tortured humiliation. This… has to stop… But he remained rooted to the spot, wanting to look away, forcing himself to keep watch.

A racous laugh from a big dogfox; he stepped up to Stormsong, placed a paw on the vixen wrapped around the shaking weasel. “’Ere… if th’ sick fool likes males so much, I’ll give ‘im a taste of what real males are like!”

The vixen grinned and stepped away along with the other two fems, leaving room for the tod to have his fun. Stormsong’s tortured stare turned wild, panicked, darted over the crowd to lock with Kiern’s gaze. Help me… his eyes begged, and his mouth moved in silence. Kiern, shaking with rage and revulsion at the goings-on at the oak, focused on the weasel’s lips, tried to interpret the message.

…kill me…

…let me die…

Then Stormsong’s gaze was ripped away as the dogfox slammed a fist across his face, laughed at the cry that escaped the weasel. “Ya sick perversion…” the tod hissed. “Ya want males? Well, ’ere’s a bit a fun for yew!”

His claws tore into Stormsong’s breeches and thigh and he pulled, skin and blood and cloth ripping away, leaving the healer’s lithe body exposed to stares and laughter and cruel touches.

By this time day had given way to grey dusk and gathering clouds; Kiern could barely see the scene until somebeasts thought to light torches in time for Kiern to see the tod drop his breeches, step close behind Stormsong…

Kiern flinched, could not keep watching as the weasel’s screams ripped through the air like his smashed lute’s dying chord. Kiern’s eyes squeezed as tightly closed as his jaw and fists, each agonized soul-shattering scream shredding at his clenching chest. Blood trickled down his punctured paw-pads but he didn’t notice, barely felt the pain, drowned out as it was by Stormsong’s…

The screams died away at last, at last, at too long last. Kiern’s eyes opened to a sobbing Stormsong, sagging in his bonds, bleeding… to a smirking dogfox belting up his breeches… to a taunting mob high on pain and drunk on blood.

“An’ who’ll be next?” the dogfox shouted, tongue lolling with exertion and sated sadism.

Stillness for a moment, and then a muscular stoat in Nightarm armguards stepped forward for his turn. Kiern closed his eyes in shared agony, sympathetic pain, as metal jingled and laughter rasped cruel in the blood-tainted air.

SS-THUNK!

A sharp gasp; Kiern’s eyes snapped open to see an arrow buried in Stormsong’s arched back. The weasel coughed, blood staining his mouth, eyes beginning to glaze over. His head turned, painfully slow, in Kiern’s direction; his eyes locked with Kiern’s.

Fare… well… his lips formed… and then his last life’s breath gurgled out of blood-filled lungs, and he slumped in his chains to never stir again.

A rare sob wrenched from Kiern’s throat, relief and pain and grief all rolled into one. It’s… over…

His knees buckled; he grabbed for something to keep him upright and his paw found soft fur and a firm shoulder. Kiern blinked, turn to see who it was, and his gaze met russet fur and red gloves.

Darkmoon…?

She was staring at Stormsong’s body, at the cursing mob beginning to disperse, her jaw tightly clenched. “He… deserved none of that,” she said at last.

Kiern’s paw fell to his side; he managed to remain standing on his own, incredulous gaze fixed on Astarte’s iron face. “Did you…?”

A thin mockery of a smile. “It was an arrow that killed him. Likely one of the Nightarms, dontcha think?”

Kiern just stared. She killed Stormsong? Astarte showed this mercy?

She was waiting for his answer. He shook off the shock, forced out words. “…Aye. A Nightarm…”

“Guess we’ll never find out who.”

“…Nay.”

“Didn’t think so.” That almost smile again, and Astarte inclined her head in farewell before turning. “Oh—captain.”

He glanced her way. “Aye?”

“The Longclaws wishes to see you.”

A deep intake of breath. “Very well,” he said as Astarte slinked away into the slumbering shadows of tents. Kiern pulled his scattered wits together with an effort, pushed the storm of clashing emotion to the back of his consciousness, straightened his uniform. “Very well,” he muttered again, and headed to the Longclaws’ tent with dread twisting at his chest.



“Sir—‘tis Captain Kiern,” a black-caped guard said as Kiern approached the tent.

“Let him in,” came the frigid reply.

Kiern ducked into the tent, eyes adjusting to the dim light to see the Longclaws standing with his back to the entrance, still and foreboding.

“…you wished to see me, sir?”

Silence for a long, tense moment. “You know the object of Stormsong’s lust was you?”

He flinched, remembering the weasel’s embrace. “…I guessed as much, sir.”

A slight nod. “How long has it been since you were with a fem?”

“…several seasons.”

He watched the Longclaws’ dark hackles lift ever so slightly. “You have never shown much interest in fems. Why?”

Kiern stiffened. He thinks I’m…?! “I did not want to be distracted from my duties, sir.”

A flash of gleaming fangs. “Ah, captain… ever the dutiful soldier.” Kiern relaxed the slightest bit as his leader’s flat tones turned more humored, as Nightdeath finally turned to face him. “Your body never burns with lust? Does that noo detract from yer performance?”

Kiern frowned. “I’d never thought of that…”

“There be plenty o’ fems for th’ takin’—few’d be refusin’ ye.”

“…Perhaps.”

The Longclaws smiled a little, sat at the trunk that served as a desk, shuffled through a few papers. Kiern cleared his throat in the silence. “Sir… I would ask… why it was that you executed Stormsong in—such a manner.”

A snarl. “If nobeast’d shot him, t’would be a far more fittin’ death.”

“Nay… I meant…” Kiern drew a deep breath. It was always risky to disagree with Nightdeath… “Stormsong had been faithful to you. The only healer you could readily trust to not—poison you.”

“Trust.” The wolverine spat on the ground. “That thing had touched me… to heal, I thought, ne’er knowin’ that ‘e were—as ‘e was! Filth. Worse’n any woodlander, lower than th’ lowest o’ mice!”

“Sir—“

”Silence!”

Kiern’s jaw clacked shut beneath the Longclaws’ glare. The wolverine snarled, turned away, tail lashing, ears pinned back flat against his skull. At last he stilled, anger still showing in every tense line. “You will take a fem to your bed tonight,” he said, biting off every word. “One of your own kind. And you will do so every week possible—to prove to me that you are not like Stormsong.”

Kiern’s own tail twitched at that—but he had no choice but to obey. He forced submission into his voice. “Who might you suggest, sir?”

A shrug from the Longclaws, slight and tense. “Astarte’s been chasing after you, has she not? Or perhaps that subcaptain of yours. Skyfire. She’s pretty enough, and she seems taken with you.”

Kiern forced his face to remain blank. “Aye, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

He gave a sharp salute to the wolverine’s turned back, spun on one heel, and stalked out of the tent.

To Astarte’s.



His entrance into the Nightfangs’ circle of tents and bedrolls was met with open stares and wondering whispers.

“The Nightclaws captain?”

“…what’s he doin’…”

“…never comes here…”

Kiern’s ears flicked back, tail twitching a little. He ignored the murmurs, making his way without pause to Astarte’s tent. A red-gloved weasel at the entrance moved to stop him.

“Tell your subcaptain that Kiern is here to—speak with her,” Kiern ordered.

The weasel’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, poking his head into the tent. “Captain—it’s—the Nightclaws captain…”

“…Let him in.”

A surge of whispers from the staring Nightfangs, like the buzzing of excited bees. Kiern grimaced and ducked into the tent.

It was… strangely decorated. Furs and blankets piled into what looked like a comfortable nest in the middle of the tent. A finely worked saber gleamed atop carefully folded breeches and crimson gloves. Herbs and medicines rested in an open chest, in front of which stood Astarte, downing something with a swig of water.

She turned to face him, and Kiern noticed with some discomfort that she wore only her tailored tunic. Dark eyes studied him for a long, long moment. “So…” she said at last. “What brings th’ stoic captain of th’ guard to my tent?”

He averted his gaze to her sword and gloves in the tent corner. “Orders from the Longclaws,” he answered.

“Ah.” She nodded. “To prove yer not like Stormsong.”

“…Aye.”

Another long scrutiny. “Why not yer little subcaptain?”

His jaw clenched. “Because she—cares for me. And an emotional relationship… would be distracting. And she is under my command. We work well together; I don’t wish to harm that.”

“I see.” A wry smile ghosted across Astarte4’s face. “I, on the other paw… am safe?”

Kiern turned to face her, brow creased in a puzzled frown. “…Aye. In that sense.”

She nodded and sat in the mass of blankets and furs. “…I’m sorry about Stormsong.”

“Are you? I would have thought you’d be one of the fems tormenting him.”

Her eyes narrowed at his words and bitter tone “You don’t know me at all.”

Kiern laughed. “I know you are a seductress, open for any and all.”

“Perhaps. But—I am not fond of rape,” she said, anger sparking in her voice. “I respected Stormsong and his—preferences. He did not deserve that. Any of it.”

“And yet your subcaptain…”

It was her turn to laugh then. “Woodlanders! They don’t count.”

Kiern’s ears flicked back. “They do not?”

“No.” She took in his troubled expression and let out a quiet sigh. “If you let yerself see th’ enemy as bein’ like you… you can’t kill ‘em. Not easily. Ya know?”

Kiern looked away, not wanting to admit that truth. But it was truth… “Aye. I know.”

Cloth rustled with her movement; he stiffened at the touch of gentle paws on his shoulder. “Do not—“

“—Kiern.” Something in her voice silenced his protest, and he stood tense beneath her touch. “How can you obey the Longclaws if you won’t even let me touch you?”

Kiern was rescued from having to answer by angry shouts outside and then a black fox burst into the tent.

”Astarte!” the tod growled. “What is this?”

She draped her armso ver Kiern’s shoulders, and Kiern tensed further at the extended touch and at the rage flaring in Veneno’s glare. “Kiern’s come for a little fun,” she said with her usual seductive laughter.

Fury choked from the tod in a strangled snarl. “You would cheat Death?”

Her eyes rolled skyward. “Was fun while it lasted, Ven—but really. Yer not right in the head, ya know? You may be an assassin, but yer not Death itself.”

”Lies!”

Kiern’s sword flashed from its sheath in an instant, met the fox’s scythe before it could touch him or Astarte. With his free paw, Kiern grabbed hold of the scythe’s haft, letting the full force of his disgust for the delusional tod spark in his eyes and growl in his voice. “Get out.”

“Death is not commanded by the likes of—“

”Get out.” Kiern’s paw tightened on the scythe’s haft. “Or would you spar with me?”

Veneno tensed, glared for a long moment before pulling himself together, putting on a superior air. “This will not be forgotten. Death comes for allbeasts!”

He whirled, ignoring Kiern and Astarte’s disgusted stares, and stalked out of the tent flap with overly flamboyant flair.

“Idiot,” Astarte muttered, and stepped outside of the tent. “I want double guard on my tent. Have somebeast follow Veneno and make sure he’s not up to anything stupid.”

She stepped back in and flashed a grin at Kiern. “Thanks for protecting me, captain.”

Kiern sheathed his sword with a snarl. “Wasn’t about protecting anyone.” He turned to face her. “Let’s get this over with.”

Astarte looked at him with something akin to sadness deep within her gaze. “…No.”

“What? I thought—“

She stepped closer to him, silenced him with a long kiss. “We are not going to just ‘get this over with,’” she said huskily. “I’ve waited this long to have you… and I’m going to enjoy it.” At the anger that flashed across his face, she smiled a little, soft and sad and totally unlike her usual seductive self. “You have to do it anyway… so why not let yerself enjoy it, too?”

He tensed, forced back a growl, forced himself to let his mind slide blank. “…Perhaps…”

Astarte shook her head and led him to her nest of furs and blankets. “Just… relax…”



The next day, Nightdeath gave the orders to move out. Kiern packed his tent and his few possessions, pulled on his everyday uniform, tossed his things in the cart. He started to head to his command, trying not to look long at Stormsong’s mangled corpse next to the oak where he’d been tortured the night before.

“Kiern.”

Skyfire’s voice behind him. He turned. “Aye?”

Her eyes were puffy, reddened, as if she’d been crying; her tunic was rumpled, her tail drooping. “…Last night… you were with—Darkmoon.” She choked on the name. “Why?”

A long deep breath. “The Longclaws ordered me to sleep with a stoat fem—“

“What am I??” she burst out. “I’m female! I’m a stoat! And I—“ She stopped, blinked back a rage of tears. “I…love you…”

Kiern flinched at that, turned away. “…and that’s exactly why…”

Skyfire stared. “What…?”

“…You care for me. Too much. I—am your captain. I can’t be more… than that. Not without hurting how we work together—“

A long silence from the stoat; Kiern finally turned to see what was wrong. Her gaze fixed on the ground, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “This… has ruined that,” she said at last, brokenly. “Kiern… I can’t… stay here, anymore. Not after this… and Stormsong… and…” A shuddering breath. “And seeing you—compromising your honor… over and over… You’re turning cold. And I don’t want—to see you turn into—Nightdeath Longclaws…” The words ended in a gasping sob, and she whirled away from him.

Kiern shifted uncomfortably. “Ask the Longclaws—to let you go, then…”

“I’m a subcaptain. He… wouldn’t let me go. Not alive…”

A long, deep breath. “…You’re probably right… Then…” He found his own eyes stinging with moisture; angrily, he forced them dry with blinking. “Leave. Slip away when we’re on the march.”

Her shoulders shook with sobs. “Kiern…”

He could stay aloof no longer. A few quick strides and he wrapped his arms around her, held her close. She turned to face him, sobbed into his chest. “Kiern… I… I’ll miss you…”

Kiern closed his eyes and spoke the truth. “I will miss you too…”

He finally released her; she stepped back and wiped her eyes dry. “I’ll come back here. Bury Stormsong…”

A nod. “Thank you…”

She drew in a deep cleansing breath. “I won’t be able to tell you—when I leave. So—goodbye… Kiern…”

His eyes closed against the pain. “…Farewell, Skyfire.”

Silent in shared grief and understanding, the two stoats let their expressions blank, straightened rumpled uniforms, and marched back to their command together—for the last time.