The Weekly Muse #39

The Return of Burrtail, Taradash vs. Cavanessa, and Other Preparations

Last week in the read-through of my Very First Novel, our heroes captured some prisoners, let them go, and met up with Rathwing Feathertalon, a falcon known as the Skyking. Basically, preparations for the Final Battle. This week…we’re really preparing!

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It was several days before the results of Rathwing's work could be seen. At first, the Sirians came singly, in ones and twos and threes. They came moving furtively, ducking and dodging, looking frequently back over their shoulders for signs of Tara Raiders. Yet still, they came, even through their fear. Sean remarked on this to the Prince.

"It is the result of Lord Taradash's rule," the Prince explained. "The people have been oppressed for so long that they live in constant fear, even when a promise of deliverance comes. But there is yet hope in that they come, even with their fear. Soon, very soon, the fear of Lord Taradash's rule will be gone from the land."

As the days passed on, however, the Sirians came in larger and larger groups. A new spirit seemed to characterize their coming. Now they came boldly, in the broad daylight, and these new bands bore weapons. Besides the squadrons of human warriors bearing a wide variety of weaponry, there came jackrabbits, twirling their slings and hefting long javelins over their shoulders like old-time Texan rifles; squirrels and chipmunks, whipping thin rapiers and  chittering to each other excitedly; burly dogs wielding great broadswords and commenting on the growing army in their typical British manner; stalwart mice, marching in unison to the beat of small drums; and husky beavers, carrying stubby maces, burring and urring to each other in the common beaver dialect.

Among the crowds of rough beavers arriving from the Twin Islands on the western coast was someone very familiar to the original seven questors. "Burrtail!" Lucy, Sean and Conrad exclaimed excitedly. The other four Sirians who had started out on the quest crowded close around the husky beaver, as he warmly greeted them, "Burrrurrrr! Oi nurrvurr thurrt oi'd seurr their toim wurrn the Prurrnce wurrd beurr furrnd! Oi'll furrt wurrth yurr urntil Lurrd Turradursh beurr durrfeaturred urnd Surrilurrm beurr frurrd!"

The seven original questors firmly congratulated the homely beaver, but soon Burrtail had to leave and rejoin his battalion. The seven friends returned to the Prince, who was in the middle of a flurry of battle plans.

The Prince looked frustrated and tense. Now that the final, decisive battle was looming ever nearer on the horizon, Patrick found himself overwhelmed by logistical details. Where would they fight the battle? Would he commit all of his army in the conflict? Where would he deploy his forces on the battlefield? Which creatures would he use in the battle? How long should he wait before attacking? Would he lead the battle himself, or direct it from the rear? Would they win?

That last was the question that haunted the Prince's every waking hour and pervaded his nightly dreams as their army grew ever larger. As the Prince struggled with logistics and battled with himself over whether or not they would win, the three kids milled about restlessly in their camp at the Lost Island, where the Prince had established his headquarters for the time being.

Sean spent his time practicing with his rapier and shield. He was rather embarrassed by his performance in the duel with Rakkla. In fact he was kind of annoyed, not because it was Lucy’s insults that helped him to win, but because of the insults themselves. Sean felt piqued that anyone said he fought like a girl, but for Lucy of all people. to say that ... Sean needed a little work on the ‘truce’ he had agreed to back on page 26¹.

Conrad, meanwhile, was doing some planning of his own. Conrad had borrowed several maps from Luther and was poring over them as if he faced a final exam on them in the morning. Many of the Sirians gave him odd looks as he wandered around like a restless spirit, mumbling about tactics and strategies, place names and troop strength, and other details of military planning.

Lucy spent a lot of time becoming acquainted with the Sirians. from beavers to chipmunks. Lucy was one of those admirable people who can meet fifty people in one day, have an intelligent and reasonable conversation with each one, and still manage to remember their names and the details of their conversation the next morning. She flitted from one group to another, making light conversation with the Sirian warriors. hoping to take their minds off the upcoming battle.

That battle was coming ever closer, and as Lucy talked, Conrad planned, and Sean practiced, the battle was always at the back of their minds. And with it, one nagging question: would they win?

"Absolutely not!" Lord Taradash thundered at Skivvel, as the slimy rat stood trembling in the dismal throne room. Skivvel had just finished a long report to the tyrant ruler. The odious spy had reported everything he had seen while following Rakkla on the trail of the questors, from the day they set off from Mirk, to their raid upon Delna, to the disastrous skirmish with the Raccoon Brethren, and finally, to their discovery of the Lost Island. Lord Taradash had shown no emotion whatever as Skivvel described Sean's challenge to Rakkla, and the Fox Captain's subsequent defeat and death. Skivvel related how he had pretended to surrender with the rest of the Tara Raiders, then crept away from the others at the first opportunity, but not after he had seen the Prince summon Rathwing, and the Skyking's departure to rally the hosts of the air. The slimy rat had ended his long report with the question on everyone's lips: could the rapidly growing army defeat Lord Taradash's powerful force? This question had provoked the tyrant ruler's vehement response.

"Of all the insolence!" Taradash continued. "To think that any of those miserable country bumpkins could stand against my powerful horde! Well, I'll show them! I'll show them all who is the real king of Sirilan! Montashleigh!" he thundered, wheeling around to face a small door, set in the wall to the right of the throne. There was a short pause. "Montashleigh!" Taradash practically screamed in furious rage.

The door abruptly swung open and a sleek, golden wildcat strode casually through, as if she had not a care in the world. Cavanessa wielded a long gleaming trident, which she nonchalantly shifted from paw to paw as she coolly addressed the maddened king. "You called?"

Taradash closed his eyes, trying to control his mounting wrath. "Our dear friend Rakkla seems to have gotten himself killed in the Southern Forest. You will take command of the Tara Raiders in his place."

Cavanessa yawned. "Rakkla dead? Too bad. Well, I suppose I'll command your Tara Raiders, although I refuse to combine those brainless ruffians with my elite Feline Legions. The very idea is appalling!"

 Taradash clenched his jaw tightly and turned his back on the Catqueen. He spoke in a harsh tone. "I do not care how you lead them, just lead them! Now, I have another assignment for you."

The Catqueen yawned again, in an exaggerated manner. "Another assignment! Oh dear, I don't know if I can find time for another assignment, not with all the extra work of commanding your motley army."

"You will find time for this one or you won't command so much as a broomstick! Now, besides the news of Rakkla's death, Skivvel has also informed me that the worthless brat who escaped my horde twelve years ago has just turned. That miserable scum is sending birds throughout all of my kingdom, rallying my subjects to my forest to fight against me!"

"Nasty creatures, birds," Cavanessa remarked. "I never liked them. So, what do you want me to do about them? Kill all the birds?"

"No, Montashleigh, I don't you to kill all the birds." Taradash snarled dangerously, "I want you to send messengers throughout the land as well. Call all my troops to me! If they want a battle, I'll give them a battle!"

"Pardon my ignorance, but if the Prince is in the Southern Forest, and this castle is in the Northern Mountains, how exactly are we supposed to fight them?" Cavanessa pointed out, with heavy sarcasm.

Taradash wheeled to face her. "We're going to travel south and meet them, idiot! If I had known you were this much of a buffoon when Rakkla brought you here, I would have sent you back to your village, like the miserable little pussycat you are!" he snapped.

Abruptly, Cavanessa lost her nonchalant attitude. Her eyes slitted dangerously and she leveled the long trident directly at Taradash. "No one calls me a `pussycat' and lives! You should count yourself fortunate that I do not strike you down here and now!"

Taradash drew his sword with lighting swiftness. "If you ever tried to strike me down, Montashleigh, I promise you, you would regret the day you were born! I am the King of Sirilan!"

"You are not my king!" Cavanessa growled. "I will command the Feline Legions, but I will not take charge of your mindless horde!"

"You will if I say!" Taradash demanded. The two stood, glaring at each other, weapons leveled, neither one willing to give an inch. The castle guards stood watching, breathless to see who would prevail in this test of barbarian wills.

Finally, Lord Taradash turned away. "All right, I will lead the Tara Raiders in the battle. Skivvel, you will send messengers to gather the entire horde to me. Cavanessa, rally the Feline Legions to me as well. As soon as the horde is ready, we march for Navina. Then we will challenge those insolent rebels and put to rest, once and for all, the question of who is the rightful king of Sirilan. When that happens, I will be absolute ruler in Sirilan, and you, Cavanessa Montashleigh, would do well to remember that!"

The tyrant ruler of Sirilan stormed out of the throne room angrily. He was practically boiling with suppressed rage. Some of the castle guards later swore that they saw smoke coming out of his ears.

 Behind the furious Taradash, Cavanessa strode to the deserted dais. She softly brushed her paw over the marvelous throne. Quietly, she murmured to herself, “No, Taradash. When my Legions slay these rebels, they shall slay you as well. Then I shall be absolute ruler in Sirilan!”

And so, the two armies assembled, and the final battle came ever closer, slowly but surely, like the inexorable advance of a mighty glacier. The true Sirian fighters flocked to the Southern Forest in droves, each one willing to serve the Prince and each one united together in their common cause of freedom from Taradash’s evil rule.

Meanwhile, the Tara Raiders and Feline Legions assembled at Navina_ the ancient capital of Sirilan. There was much friction between the two groups. which reflected the conflict between their leaders. There was open enmity between Cavanessa and Taradash now. They fought constantly, arguing and squabbling over the tiniest details. The two armies fought with each other as well, the warfare between their captains spilling over into their ranks.

Lord Taradash knew that he had to make his move soon, or his troops would turn on each other rather than the rebels. At last, he decided to attack. Gathering his warriors to him, and making sure that Cavanessa's legions were following, he marched out of the ancient capital and towards the city of Mirk.

About halfway to the city, the cumbersome army was met by a thin rat runner, who proved to be none other than Skivvel himself. The slimy rat brought two things with him. A score of reinforcements, and more importantly, news of the Prince's following. Taradash immediately ordered Skivvel brought before him. The rat stood trembling before the tyrant king, as he had before many times. "Sire, I have news of the Prince. He has left the Southern Forest!"

"What!" Taradash leaped from his chair in amazement. "Where is he now? Is his army with him? Where is he heading? Tell me, Skivvel!"

Skivvel related his information with fear and trembling. Not for the first time did he wish he served a less scarier master. "Sire, he is traveling northward, on the eastern bank of the Sapphire River. He has a great army with him, though not quite as large as yours, my king. He appears to be heading towards Navina! I came to tell you as soon as I saw him."

Taradash smiled. He turned to his Tara Raider lieutenants standing near. "Hah! My nephew is as idiotic as his father! Lieutenants, turn the army south, and speed up the pace! I want to see the Prince's motley band before another sun has set!"

Cavanessa stroked her gleaming trident-handle and remarked to Taradash, "So, the battle begins!"

"Yes," Taradash agreed, and his smile turned to a scowl, "and when this is over, you and I will have a reckoning!"

Cavanessa grinned deviously. "I look forward to it,"

Neither of them noticed the small black speck high above in the pale-blued sky. Rathwing Feathertalon had seen it all. The Skyking wheeled and swept southward, towards the Prince's army, marching steadily northward. From all appearances, the battle had finally begun!

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2024 me’s notes:

I know, everyone’s all: Finally, right? Yes, I promise you the battle does actually occur in the next chapter. I checked. I won’t say who wins, though. Do you think it’s the forces of freedom and good, Patrick the Lost Princes and his loyal followers, or the tyrant Lord Taradash and his army of Tara Raiders, backed by the villainous Feline Legions? Will I pull a standard cliche ending or one of those endings where everybody dies and the last pages are just snow blowing over the graves as rumor has it the final Game of Thrones book will be? Will a main character die and Pass Into the West? Was it all just a dream?

Tune in next week to find out!

1. Aka, the Weekly Muse #25