The old badger thought back to his youth and the fact that he’d walked these paths for dozens of years. He remembered when the paths had been new and grass still grew underfoot. He thought of the flowers that had grown up and flourished before vanishing into the corners of the forest, lost from his sight. He remembered leaving home to fight, taking up the axe and wearing his father’s battered old armour and returning years later to find everything changed and darker than before.
The woods had retreated into themselves. The farms that had sprung up in service of the King had claimed much of the forest and now it was if the trees were fighting back against the ever-encroaching ambitions of progress. Mudfoot had chuckled to himself when he’d watched from the shadows as foolish townsfolk had tried to tame the land only to be beaten back by the very nature around them, strong roots that refused to yield and mighty trees which were too broad and too stout to be broken by axe and saw. He’d never really been one to believe in magic and mysticism but he remembered the tales his mother had told him in his youth, of those who could use the very power of the earth to do unbelievable things. He’d never seen it himself but maybe his mother had been right. Perhaps there was some more powerful force at work keeping the forest from being entirely devoured by ‘progress’.
Slowly but surely Mudfoot picked his way through the twisted roots and made his way towards the little nook of the forest that he called home. Putting a big paw on the sturdy wooden door that sat at the base of a large oak he heaved it open, tucking his way inside and closing it behind him, the wind abating and smells of home coming to his nostrils.
Rubbing his hands together he pulled the cloak from his back and placed it neatly on a hook hanging by an empty fireplace. Mudfoot had been out all day and with a chill running through his bones he thought it best to start bringing a fire to life. Bending down with a creak he shovelled some wood into the hearth and clicked a couple of flints together on the wispy kindling which soon sprang into a flickering flame. Smiling to himself, he picked up a wrought iron kettle, black from use and popped it over the fire hoping for a good cup of tea to warm his insides.
Mudfoot was often asked by those who happened upon him if he felt lonely out here by himself. While he occasionally answered with a “sometimes” he truly had had enough of folk. He’d spent his time with others in villages, in camps beside battlefields and in the midst of towns packed full of tiny streets and houses which were stacked one on top of the other. Truly, being out here in the woods by himself was the peace and quiet he craved and thankfully it seemed many in the local village understood and left him to his business.
Taking a seat in his moth-eaten armchair, at one time his father’s, he stared up at the mantelpiece above the hearth, an array of old war memorabilia arranged atop it. A dusty frame held a medal he’s earned once for bravery and next to it the battered tankard he’d carried everywhere with him on his journeys. Above that his axe was cradled by two knots of wood, the haft strong and wrapped with leather, the double-bladed head still keen even after being unused for years. The patterning across the metal still impressed him to this day and he thought of the old mole Lorgam who had crafted it for him. He wondered if he was still tinkering away, crafting weapons and other less brutal items for good honest folk.
The kettle whistled away on its hook and, broken from his revery, Mudfoot leaned forward and hooked it free from the now crackling flames, moving a wooden cup packed with nettles and herbs forward. He licked his lips and sniffed in the glorious aroma as the tea brewed away on his little side rickety side table. Content and ready to warm his cockles Mudfoot picked up the cup and cradled it in his paws. Just as he went to take a sip, however, a crash sounded from outside followed by shouts and cries.
Every fibre of his old body wanted to just sit and ignore the outside world but he knew he’d never be able to relax if he didn’t feed his curiosity. Hefting himself from his seat Mudfoot wandered to the small window in his door and peered out into the windy woods.
Mudfoot watched as a pair of rats, garbed in loose ragged clothing scrambled through the undergrowth, a pistol in each of their hands and daggers festooned across their chests in bandoliers. Instinctually his paw went for the big stick he’d propped against the wall of his little nook. He’d seen enough to know that these folk meant trouble or at least were scarpering away from trouble they’d just caused. Growling under his breath he opened the door and with stick in hand stepped out into the wind.
“What you blaggards doing out here so far from the village?” Mudfoot grunted as the two panting rats, startled by the appearance of a massive badger, snapped their heads around and pointed their guns towards the newcomer.
“Don’t make me ask twice” he snarled again, bringing the stick into a guard across his body and setting himself for a fight.
“Woh old-timer!” one of the rats snapped, eyeing the big stick “There’s some mad folk out here chasing us!”
Mudfoot cocked an eyebrow. He didn’t trust these two as far as he could throw them but, vagabond of not they’d done nothing to harm him so he couldn’t rightly club them around the skull for no reason. He might have been a gruff old thing but he still had some sense of honour in his tired old bones.
“Where have you two come from and why are they chasing you?” Mudfoot asked, making sure to keep his guard up.
“We...” one of the rats began, looking sideways at his friend “...was just looking for shelter when this bloomin’ squirrel jumped out on us and just started shooting! This crazy hare then started swinging a club around and knocked the block off Nem’s shoulders!”
The rats were clearly spooked but if time had taught Mudfoot anything it was that perhaps these other folk had good reason to be chasing this shifty pair. He eyed them over as the rats seemed to relax a little, lowering their pistols, and took in their attire. Ragged shirts, filthy britches, a weather-beaten look to their faces and he was sure he spied something that looked suspiciously like chains about their belts.
“Look, old fella, maybe you could just let us take a load off? We’ve been running for an age and I can’t help but smell a fire in there which would be mighty welcome”.
Mudfoot grunted and moved to let the two rats pass but as he did, the rats stowing their guns with hungry looks on their faces, he grabbed one of them by the scruff of the neck and held him close, sniffing him and tossing his coat aside. Something was off about both of them. The stink of the sea was about them, crusted into their fur and as he looked down he saw the glint of chain revealed to be a pair of manacles, stained and rusty. Slavers. Blasted slavers.
“You little scabs!” Mudfoot bellow, dropping his stick and grasping the other by his shirt, lifting both back and into the air as they yelped in alarm. He tossed one of them off into the undergrowth, a ball of fur and ragged clothing landing with a crash amongst the roots as he knocked the other on the head with his balled fist.
The rat in his grasp gurgled and fumbled for his pistol but Mudfoot was quicker than his stunned opponent and hefted him up above his head, swinging him around like a ragdoll he sent him crunching into the wooden walls of his home. A crack rang out from the undergrowth and Mudfoot felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as something bit through his shirt and stuck fast. Groaning in pain he turned and saw through a haze of anger the other rat tottering and aiming a wobbling pistol in his direction.
Counting himself lucky as the rat cursed, clearly meaning to aim for his head, Mudfoot stomped towards, swiped the staff from the leafy ground and raised it ready to club the rat down. Buoyed by the fact his shot had somehow found its mark through the rat flicked out his dagger and lunged forward.
Old knotted stick met short blade with a thud but the rat was quick, slipping the dagger down into his other hand and stabbing towards Mudfoot’s leg. The blade scraped against his fur and he felt heat well from the wound but he dragged it away and brought the knobbly stick down on the rat shoulder, shattering something in the process. The rat yelped and scarpered backwards but not before Mudfoot wrapped an iron paw around his arm and held him in place with a grunt.
The rat, panicked, stabbed down at Mudfoot’s arm drawing blood but the old badger held firm, shortening the grip on his stick and slamming the tip onto the rat’s skull with a sickening crack. His opponent sagged, eyes rolling back in his head before he went limp in his grip. Mudfoot looked down and tore the dagger from his arm, tossing it to the floor and holding his bleeding paw up as great gouts dripped down through his fur.
Snarling with the pain he turned and looked to where the other rat had been thrown. He froze and glared as he saw the rat kneeling with pistol drawn, the dark barrel aimed squarely at him. Mudfoot knew he’d rattled the slaver but he could still hit him, and he didn’t feel like being shot twice. In his younger days, he’d have been quick enough to lift a shield in defence or dash forward and clobber his foe but his muscles didn’t spring like they used to. Even now he could feel the pain welling in his shoulder, arm and leg and it was starting to take its toll.
The rat sniggered and clicked back the hammer on his pistol, tightening his grip and closing one eye to get a good shot. Knowing he’d have to trust in a bit of good luck Mudfoot pushed off in a charge, roaring a little as he did, showing his teeth just as the crack of the pistol sounded in front of him.
Next thing he knew he was barrelling into the rat and slammed him against the wall of his nook. Wasting no time he raised his fist and readied to club the rat about the head but found himself looking down into a pair of dead eyes and a snapped arrow shaft sticking from the rat's neck.
Stumbling back from the now very dead rat, bemused as to why he couldn’t feel a freshly burning wound in his chest, Mudfoot looked behind him into the woods in search whoever had shot the arrow but all he could see were shadows and the creaking of branches in the wind.
***
The old hare Gorrim was standing in his weathered leather armour which, much like Mudfoot, was long past its years. His old sword was lashed to his side in its creaking leather sheath and the symbol of his god hung on show, a little talisman against bad luck. He was talking to a frog who, despite his finery and nervous countenance, seemed steeled to the task at hand.
A few others were also muttering to themselves, a fox and two rabbits, a pair of eager looking squirrels and finally a great big red kite who watched down from the rafters, a stern look on his face and the raiments of a scout about his person. Mudfoot hadn’t been in such numerous company for as long as he could remember but he owed the little squirrel a debt and he meant to see it through.
Her ears must have been burning as Red stepped through a crack in the barn door flanked by an older grey-furred member of her kind. She was small that was for sure but fiery and despite a few cuts and bruises she seemed to hold herself with a sense of right and wrong Mudfoot was sure had gone from many folks these days.
He’d listened carefully when Red had come to his nook with Gorrim and told him of their plans. He couldn’t say he’d heard of this Tom before or the gang that was making life bad for folk in town. A few days ago maybe he wouldn’t have cared. But, Red had helped him, shooting that damned slaver and helping him bind his wounds. If he could pay her back with just a little of his years of experience then he’d feel it was a debt fulfilled.
As Red began to talk, unfurling a map and laying it out on an old wooden table Mudfoot peered at it and the many years of battlefields and campaigns flowed back through his old bones. Somewhere in the back of his mind, despite the strangers and the fracturing of his normal solitary routine, he considered that he quite possibly might enjoy this.
Salamandastron Art by Connor Smith
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