Vermin? You sure?
~~~
Chapter Six
Sheriff Falshed fumed silently under his breath as he did what he thought was the thousandth somersault that hour.
"When will this humiliation end?"
The weasels had finally given him a gag, so he couldn't voice his complaints. Unfortunately for him, it was made from a part of Scirf's old tunic, and was encrusted lightly with ancient dung from his old profession. The sheriff wrinkled his nose at the thought.
The band of weasels had been driving him and his soldiers all morning, making them somersault all the way to their destination.
Soon, Castle Rayn came into sight: a combined groan and cheer came from the stoats, slightly muffled from the gags. A cheer because they were nearly home, but a groan as the weasels made no move to remove either their costumes or the gags.
The talking mouse was skipping along in the front of the group, playing a cheerful tune on a reed pipe. This music was different from the traditional weasel folk songs, which were high and screechy-sounding; it was fuller in both sound and spirit.
The curiously painted otter was at the back of the group, under the pretence of a strong-jack, carrying a large boulder on his shoulders that the sheriff was quite sure that four of his soldiers couldn't budge. Still, the otter managed to keep up, even threatening the stoats somewhat that if they lagged behind, he'd drop the boulder on their backs.
When they approached the castle gates, the sheriff thought that the gate guards would realise their plight, or at least recognise his "stately" self. But the guards admitted the group with various teeth-clickings, calling to the other soldiers patrolling the battlements that entertainment had arrived for the prince.
The group paraded through the streets, to the front gate of the castle. They entered the throne room to much applauding; the stoat aristocrats of the prince's court were all assembled.
The weasels prodded the stoats into synchronized somersaulting in different patterns to the cheerful tune of Nimbalo's flute. The weasel band, meanwhile, were rhythmically swaying in a form of weasel dance to the same music.
Soon, the song was done, and the weasels danced to the front door.
All according to the plan.
This left Tagg and companion, as well as all the stoats, in the throne room.
The otter addressed the prince, using a fake accent, as he set down the boulder with a thump that reverberated around the room. Any of the stoat aristocrats who'd originally believed the stone on his shoulders to the be fake immediately squashed their opinions.
"Oh, mighty Prince," Tagg said with a bow. "My companions and I have travelled far to your courts to give you this presentation."
Here Nimbalo continued with a flourishing bow. "We hope that you 'ave enjoyed thyselves."
Here, Prince Poynt clicked his teeth; his overly-large belly shook. "Indeed I have, performers. You're better jesters than my own Pompom!"
At this comment, a normally cheerful looking weasel in jester attire emerged from behind the Prince's throne with a glower on his face.
Nimbalo grinned at this. "For sure, good Prince! But attend here! Do you recognise. . ." here he paused dramatically, "this stoat?"
With this comment, the harvest mouse swiftly tore off the colourful material that covered the sheriff's uniform, removing the gag as he did so.
The prince studied the uniform and painted face of the stoat with a dim look in his eyes.
"Indeed I don't," he said finally.
"Prince Poynt! It's me, your loyal second in command, Sheriff Falshed!"
"Why are you a jester then?" the Prince asked stupidly.
The sheriff gave a sigh. "Your soldiers and I were captured by the weasel Sylver's band, as well as this otter and his-" the prince cut him off.
"What?! There aren't any weasels here!" His sister whispered in his ear, and after a minute, he nodded slowly.
"Guards! Seize the painty-faced otter and that. . ." The ermine stoat squinted at Nimbalo. "Thing," he finished.
His sister again whispered into his ear. "Oh," he added, "and you might as well untie the other soldiers while you're at it."
During these orders, Tagg ran to Nimbalo and handed the harvest mouse his battleaxe, which had been concealed on the otter's back, under the silks.
Pompom then joyfully descended on Nimbalo and Tagg, battering them with his beloved mouse-bladder on a stick.
Fortunately for the two, but not for the jester, the guards were all on the ramparts outside, out of hearing and sight.
Tagg swiftly drew Sawney's blade and popped the jester's "pride and joy". Nimbalo growled at the weasel, baring his incisors at the deflated looking jester, who was staring dumbly at his even more deflated looking balloon.
The otter ignored the weasel's expression, and appealed to the Prince; he was in no mood to slay dozy guards. . . it just wasn't a part of the plan.
"Hear us out, oh Prince. Your soldiers have come to no harm, all we wish is to have a place to live for a while." After a pause, he added, "In freedom." The weasels had warned him about the nature of the Prince; knowing him, he'd imprison them in the dungeons and expect them to thank him for it.
The prince sneered at him. "And if I choose to just send you to the dungeons? What of that?" Nimbalo raised his eyebrows.
"Let us just say that that would be a very . . . difficult task for your sun-lazed guards. If they attempt to do so, we will slay many of them, I believe, before they succeed in detaining us." The mouse gave his axe an experimental swish, and his companion licked his knife blade menacingly.
"Point taken," the Prince said, and with an unusual amount of understanding (for him) he ordered, "You may have a room, but you mustn't leave the castle walls, neither will you kill any stoats." Tagg noticed that he said nothing of weasels, but didn't comment.
"Also, I would like you to put on an act, every week at an appointed time, for my entertainment. Do you agree to the terms?"
Tagg bowed, and motioned for Nimbalo to do so as well. "Thank you, Prince," the otter said graciously.
Princess Sibiline again whispered in her brother's ear. The ermine prince pointed to a random creature among the stoat aristocrats.
"Spinfer, you are to show these two around the castle and its grounds. Dismissed," he ordered. The weasel Spinfer nodded and motioned for Tagg and Nimbalo to follow him.
Once they were safely away from the castle, up on the ramparts away from the guards, he spoke to them.
"That was, ah . . . interesting, the way you brought in my master and the soldiers."
"Your master?"
"I am the sheriff's personal servant. My name is Spinfer. Who exactly are you?"
"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," replied Tagg. He did not approve of any beast calling another "master", but decided that now wasn't the time to press the issue. "My name's Tagg, and this is my matey Nimbalo the Slayer."
Spinfer raised an eyebrow at this.
"The Slayer? That's an odd na-" He was interrupted by the harvest mouse, who bared his teeth.
"It's m'name. . . is that a problem?" The weasel shook his head, but stared at the teeth.
"Your teeth are incredibly rodent-like. . . if I may ask, what kind of mustelid are you?"
Nimbalo snorted and looked away. "Inquisitive type, ain't you? I ain't no must'lid. I'm an 'arvest mouse. Always was, always will be."
Spinfer was thoroughly astonished, but tried not to show it. His eyes widened, but he gave no other outward sign of surprise.
"What? What do you mean? You can't be a mouse, mice don't talk. . ."
Tagg was uncomfortable with the situation. "We're not from around here," he said shortly.
The weasel looked unsatisfied with this reply. He took a deep breath, preparing for a barrage of questions, but Nimbalo interrupted him with a paw pointed at the horizon.
"'Scuze me, mates, but what the Hellgates is that?" Tagg glanced over, and did a double take.
The hills on the horizon were completely covered in swarms of marsh rats. . . armed to the teeth.
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