User blog:Astar Goldenwing/The Taggerung’s Battle

'''This is a fan fiction story by User:Astar Goldenwing. It is not considered canon, nor is it a policy or guideline.'''

This is a side story/prequel to my upcoming fan fiction story ‘The Coming of Badger Lady’. The following events take place around five seasons before events of ‘The Coming of Badger Lady’ and thirty seasons before events of ‘The Long Patrol’.

As a little content warning, I have to note that this story is going to be more violent than my usual writing. Nothing overly gory and bloody, but it’s still going to be on the same level as ‘A Slave's Revenge’ with regards to the violence, if not overall mood.

In this story, one season equals one year.

Feel free to comment at the end and correct mistakes if you want.

The hot noon sun shone brightly over the vast expanse of sandy dunes of the Southern Coast – and over two creatures making their way along them. The beast in the lead, a middle-seasoned tall and sinewy rat with glossy brown fur, walked fast without looking at his companion, a much older humpbacked rat with ragged and dusty pelt. Both rats wore the similar clothes of tartan kilts and loose woven shirts with hooded cloaks, though the clothes of the younger rat were new and well-fitting instead of baggy and patched up outfit of the old one’s.

Both rats proceeded in silence until the older one spoke. “Are you sure this is the right way, Rarog?”

The rat in the lead didn’t slow down to answer. “Sure. The camp is right over these dunes.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s not too late to turn back.”

“Shut up, Diener. It’s not you risking your life, after all.”

The old rat shrugged. “I won’t live long if you die, though, and what will become of Sumra then? He doesn’t have a mother to care for him.”

This time, Rarog did stop. He turned to his older companion, making the paint on his face clearly visible: a red stripe running down his nose and wavy green line stretching along his forehead. “He’ll manage,” he said. “He’s a fine lad, not a ratbabe. When I was his age, I was swabbing deck on the galley.”

Diener raised his head for the first time. He, too, had his face painted, though in a simpler fashion – just a single green wavy line on his forehead. “And when I was his age, I scavenged dead bodies for their clothes and exchanged them for food,” he countered. “We had a rough start, but that doesn’t mean our children should have it that way, too. I want a better future for Sumra.”

“Ah, shut up,” said Rarog. “Remember, if it wasn’t for me, you’d still be stealing boots off the corpses. Besides, I don’t plan on getting killed.” And he resumed his pace. Diener hurried to follow his lead, whispering not too quietly. “Of course not… Such things are always planned for you by somebeast else.”

When they crested the next dune, a curious sight occurred before them. Below the horizon there was a wide blue sea, the great Western Ocean. But before them there was another sea – the sea of black tents stretching over the entire cost, row after row after row, as well as the whole forest of masts rising from a fleet of ships at the coastline. By Rarog’s quick count, there were no less than two thousand beasts in the camp.

“We’re dead,” muttered Diener.

“Shut up and cover my back, Diener.”

“Sure. Count on me.”

Rarog relaxed at these words. The rat didn’t realize how tense he had been before he did. Many ambitious beasts seeking to rise in power would try to make powerful friends. That would never work, because powerful friends only used such beasts for their goals. So when Rarog first came to the pirate galley, he approached this from the other side: he decided to become a powerful friend for somebeast else, so that he could use them for his goals. He had found the most low-ranked, miserable and browbeaten rat and offered him patronage in the exchange for undying loyalty. Both Rarog and Diener knew that power was all that mattered to both of them, but the friendship aspect was there as well, though it was twisted and strange, probably the only type of friendship possible between two true vermin at heart.

But Rarog knew he could trust Diener with his life. His back was safe with the old rat behind him.

Two rats had gone half of the way to the camp when they heard frantic cries. “Hey, you vagrants! Stop and drop down! You are on the land of Rapscallions!”

Rarog turned to face a little patrol running their way – two weasels and a rat. “If I were your Captain, I’d have you strung up and whipped,” he said calmly. “Because if I were your enemy, I’d have plenty of time to see everything I need to plan an attack.”

The comment made the sentries stagger, but only for a moment. A big weasel thrust a spear at them. “Shut your mouth close, or I’ll shut it for you! State you business or die!”

Rarog narrowed his pale green eyes. “I came here to challenge Mordbrenn Tunn to the duel to death.”

“Oh… you are one of those painted fools,” said weasel. He probably only now noticed the rats’ face markings. “When will you learn you cannot defeat Mordbrenn?”

“Hey, but they are so much fun,” objected another weasel.

“And Mordbrenn allows us to take their stuff,” added the rat. “Hey, that’s a fine sword!” The Rapscallion reached out to touch the snakeskin hilt of Rarog’s sword decorated with topaz pommel stone. Rarog stepped away from him.

“Yeah, classy one,” agreed the big weasel. “Gonna take it for myself.”

“Hey, I saw it first!”

“And I’m the leader of the patrol! Find yerself something else! Mebbe the old one has something of interest.”

Diener whimpered and cowered as Rapscallion sentries pushed him round. “Old one doesn’t even have any weapons!” complained the rat. “I want that sword!”

Rarog harrumphed. Rapscallions paid no attention, so he simply whacked one over his shoulder with his sheathed sword. “Would you be decent enough to wait till we are dead before arguing over our weapons? Lead us to Mordbrenn Tunn, and we’ll see if he is as great as the rumors say.”

The guards led them into the camp. One of the weasels ran to fetch the Firstblade of the Rapscallions while the second weasel and the rat brought Rarog and Diener to a secluded nook between the tents. It wasn’t long before a shadow fell over them. “Ah, more Juska,” said a rich deep voice.

Rarog turned round. He had heard the stories that traveled the Southern Coast, but they couldn’t prepare him to what he saw. A creature that faced him was a rat, but he was half as tall as Rarog and twice as wide – and Rarog was quite tall himself. The stranger was middle-seasoned, but Rarog didn’t doubt his strength. That was the first time he had seen one of the famed leaders of the Rapscallions. The Greatrats.

“Where is your tribe?” asked the Greatrat, not bothering to greet the newcomers. “Those Juska that came before would always bring their whole tribes with them. They wanted them to see their triumph, and once all the challengers dead, these tribes would always make a nice addition to our horde.”

“I’m not a Chieftain yet,” Rarog lied. “But I’ll surely become one once I win the duel.” “Ah, I see,” nodded the Greatrat. “You’ve joined the Juska only recently, have you? It’s less than a season since you two arrived from the Northern Shores and settled there. That’s why your face markings are uncompleted.”

Rarog couldn’t hold back his surprise. “H-how did you know that?” His amazement was only partially sincere, though, and Rarog allowed his puzzled face to hide his true feelings as his mind did the estimations and calculations. That Greatrat was a smart and dangerous beast, but he wasn’t omniscient. He knew enough of the Juska to see that something was off with Rarog’s face markings, but not enough to recognize them as marks of two completely different tribes.

Rarog’s markings were not uncompleted or wrong. If truth was to be spoken, the rat had challenged and killed the Chieftain of the Juskabor tribe just several days after joining the Juska, before he received his tattoos, and when he became a Chieftain he could change the rules all he wanted. He had great plans he slowly was bringing to life. Months later Rarog conquered the Juskarath tribe and joined it with his own. After that, he had added red stripe, a mark of Juskarath, to the green wavy line, the mark of Juskabor. He was the Chieftain of two tribe, and he wanted to look like one.

The tall rat’s face still bore bewildered expression, but he flicked his tail in pleasure at the thought of adding more markings after he killed Mordbrenn Tunn. “It’s half a season since we came from the north, and our Chieftain says we aren’t ready to be fully marked yet. Pray say, how did you know that?”

The Greatrat smiled, baring his long incisors. “You wear southern kilts and shirts, but you wear them in the northern manner. There, beasts wear their scarves thrown over their shoulders; yours are tied round your necks tightly. That’s a habit of those well-used to the cold winds of the north. The Rapscallion fleet sailed there, so I know how hard it is to get rid of that habit.”

“I’m impressed.” Rarog bowed slightly. “I’m lucky that I’m dueling your brother, Gormad Tunn, and not you.”

Gormad Tunn nodded in return. “What are your names? It would be impolite to send you over to be killed by Mordbrenn without asking your names.”

“I’m called Rarog, and my companion is Diener.”

The Greatrat circled Diener. During the whole conversation the old rat was silent, skulking in Rarog’s shadow, and the unwanted attention of Gormad made him shiver with fear. “Diener,” said Gormad. “That means ‘servant’ in the language of north. Nickname or true name?”

Diener hunched down even more, as if wishing he could bury himself in the sand. “Uhm, kind of both.”

Gormad’s interest in Diener was gone as quickly as it appeared, and the Greatrat turned back to Rarog. “Now you. ‘Rarog’ means ‘falcon’, but not in the northern language, but the language of Juska. Did you hope that changing your name will move you up the ranks?”

Rarog’s name was all but ungrounded, for he earned it by killing an osprey, but he would benefit from his enemies thinking him an ambitious upstart. “The chief and his cronies think me a show-off, but I’ve got some youngsters to follow me.”

The giant rat smiled heartedly. “Be careful, Rarog, or one day these youngsters will put a knife in your back.”

“And how’ll ye know that, eh?” called a new voice, high-pitched and nasal. “It’s not like ye have guts to stick a knife into somebeast!” A young rat stepped from between the tents, - no, Rarog realized, a ratlet. The beast was almost the size of an adult, but his chubby muzzle and soft ears as well as shorter tail and limbs proved him to be no older than ten seasons of age. “Shut up, Damug!” Gormad raised his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Mordbrenn said he’ll fight the painted ones,” drawled the ratlet. “He says to hurry it; he wants to get it over to the lunch already. It’s time ye put some nightshade in his beer if ye can’t face the brute in a fight.”

“I told you to shut your muzzle before I whacked it closed for you!” Gormad snarled. “Only the enemies of the Rapscallions will die today. Nobeast else.”

“Cause ye’re a coward!” Damug burst out. “Ye’re too much of a white-livered mouse to do what ye must, and uncle Mordbrenn is too much of a thick-sculled idiot, and grandfather is a senile old fool! Looks like I’m the only one with Greatrat blood round there, ‘cause ye all have mud and slime in yer veins!”

Gormad rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you be nice and obedient like your brother Byral?”

“Cause he’s an idiot!” Damug spat on the sand. “Can’t wait till I’m old enough to kill him. An’ before that, I’ll be sure to kill ye, too! Unlike ye, I’m a true Greatrat!”

“Huh, kill me, you will?” Gormad stood on the opposite side of the nook from Damug, but he covered it in one great leap. The ratlet tried to run, but Gormad caught his tail and flung him to the ground, putting a footpaw on his back and pushing Damug’s face into the sand. “That’s if you survive long enough to get old. And in moments like this I regret not snapping your neck in your cradle. After all, I’ve already got Byral. I don’t need a second brat. Maybe I’ll give you a reminder.” Gormad Tunn grabbed Damug’s right forepaw and twisted it behind his back, then snapped it with a quick movement of his paw. Damug shrieked in pain, almost wailing, and Gormad nudged him to his footpaws. “Get out. Go to the healers or something. And if I ever catch you trying to put a scorpion in grandfather’s bed again, I’ll break your other paw.”

Damug scrambled up and shot Gormad such a murderous glare that the adult Greatrat would’ve fallen dead if only a glower could kill. Gormad raised his paw to strike again, and Damug ran off, holding his broken forepaw to his chest.

Gormad Tunn condescended enough to give the two rats a slight bow. “Sorry for the scene. That was my son. Cubs always think they know better.”

“Oh, I know,” said Rarog. “Why, Sumra is just a couple of seasons older, isn’t he, Diener?”

The old rat was terrified. “Sumra never behaves like that! He’s a nice young rat!”

“Of course he is,” Gormad sounded bored. He turned and led them among the host of tents. “Follow me. Mordbrenn doesn’t like waiting.”

As the Juska hurried to catch up with their guide, Diener moved to whisper in Rarog’s ear. “Rarog… What that cub was talking about? About killing each other and being true Greatrats?”

Rarog slowed his pace down so that Diener didn’t have to run. “Ah, that. Old Rapscallion… tradition, should I say?” Rarog recalled everything he had ever heard about the current Rapscallion leaders. “When the chieftain of Rapscallions – the Firstblade, as they call him, - dies, his sons ought to fight to death to determine the next Firstblade. More often than not they gladly do so. Now, however… The Firstblade, father of Mordbrenn and Gormad, is old and weak and can barely sit on his throne. Normally, his sons would’ve finished him off and fought for the leadership of the horde. But Mordbrenn is much, much stronger than Gormad, and they both know it. And Gormad is just as smart as Mordbrenn is strong, and again, they know it. If they fight, Mordbrenn will kill Gormad. You can see why Gormad doesn’t want his father to die, but Mordbrenn doesn’t want it either. If he killed his brother, he would have to come up with all plans himself, and Mordbrenn is not a thinker. Mordbrenn is the muscle and Gormad is the brain, and their father is a screen from behind which they are ruling Rapscallions. They are dependant on each other, though it doesn’t mean they won’t slit each other throats if they benefit from it.”

“Gives the words ‘familial love’ whole new meaning, doesn’t it?” sighed Diener.

As they were talking, the sea of tents round them suddenly ended, and they found themselves on an open ground. Both Rarog and Diener stopped short at the sight before them – even Rarog couldn’t help being overwhelmed by crowds and crowds of vermin around them. There was a ring of bare ground marked with ropes in the sand in the clearing, but nobeast inside it.

Gormad moved to stood before a dais on one end of the clear ground, where the oldest rat Rarog had ever seen resided. He was tall, that rat, just as tall as Gormad, but he was so painfully thin that his height made him seem weaker. His fur was completely white, his eyes half-closed as if it pained him to keep them open. His paw lay slumped against a fancy sword, one part of its blade being straight and the other wavy as the sea. The Firstblade was probably a formidable Greatrat in his young seasons, but these seasons were long, long past.

Gormad kneeled before the dais. “These are the beasts that came here to challenge your son, Mordbrenn Tunn, to the duel to death. What will be your word, o Firstblade?” The old Firstblade raised his head with visible effort. His mouth opened, but all that could be heard was an inaudible rasp. Nonetheless, Gormad bowed, touching his forehead to the sand. “Your word is my command, o Firstblade.”

Rarog smiled. Even if he didn’t know about the politics of Greatrats, it wasn’t hard to see where the real power was. When the old Firstblade’s words couldn’t be heard by anybeast but his son, there was nothing the old rat could do to stop Gormad from placing his own orders in his father’s mouth.

Gormad Tunn turned back to the horde and raised his voice. “Any who challenges Firstblade’s son would fight him as Greatrats should and die by his paw!”

“And what if I win?” Rarog asked. There were hoots and jeers from the crowd all round him, and he clearly heard somebeast shout ‘Painted idiot!” Obviously, he wasn’t the first Juska who came to fight Mordbrenn, but he intended to be the last.

“We’ll see,” Gormad said evasively. “Mordbrenn Tunn, brother mine!”

“Aye!” a voice called to the right from the dais. Rarog hadn’t seen a Greatrat towering over the crowd, so he overlooked the one sitting on the ground, a chubby ratmaid no older than five seasons old in his lap. The Greatrat put her down, rumbling, “Wait up, Rache, we’ll get some lunch soon.”

Rarog wondered if that was Mordbrenn’s daughter. He hadn’t heard of one, but then again, he hadn’t heard about Gormad’s sons as well. The gossips could go on and on about how the Greatrats ruled their horde, whom they killed and what lands conquered, but rarely spoke of their families – at least, until their offspring grew up big enough to try and usurp the power.

Then Mordbrenn Tunn rose up to his full height, and Rarog had other things to wonder about. After seeing Gormad, the rat Juska believed he knew what he was up against. It turned out he didn’t. Mordbrenn Tunn was big and powerful like an oak, two heads taller than his brother, his barrel-like chest almost twice as wide. Muscles rippled under his fur, and incisors protruding from his closed mouth were long and sharp. His fur was pure black except for a single white stripe that started on the bridge of his nose and ran all the way down his muzzle, ending as a lone streak in his bushy beard.

The words of Juska seer, Ruha, echoed in Rarog’s ears. ''He comes from the sea, leading thousands, but not a leader, giant among giants and warrior among warriors. He has no need for tattoos or paint, for he is already marked. Destiny itself dipped a claw in liquid fire and touched his face, marking it as a lightning marks the night sky. A single white lightning among the black marks him for who he is: the Taggerung, mightiest of the mighty and greatest of the great.''

“Huh? Tagga-thing, you say?” Rarog started. He hadn’t realized he was repeating the prophecy aloud. He had to crane his neck to look Mordbrenn in the eye. “So what they say is true? Are you truly the Taggerung?”

The black giant sneered. “Are you mad, little rat? You and all the other painted ones. Aye, the one who came here last brought a seer with him, a senile rumbling vixen who kept shaking a staff at me and calling me ‘Tagga-thing’.” He shrugged and added, “Maybe I shouldn’t have killed her. Maybe she could’ve told me what about that ‘Tagga-thing’ makes all the painted ones happy to get killed by me.”

“The one who slays a Taggerung becomes a Taggerung,” Rarog said quietly.

“Enough talking, I’m hungry,” Mordbrenn concluded, stretching his already long paws. “Am I to fight both of you?”

Diener’s nerves gave in at that point. The old rat whimpered and scampered back, almost bumping into a group of Rapscallions. “Not me, please, not me!”

Rarog grimaced at such open display of cowardice. “Shut up, old one, don’t shame me!” He drew his long thin sword from his scabbard and turned to Mordbrenn. “I’m going to fight you. What’s your weapon?”

Mordbrenn threw his head back and laughed. “Wrong question, little rat. You should ask what your weapon will be.” He motioned for several horde beasts, and they hurried over to them. One of them carried a short length of tough vinerope, two more hauled short, stout hardwood clubs each and another two – long cords with a sizable boulders attached to each. “Put away you toy and get a real weapon!” Mordbrenn growled.

Rarog looked at the crude weapons warily. “You pick your own arms, Mordbrenn. I got my sword.”

“That’s not what the Firstblade ordered, Rarog,” Gormad Tunn said with a smile. “If you challenge a Greatrat, you fight him according to the Greatrat custom.”

“Let me tell you what will happen now,” Mordbrenn supplied. “Our hordebeasts will tie our left footpaws with the vinerope just to make sure you won’t run. Then you will take this club and the cord and boulder. And then I’ll crack your scull, clear and simple.”

That didn’t go according to Rarog’s plan. The Juska chieftain could handle any weapon, clubs included, but he was a swordbeast above all things. But if he refused, the Rapscallions would just kill him now and then. Besides, since then did he act by a plan? He wanted to be a Taggerung. And the Taggerung was able to kill any creature with any weapon available, even if it were their own teeth and claws.

Rarog sheathed his sword and threw it at Diener. His companion caught it, an expression of pure terror on the old rat’s face. Rarog could hear him whimpering behind his back, probably already mourning his own death.

“I’m ready,” Rarog said, looking Mordbrenn in the eye. He allowed one of the Rapscallions to tie his left footpaw and took club and cord given to him.

“Start by my signal,” Gormad Tunn said. “Get ready.”