Chapter Nineteen

Will Scarlet was utterly disgusted and discouraged. For the past several
weeks he'd been trying to book passage to the Continent, but his lack of money
meant that he'd had to try and hire himself out as an inexperienced deckhand.
Unfortunately, most Captains ignored him because of his youth and wiry build.
"I need a strong back!" One had told him with a sneer. "Not some
pip squeak who's gonna cry for mama at the first breeze!"

He'd managed to survive so far by lying about his age to get a job tending
bar at one of the sleazy little dives that dotted the river front. He worked
the late shift, which left his days free to try to look for a way to leave the
forsaken place that Britain was fast becoming. He was paid a pittance, the
owner explaining that the King had raised the taxes on drinks through the roof.
At first, he'd been skeptical of this claim; but, after talking with a few of
the other public house and inn workers, he'd come to realize that Jenner was
indeed going to attempt to live up to his philosophy of wringing more work out
of his subjects. Almost daily, new decrees and edicts were being issued to
raise this or that tax or begin taxing something that hadn't been taxed before.
Just days before, a near-riot had broken out when Jenner had issued an order
closing the City's largest soup kitchen, blithely explaining that the workload
was now to be more efficiently shared among the remaining smaller kitchens.

Will himself looked far different than when he'd first come to Londontown.
He'd put away his acrobat costume and was now dressed in an old shirt and
bib-overalls that he'd found in the "penny-pile" at the salvage store
of a local charity. They were both a couple sizes too large and in need of some
repair, but they were comfortable and, after a few hours with a needle and
thread, he figured that he blended somewhat better into his surroundings. On
his back he carried an improvised knapsack sewn from an old sea-bag and strips
of sailcloth for the straps.

He was on his way to the dosshouse where he'd rented his room when he
noticed a crowd gathering around a street lamp. He made his way to it and
pushed his way through the crowd. Pasted to the lamppost was an announcement
which read: "By order of His Majesty, King Jenner, on this date; The
King's Orphanage is hereby ordered to cease all operations immediately. All
resident children are to be removed to an alternate facility of his choice
until further notice." Several people in the crowd began scratching their
heads and asking, "Can he do that?" or "Whadda they mean,
'alternate facility'?"

From a distance, a new sound could be heard; the booing and ⁄jeering
of a large distant horde. He fought his way out of the growing crowd and
started running full-tilt in the direction of the Orphanage. When he arrived
several minutes later, he skidded to a stop and stared wide-eyed in
astonishment at the scene before him. "Cor!" He muttered under his
breath.

A single file of children, all in shackles and chains, was being led from
the somber stone building, dark with grime from its long-ago days as a
coal-storage warehouse, by members of a troop of the King's Guard. On the
surrounding streets a crowd of thousands was milling aimlessly about or hurling
curses and taunts at the soldiers and growing by the second.

The Troop-Captain; a beady-eyed weasel named Ezekiel Stabb; looked down on
the roiling mass of animals from his perch atop the highest step of the
entrance portico with contempt and loathing. Weasels did not generally
associate with any other animals except fellow weasels and, even then, were
generally suspicious and paranoid about any outside their own clan. But Stabb
had been a mercenary soldier during the Continental wars and had, he thought,
been rather good at his chosen vocation. He'd grown to love the smell of the
fresh blood that had stained his sword-blade during the campaigns he'd fought
for whichever Empire had bid the highest for his services; in fact, in his
youth, he had gotten an almost erotic thrill after each battle by seeking an
isolated spot away from the main body of whatever carnage had just been wrought
and slowly licking the fresh, warm red liquid off of whatever weapon he
happened to be using, shivering with pleasure as he savored the salty taste
with each stroke of his tongue. This secret bloodlust had not been appeased in
many years and had faded into nothing more than a distant, shameful memory.
When the wars had wound down, he'd found that employers wanted more useful
skills than slashing an enemy's throat or bashing his skull in with a mace or
battle-axe. Stabb had no stomach for such namby-pamby pursuits as farming or
commerce. Eventually, he'd had to enlist in one of the regular imperial armies,
being forced to rise through the ranks even with his extensive military
experience. His family and clan had long ago perished in the wars and resultant
Plague and he was far too old to try to fight for a place in another. He had,
in a bout of bitterness and depression, been contemplating suicide several
months earlier when he'd heard from one of his old buddies that the new King of
Britain was looking for a few ruthlessly efficient animals to be all that they
could be while promising not just a job, but an adventure; and if they aimed
high, well, who knew how far one could go? He'd immediately resigned and hopped
the next boat to Britain and enthusiastically offered his services to His
Majesty, who had immediately commissioned him as a Troop-Captain.

But now here he was taking a bunch of little kids from their only home, such
as it was, in chains like a bunch of criminals on their way to a work detail.
This was most definitely NOT the kind of work that he'd signed on for! A King's
Guard was just that: a bodyguard for the Sovereign of the Realm; not some
Secret Police force to be used on a whim to crush those opposed to his rule!
Stabb had never before disobeyed a direct order from the boss who signed his
paycheck; but when Captain Sullivan had given him this assignment and told him
how it was to be carried out, Stabb had been tempted to refuse it outright;
telling Sullivan that chaining up innocent children was beyond his job
description. Sullivan had replied that the chains were for the children's own
safety so that they would not get lost on the way to their new homes. But Stabb
had known better than to trust the word of his commander. He'd remembered
numerous situations in his past where his supposed "leaders" had lied
to him in order to further their own careers and wasted the lives of many good
soldiers, including some good friends, in the process.

He'd asked one of the aides to the King's Scribe; a harried, weak-willed
hedgehog; for the original order. The aide had tried to put him off, but Stabb
was persistent and had become very upset when he'd learned that Jenner was
simply using the residents of the orphanage to maintain his grip on power. Just
after he'd joined the Guard, he'd heard rumors of another betrayal by them
against a former Captain-of-the-Guard named Justin. At first he'd dismissed
them as nothing more than the usual backbiting among the upper echelons of
power. But when he'd heard that a reward had been placed on the fox's head,
he'd begun to get an inkling of just what these two were capable of. Even now
the conflicting feelings; rage at Jenner and Sullivan for their lies and
betrayal, guilt for letting himself be used in such a shameful manner, even a
certain amount of sympathy, a feeling quite rare to his species, for the plight
these poor kids who had no clue as to their future; inside of him were almost
at the boiling point. He decided that he had no choice but to put up a brave,
if utterly false, front. But it didn't make the job any easier.

The noise of the crowd was intensifying. Somewhere, someone had set up a
soapbox and was railing against the tax and social reform policies of His
Majesty. Stabb motioned his Lieutenant to his side. "Find out who that
is," He hissed angrily, pointing in the general direction of the oratory,
"And arrest him! And don't be too gentle about it!" The guard took a
Sergeant and several soldiers with him and disappeared into the seething
multitude. Several minutes later, Stabb gave a satisfied smirk as a commotion
broke out among a part of the crowd and the voice that had been yelling
invective against the King fell silent. "That'll teach ya to fight City
Hall!" He muttered sarcastically.

The last of the children were led from the building; most were crying, some
were carrying swaddled infants; but, as before, they all wore ankle-irons and
manacles.

Will Scarlet worked his way through the crowd and made his way to the steps
of the portico, where he was stopped by two halbred-armed wolves.
"'Ay,'ay! Wha' d'yer think yer doin', ya bloody twit? Them kids can't 'urt
you!" He yelled for all he was worth.

Stabb turned to face him down and sneered from his perch. "You'd better
mind your own business, boy! How we remove these brats is up to King Jenner and
none of your affair!"

"Is tha' ri'? Well 'ow 'bout you go an' pick on some'un yer own
size?" Will taunted.

Stabb's nose wrinkled in anger as he drew his sword. "Like YOU?"
He shouted as he advanced down the steps.

Will gulped but stood his ground.

Stabb motioned the two wolves away and ordered a nearby guard to hand his
sword over to the smart-ass fox who had either the brass courage or sheer
stupidity to challenge the orders of his King.

Will doffed the backpack and it was picked up by a member of the crowd, a
pretty, young female skunk; who said, with a lilting brogue; "I'll keep it
safe for ya. Good luck!" She then gave him a quick peck on his cheek and
disappeared into the crowd. He took the sword from the guard and was nearly
dragged to the ground by its unaccustomed weight. He waved it around for a few
moments to try to get a feel for its weight and balance. His mother had been
both a sword-swallower and knife-thrower before she had married his father and
taken up acrobatics, and showed her son some fencing techniques, both
elementary and advanced; and he now struggled to try and remember those
long-ago lessons.

Stabb watched this prancing young imbecile with a mixture of bemusement and
contempt. "You shoulda stayed on the farm, boy!" He snickered
scornfully.

Will assumed a fighting stance and said, "Y' may be ri', bu' m' name's
no' 'boy'!"

Stabb then stepped forward and brought his sword down on Will expecting to
cleave the youth in two with no resistance. He was more than a little surprised
to find his stroke blocked, inexpertly but effectively, by his opponent. He
then slid his blade off of Will's and used the momentum of his force to strike
down again, this time from an angle.

Will, using his circus skills, quickly dodged to the opposite direction;
executing a sideways sommersault; leaving the Troop-Captain's blade to clang
into the grimy gray stone of the portico, throwing bright sparks as it hit.
Experimentally, he slashed his blade at waist-level toward the weasel's
midsection. The weasel only just had time to parry the blow. The two
antagonists began to trade and parry blows and slashes ⁄against each
other, attempting to gauge each other's skills and weaknesses. Will then
methodically began aiming blows at other parts of his adversary's anatomy,
gauging both the speed and consistency of the weasel's reactions to his moves
and countermoves. He began to realize that the weasel was fighting to a
prescribed rote order which probably left little room for improvisation; and
while the Troop-Captain was superior in terms of his physical strength and
experience in swordplay, Will knew that if he began to subtly change the rules
of the fight more to his advantage, he could at least hold his own against his
opponent.

He began to back slowly down the portico steps in order to give himself more
room, the crowd parting so as not to be hit by a stray, slashing blade. Stabb
mistakenly took this as a retreat and began to press his attack on the young
fox. Will had anticipated this reaction and kept his cool, calmly blocking each
of the weasel's strokes. As soon as he felt that he was imposition, he began
his own attack against the Troop-Captain; first using a series of feints and
false thrusts to throw the weasel off of the rhythm that Will had detected in his
fighting method. Then he began to bring a slightly faster tempo to his own
movements, the weasel grimacing in frustration as he struggled to keep up.

Stabb was really pissed now. He'd figured that he'd be able to dispatch this
hayseed fox to the next world in a few moments and get back to the job at hand;
but somehow this little punk was not only still alive, but he was actually in
control of this fight! Needless to say, this had never happened to him before.
Usually a little intimidation was all that was needed to bring an enemy to his
knees for the eventual kill, but this kid had shown no signs that he was in any
way afraid of Stabb; in fact, Stabb could see the beginnings of a smile forming
at the corners of the fox's mouth while his eyes were empty of all emotions
other than intense concentration. He tried to press another attack like the one
that had driven the kid down the front steps, but the kid was standing his
ground like a seasoned professional; sidestepping, advancing, thrusting and
parrying, but never giving up his now clear advantage. In his growing Ωrage,
Stabb lunged toward the fox and immediately regretted doing so when the fox
expertly stepped aside and landed a powerful, painful slap against the back of
Stabb's knee with the flat of his blade, causing the leg to buckle and Stabb to
cry out in pain. The Crowd roared its laughter and approval. Stabb rubbed some
feeling back into the area and felt a little bit of wetness slicking his fur.
He knew without looking that the fox had drawn first blood.

Will Scarlet maintained a respectful distance from the slightly injured
Troop-Captain. "We kin stop this 'ere an' now if you want, bu' ya go' t'
le' them kids free!" He told the weasel.

Stabb raised himself painfully to both feet and raised his sword high above
his head, his eyes ablaze with bitter frustration. "NEVER!" He
screamed; launching himself on an unsteady, unwieldy limp toward Will, bringing
his sword down. Will fell to the ground at the last second and used his legs to
sweep the enraged weasel's feet out from under him. The weasel fell hard and
his sword was knocked from his paw, skittering a short way along the stone
street and coming to rest against a gutter. Before he could catch his breath;
Stabb was on his back, the tip of the fox's blade resting uncomfortably on his
exposed throat. For the first time in his life, Stabb knew that he had lost a
fight. He stared at the winner with fear in his eyes, the fox staring back with
something that he couldn't identify. Anger? Pity, perhaps? Both? He decided
that death was a far better fate than that which awaited him if he surrounded
to this, this BOY! "Kill me!" He hissed defiantly. The fox raised a
questioning eyebrow as if unsure of the command. "KILL ME!" He
screamed and tried to grab for the blade in order to plunge it into his own
throat. But the fox quickly pulled the blade away and tossed the sword onto the
portico steps.

"Sorry. Bu' I don' kill blokes like you, even if y' prob'bly do deserve
it." Will said evenly. He then offered his paw to the weasel and said
simply, "Le' them kids go. they can't 'urt you or your boys."

Stabb sighed and reluctantly accepted the fox's paw, the fox helping him to
his feet. "LieuTENANT!" He shouted as they made their way to the
lowest step of the portico. "Sir!" The Lieutenant answered.
"Remove those irons from those children!" The Lieutenant nodded and
moments later all of the children were free of their shackles and chains.
"What about him?" The Lieutenant asked, nodding toward Will.
"What aBOUT him?" Stabb said. The Lieutenant said, "He's
interfered with an order by his Majesty; shouldn't we arrest him?" Stabb
glared at the guard. "Interfered in WHAT, SERGEANT?" He said
sarcastically, emphasizing the soldier's new rank. "We're still closing
this building down and relocating its occupants. We're simply going to modify
our means of doing so." The newly-demoted officer was about to say
something else, but Stabb's angry visage brooked no argument.

Meanwhile, Will had begun bandaging the Troop-Captain's leg-wound; which was
neither deep nor serious; with a strip of cloth from his backpack, which had
been returned by the skunk who had been keeping it safe for him. Realizing that
the fight was over, and encouraged by the local constabulary who had arrived at
its conclusion, the crowd began to break up and go about its business.

Stabb regarded his victor for several minutes as the young fox continued his
work. "Y'know, boy, you got lucky today. How in the heck did you win? I
must be gettin' too old fer this line o' work!"

Will snickered and said, "First of all, m' name's Will. Will Scarlet.
Sec'nd; in yer dreams, bub! I coulda tak'n you on m' worst day! I won 'cause me
'eart was pure an' me cause was just! An' b'sides, y' kep' usin' all th' same
moves an' rhythm to p'rtec' y'rself over an' over. I jus' varied my moves t'
throw y' off."

Stabb shook his head in simultaneous admiration and disbelief. This was the
first time that he'd ever been bested in a fight; and a fair one at that; and
the kid had won by not bending to the Troop-Captain's will while at the same
time bending the rules to his favor. As Will tied the last knot in the bandage,
Stabb placed a paw on his shoulder. "Kid," He said in a fatherly
tone, "If I were you I'd get myself outta this city. Jenner's not gonna be
happy when he hears what happened today. He specifically ordered that those
kids be shackled in order to intimidate these folks into doing his will. He's
not gonna like the idea that there's another animal who'll stand up to
him."

"'nother?" Will asked, perplexed. "I sorter figger'd tha'
sooner 'r later we'd all jus' ge' tired o' 'is bullyin' an jus' toss 'im ou' on
'is flamin' can!"

Stabb laughed and said, "Boy, you are a hayseed, aren't you? These
animals are afraid of Jenner!" He made a sweeping motion with his paw
toward the few hangers-on near the building. "They want more'n anything to
be subjects of their King again, rather than his slaves; but he has the Crown,
the Throne, his power an', not least, an Army to back 'em all up!" He then
removed his uniform coat, neatly folded it, laid it on the step next to him and
laid his steel helmet on it. "If you are gonna take on Jenner, you'd best
find a fox, a red, named Justin. He has as much reason as anyone to want the
King off his Throne."

"Wot 'bout you?" Will asked.

Stabb was touched by the genuine concern in Will's voice. No one had ever
shown consideration for him, beyond his abilities as a fighter, before. He
shook his head sadly. "I'm too old to be doin' this if some hayseed can
lay me out in a few minutes an' not break a sweat. I suppose I'll just have to
go back to Jenner an' throw myself on his not-so-tender mercies an' count
myself lucky if I die in whatever prison he cares to toss my tail into."
He said, a bitter tear forming in the corner of one eye.

"Why no' come wi' me?" Will asked, helping the weasel to his feet.
"If this Just'n needs 'elp gettin' Jenner off th' Throne, I wanna be there
with 'im!"

Stabb regarded the fox with a skeptical admiration. This kid seemed willing
to look Death square in the eye and DARE it to blink first! But he could detect
no arrogance in Will's voice or manner; just a magnificent self-confidence that
Stabb wished he'd possessed in his own prime. He chuckled and said, "Sure,
why not? I get antsy in dungeons anyway! SERGEANT!" He called out to the
former officer.

The Sergeant, a wolf not much older than Will, hurried to his Troop-Captain
and stood at attention. "SIR!" He answered.

Stabb removed the gold insignia pin from his vest and gave it to the wolf.
"Tell Captain Sullivan that I'm resigning my post effective immediately.
Tell 'im that I'm too old to be lockin' kids in chains, an' that Jenner'll have
to get someone else t' do his dirty work for 'im." He said bitterly.
"You've got this detail now."

The Sergeant saluted. Stabb returned the honor and, assisted by Will and the
female skunk, began limping away. "You realize, sir, that if we meet again
I may have to kill you." The Sergeant's voice held no hint of malice.

Stabb turned and almost said something, but sadly nodded his understanding
and limped off down the street supported by his new comrades.

Chapter
Twenty

Once Will and the skunk; who introduced herself as Heather Kilcannon, an art
student from Eire; retrieved their various possessions from their respective
dosshouses, they left the City as quickly as possible. The weasel, who had
introduced himself just after leaving the orphanage, directed them to an
unguarded gate that was part of one of the many public gardens scattered around
Londontown. They were now headed North toward where Stabb had heard that Justin
had gone.

"So what's your story, girl?" Stabb asked as he limped, now under
his own power.

"I heard tha' King Jenner is plannin' to close most o' the
universities." She explained. "Includin' mine. I was waitin' for a
boat t' take me home when I saw you 'n' your troops startin' t' take them poor
little children away in those awful chains! I rushed back t' the school an'got
a few o' me friends together an' we began t' protest."

Stabb grimaced at the accusatory sharpness in her voice and words, well
aware of how correct she was to harbor those feelings. "I'm sorry,"
He murmured, "I hope that someday you'll find it in your hearts to forgive
a foolish old soldier for not having the courage to disobey an order that had
no business being issued in the first place."

Heather took one of his paws in hers and said softly, "I dinno' mean t'
hurt your feelin's. Ye've already taken your first step toward redemption by
defyin' tha' loathsome tyrant of a King." She then took one of Will's paws
and said, "The spirits protect those who try t' do tha' which is right,
don't they? Tha's what me father always taught me."

Stabb smiled at this girl's innocence. He'd seen and caused far too much
death and bloodshed to ever look at the world with anything but a cynical and
jaundiced eye. But he now began to hope that, in the time left before his
inevitable judgment before the spirits of the afterworld, he might be able to
right at least a few of the many wrongs that he'd done over a lifetime and
maybe, just maybe, learn to appreciate some of the beauty that was in the world
rather than dwell on the evils that he'd been witness to. He nodded hesitantly.
"My feelings were hurt long before now, sister, and I suppose that there
may yet be hope even for this old idiot. Whether your father was right about
the spirits or not is anybody's guess; but he seems to have given his daughter
enough faith to make even this old soldier want to believe that it might be
true." He told her.

Will had been listening to them in rapt silence, mesmerized by the sound of
Heather's voice and her glowing beauty. He'd been a bit too busy when he'd
first seen her, what with being in the middle of a fight and all. But her
luxuriant, silky black-and-white fur and large, sparkling eyes now made his
heart flutter. But that wonderful voice! Music from the most expensively
crafted archlute or harpsichord could only pale in comparison to that which
this girl made simply by speaking!

After a while, Stabb began to lag behind and Will tried to work up some
suddenly elusive courage to talk to Heather; marvelling at how easy it was to
risk one's life in a sword fight against a veteran soldier, but how difficult
it was to risk embarrassment while talking to a beautiful young girl. "So,
um, where in Eire're ya from?" He asked, trying desperately to keep some
bravado in his voice.

Heather giggled. "Ye don' have to be me Knight in Shinin' Armor all the
time, Will!" She chided. "I can like th' Love-struck teen-ager just as
much!"

Will chuckled nervously in spite of himself, well aware that he'd lost
control of the situation. "Tha' obvious am I?" He asked.

Heather smiled and nodded, saying, "I dinno' fall out o' th'
turnip-cart yesterday, y'know. As t' your question, I was born 'n
Dublintown..." She then went on to explain that she was the youngest in
her family and her parents were well-to-do merchants who owned several small
quarries and sold stone for buildings and statuary. She was in Britain to learn
painting and sculpting because she had no interest in being a stonecutter for
the rest of her life.

They talked and laughed for quite a while, not noticing the lengthening
shadows as day gave way to dusk and dusk to night. Stabb limped his way to them
and pointedly suggested that they either find an inn or make some sort of
provision for a night's rest. Will remembered a nearby inn and he, Heather and
Stabb used what little money they had between them to take a meal and a room.

Chapter Twenty-One

"...I mean, what could I do, Sir? I couldn't very well've struck them
down in cold blood, could I?"

Sullivan sat listening as the young wolf finished his report of the days
disastrous events. "No, son," He sighed, massaging the fur between
his eyes to alleviate the growing ache there. "You did the right thing. I
suppose that we should all be thankful that this didn't degenerate into a riot
situation. I shudder at the thought that our streets might someday flow with
rivers of the blood of His Majesty's subjects." He absentmindedly turned
Stabb's Troop-Captain insignia-pin over in his paw. Once, a long time ago,
Sullivan himself had worn one just like it; and back then, at least in his
mind, it may even have actually meant something. But now it was nothing more
than a worthless hunk of sculpted, gold-plated tin symbolizing blind obedience
to a King who seemed to be growing more unstable by the day. Stabb had probably
been right to resign his commission when he did. Earlier in the day Jenner had
signed a number of decrees that promised to reduce the animals of Britain to
abject slavery, in fact if not name. The most troubling of them stripped all
but a very few landholders of deeds under the premise that all of Britain
belonged to the King and only he could legally buy, sell or grant lands.
Sullivan knew that this would bring the animals dislike of their King to; if
not sheer hatred, than something mighty close. But he also knew that, in terms
of his political power, Jenner was now too strong to overthrow by non-violent
means. He had too many "friends in high places" who had too much to
lose if their roles in the deaths of his brother and his brother's Chancellor
were ever discovered.

Sullivan placed the badge on his desk and said, "Look, I know that it's
probably a bit early in your career to get saddled with this kind of
responsibility; but I'm in need of a cool head right now." He leaned back
in his chair and began to rub Ωthe tense muscles at the back of his neck.
"I just happen to have a Troop-Captain position open, if you want it.

The Sergeant looked as if he might lose his composure for a moment, but he
remained at attention and simply said, "Yes sir, I'd like that very much,
sir."

Sullivan handed the wolf the Troop-Captain's badge and took possession of
the Sergeant's stripes as he carefully peeled them from the sleeves of his
coat. "By the way, soldier," He asked, "What's your name? So I
can put it in the paybook."

"Gisbourne, Sir. Troop-Captain Giles Gisbourne." The wolf said
proudly.

He then dismissed the newly re-commissioned officer and, after exchanging
salutes, closed his office door. He then began to set pen to parchment; it was
time to have another meeting with The Voice and his crowd again.