Darragh’s paws were trembling. The noise of battle to him had seemed like the screams and cries of the underworld itself, but somehow the lull in the action was worse. At least in battle, his fighting instincts could take over, and he could trust the heavy cutlass that had been thrust into his paws. Anybeast short and ugly enough was the Enemy, and anybeast that looked utterly bewildered, lost, frightened and hurt tended to be a friend. Now the shrews had retreated though, and Darragh couldn’t be sure if the battle was over, or if the torchlit silhouettes stumbling in the fog were friend or foe. Everywhere there were moans of pain, or cries of loss.
Darragh took a moment to check himself, half-convinced he’d been gutted without realising it. A stoat could never do too terribly at footwork, and Darragh’s spritely step had kept him dodging thrust after blow. His lithe figure had proven almost impossible to hit, but having such scrawny arms had not made him much of a killer either. Holding his cutlass two-handed, he had been hewing at the shrews as though he was harvesting wheat, and though he had chopped a few spearheads and the odd limb off for his trouble, his wild swings had been fairly easy to predict and avoid. He desperately needed more combat training, but his brief time at sea had been crammed with learning a whole new trade and way of life. He’d gotten in a few whacks with wooden training swords, but this battle was about the best practical lesson he’d had so far.
Earlier that day, Darragh had tripped, and fallen out of the longboat as he’d been coming ashore. Soaked and spluttering, he’d been the target of guffaws and mocking applause. He’d stripped off his sopping wet sailor’s coat and hung it to dry, and given his crumpled hat a good squeeze. One of the younger marines had taken pity on him, and let him borrow one of his spare coats as night fell and the chill set in. Darragh had fought in the borrowed coat, easily mistaken for a marine at a distance, though his fighting style was anything but soldierly. Now, the coat’s owner might be dead, and Darragh hadn’t even asked his name.
Perhaps he sowed his initials into the collar, Darragh thought.
Satisfied his innards were intact, Darragh stood in a daze. For the past few weeks in the Navy, there had not been a moment where he hadn’t been doing something under orders. Now there were no barks of command, piping of whistles or rattling of drums. For a moment, Darragh drifted in the uneasy freedom of having nobeast telling him what to do. That might have suited him on a sunny afternoon, but it was unnerving in this roiling mass of murky fog and blood freezing on the ground.
“Please, my friend... he’s hurt bad. I can’t move him on my own.”
Darragh nodded dumbly, and followed the fox. In the gloom and the haze of battle, he didn’t even really register who was speaking. He was led to another fox, who Darragh might have taken as dead, if he weren’t able to speak in pained tones. This fox had beautiful marble fur, and a well-made glaive lay beside him.
An officer? Oh… it’s Nashirou, the engineer, Darragh realised, with a pang of worry making his stomach tremble. He’s not a bad sort, we really need foxes like him.
The stoat knelt, and prepared to shift the wounded fox. He grimaced, unhappy with the suffering he was about to cause. There was no way around it - moving Nashirou was bound to be painful.
“Hang on, we’ve got ye,” Darragh murmured, attempting a soothing tone, though his breath was ragged after the fight. “You’ll live to be feelin’ this in the mornin’, I’m afraid so.”
