The collar of honour, p.1
The Collar of Honour, page 1
Copyright © 2021 P. W. Jacob
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For my nephew Harry.
I promised you a story.
Uncle Phil
Contents
Prologue
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter two
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Epilogue
Prologue
If you head towards our sun (preferably at night) and remember to turn left you will find a pocket universe where evolution took a different turn. When the only sun cooled it went too far, and no creature on the universe’s sole planet without fur, wings or scales could possibly survive. So, without humans to mess things up the planet Venary threw up diverse animal life, and never developed an obsession with a chain of identical coffee shops or flashing rectangles.
The planet is in many ways similar to our own, except there are fewer oceans. Bad news for the fish but it does make travel between the realms so much simpler. The poles are cold like ours, although in a twist the animals there really don’t like it. So much so that the Brundians (a species of flightless bird with oiled skin, beady eyes and a fierce intellect) are unique in that they were the first species of any universe to invent the four-bar electric fire before the wheel, and promptly drowned ninety per cent of the population within four months. The survivors huddle together on the floating ice land of Brundia, desperately trying to refreeze the oceans and repopulate the species. So successful have they been in the latter, and so hopeless have they been in the former, that they hold a ceremony every year where the oldest Brundians are thrown into the ocean to create space for the new generation. The ceremony is known amongst the young as “The Great Opportunity”, and amongst the old as “Bugger This For a Laugh”. Proof if proof were needed that as long as a species gets regular sex they’ll put up with almost anything.
In another difference to our own planet Venary almost lazily floats through its’ universe and its’ rotation is best described as lackadaisical. Once cycle is the same as three days on Earth and one span would be three years.
In the old cycles there were no kings, no rulers, and the various tribes would war and trade amongst themselves. This was until the Family Mowser made a stand. At first glance there appeared to be nothing unique about the Mowsers, they were typical Rodentians. That is to say, they were small, furry, long of whisker and tail, and prey to pretty much every animal on the planet. Most Rodentians were resigned to their lot in life. If a species could have a motto theirs would be “Oh well, can’t complain”. Rodentians lived in huge communes in the mountains of the Western Isles. Most Rodentians rarely left the safety of the caves, the only exception being those brave souls who volunteered for raiding parties. Songs were sung in honour of the raiding parties who travelled unimaginable distances to bring back hearty fare for their people. Many foraging parties never returned. Those who did were often disfigured and missing body parts. Even so it was considered an honour to have a raider in your family.
Perix Mowser had tried for many cycles to get onto a raiding party, only to be refused on every occasion. It wasn’t that he was too weak or slow (he was in fact large for a rodent and despite his size could run very quickly), he was distrusted because he was too intelligent. It was Perix who suggested an alliance with the Hedgeons and Molexs. He proposed that if all of the smaller animals got together then raiding parties could take place at all hours rather than waiting for pre-dawn when most predators were still asleep. He reasoned that the Hedgeons could offer protection to parties by marching on either side and using their long spikes to form a protective barrier over the rest and that the Molexs would allow access to their many tunnels. It was an excellent and popular suggestion which had full support until he suggested that the Hedgeons and Molexs should pay for the “privilege of joining the noble endeavour” and that “they should feel proud to lay down their lives for the greater cause”. While many of his fellow Rodentians supported this suggestion, there were more who felt that he was a dangerous supremacist. Funnily enough, however, he did get a measure of support from some in the Hedgeon and Molex camps. During the arguments that followed his suggestions Perix realised that if he could create this much influence with raiding parties, what could he do if he had the ear of the leader?
Charex wasn’t just big for a rodent, he was big for a mammal! He had been leader for many cycles now but the bloodstains of previous leader Scrix were still marking the walls and his skin adorned the throne room floor. Charex’s coup had been the bloodiest in living memory and as a result nobody felt inclined to challenge him. Charex had led more raiding parties than any other Rodentian in existence. Stories were still told of his first excursion when he returned wearing a severed bird’s head as a hat and mystic symbols painted on his chest in blood. He was a fearsome sight. As time wore on Charex’s legend grew and Scrix became more and more paranoid. He would lock himself away and refused to welcome the raiding parties on their return, but still Charex’s popularity grew. Eventually Scrix hit upon an idea. One early morning he sought out Charex in the weapons room. Charex was testing the weight of a huge club with spikes protruding from the top, pointing in every direction. He was rhythmically swinging the club over his head and slamming it into an old flour bag stuffed with straw. Scrix nervously noted that the club often became stuck in the sack. No matter how embedded the club appeared to be Charex would just wrench it free. There was a lot of straw littered all over the floor, indicating that Charex had been at this endeavour for quite some time and it hadn’t seemed to tire him at all. Back and forth he swung the club, a feverish look in his eyes. He seemed to be in a world of his own.
“Ahem,” muttered Scrix, disgusted that he was unable to prevent his nasally high voice going even higher out of nervousness. The massive warrior still swung his massive club back and forth. “Ahem,” Scrix squeaked again, quickly followed by a muffled oath as he threw himself to the floor.
The reason for this sudden dive was that Charex had spun round at the sound of the squeak, still with the club in his mighty paws. The club passed quickly yet harmlessly through the air, which until recently had been occupied by the head of the leader.
“Grand Leader Scrix,” Charex said, in a manner which he thought was soft and welcoming but could in fact splinter wood, “I did not see you there, I hope that I didn’t hurt you.”
Charex offered an oversized paw to Scrix who took it grudgingly.
“Not at all,” Scrix muttered, trying to ignore the mud stain he had earned in his fall spreading across the back of his thin tunic. It was cold and he could feel his fur already starting to mat. No matter, he thought to himself. Get this oaf out of my hair and I can celebrate with a lounge in the hot springs.
He was just mentally choosing which of the Rodentian maidens he would request as “company” in the springs when he became aware of a terrible metallic smell suddenly all around him. Snapping back to reality he found that Charex had seemingly grown bored with the conversation and had made his way to an ancient wooden table at the other end of the room. There he had placed an open metal container and was dipping the tips of his paw into it. It was obvious that the container was the source of the foul odour but Scrix couldn’t make out what was inside it. It wasn’t until he saw what Charex did next that he realised he might have left this plan a bit late. Charex removed his paw from the container. It was stained with a reddish-brown mucus. Charex then proceeded to paint himself with this goop.
Scrix stood transfixed, his eyes wide and his tail pointing straight up. Blood, he thought to himself in horror. This muscle-bound freak is painting himself in blood, why would he do that? If only Scrix had thought to ask from where he got the blood he might have stood a chance, but the path of an individual’s life so often hangs on “What ifs”. (It is a fact that before the Dreaded Thaw the ke
Choking back the vomit which had accumulated in the back of his throat, Scrix drew himself up to his full (if meagre) height and in a voice he hoped carried the authority of his high office he exclaimed, “I did not dismiss you.”
At this Charex merely looked mildly irritated but he had paused his exercise and was looking at Scrix with an unreadable expression on his face. Buoyed by what he thought was a bit of respect at last, Scrix walked closer to the giant rodent. He squared his thin shoulders and positioned himself as close to Charex as the smell would allow. If Scrix had hoped to present an intimidating presence over the other Rodentian it was completely undone by the fact that he barely came up to the giant’s navel. To his credit he pressed on regardless.
“I’m changing the hunting rota.”
He paused at this, expecting some sort of reaction. If only Charex would do something stupid like challenge him then he would have the ideal opportunity to have him removed. The silence stretched on for an uncomfortable length of time. Come on, Scrix thought to himself, do something!
Guards had been placed in the long corridor leading to the training room, all of them under orders to charge in when Scrix snapped his claws. The guards were all heavily armed and if they should regretfully kill Charex in the act of protecting their leader then it would be sad but death by treason should put a halt to this interloper’s popularity. Indeed Scrix had already selected the very pole onto which he intended to display the severed head of Charex. But the hunter was spoiling this plan by being reasonable. Scrix thought for a second of clicking his claws anyway but without evidence he couldn’t risk triggering a possible rebellion.
“Can you hear me?” he eventually asked.
“I hear you,” was the booming reply he received.
Damn this creature! Why won’t he react?
Scrix pressed on with the plan. Truth be told he wasn’t convinced that the second part would work. He had banked on Charex reacting angrily to any change and giving him the excuse he needed. Part two of the plan meant that Scrix had to persuade him to lead the night raids. He had already tipped off the owls who would be waiting to rip the party into shreds before they could utter the word “retreat”. Obviously Scrix would be overcome with the grief of losing a hunting party in general and the great Charex in particular. He might even commission some sort of statue in his honour and ride the resultant popularity right up until his comfortable death of advanced old age. Scrix swallowed hard. If he was to convince Charex that the changes were good there was still a chance he could get rid of a possible rival.
“You have done well with your audacious daytime raids, but I feel that you might do even better leading the night patrols. I have heard of a stash of stockpiled fruits and nuts, deep in the forest, that would set us up for the winter.”
He moved behind Charex, momentarily alarmed at the sight of bulging muscles leading all the way down his back. Fighting every urge he had, Scrix reached and grasped the shoulders of the much bigger Rodentian in what he thought was a comradely gesture.
“Think of it,” he cooed into Charex’s ear, “the biggest haul in our history, our people safe all winter, and you…” suppressing the urge to audibly gag he leaned in even closer, his whiskers brushing Charex’s thick right ear, “you will be the greatest hero in our history, songs will be sung in your honour.”
There was still no response. Charex might as well be made of stone. With frustration Scrix climbed up on the ancient table and walked around until he was face to face with his rival. Charex was impassively staring forwards. Scrix waved his paws in front of the huge face.
“What is wrong with you? Can you hear… urggh.”
The question was cut off suddenly when Charex, with a speed that shouldn’t be possible in a being of that size, grabbed hold of both of the leader’s paws in one of his and slammed his other paw over his face with such force that Scrix realised with horror that his nose was broken in several places. He went to scream but found his airways completely cut off. He struggled fruitlessly against his bonds but it was no good, Charex had him held in place and he would shortly run out of oxygen. At last the beast spoke.
“Do you think me a fool?”
At the word “fool” Scrix felt himself being lifted from the table and dragged by his painful nose to another darkened corner of the training room. Before he blacked out totally Charex released his grip on the leader’s face but increased the pressure on his paws. Scrix could feel the small bones in his paw rub together. He was too terrified to make any sound, however, and allowed himself to be dragged to a curtained-off area he hadn’t noticed previously. With only two giant steps they had arrived at their destination. With his spare hand Charex ripped down the curtain. If Scrix didn’t appreciate the trouble he was in before he certainly did now. Before him were the remains of two of the biggest owls he had ever seen. They were clearly dead and their bodies had been arranged into a macabre tableau. Their wings had been stretched out and painted across them in blood was the word “TRAITOR!”
Scrix was so terrified that he lost control of his bowels. The disgusting smell seemed to not bother Charex at all. He grabbed Scrix by the ruin of his nose and pulled his head downwards. Scrix nearly passed out from the pain, but then he saw it. At the feet of the owl corpses was an open scroll. With a sense of dread, he recognised his signature at the bottom of it and any hope he had of surviving this vanished.
“Do you think me stupid?” Charex boomed. “Did you think I was unaware that you would betray us to the owls?”
All Scrix could do was mewl pathetically. Charex lifted the defeated leader above his head, and with a sickening ripping noise he tore Scrix in two and threw the bloodied pieces into the owls with such force that the owls shattered on impact and Scrix’s bottom half stuck to the wall, which would be amusing if it wasn’t so tragic. When the guards (who until now had put the smashing noises down to Charex’s training regime) came charging into the room, they found Charex sitting on the floor, breathing heavily, surrounded by blood and viscera. Many of the younger guards vomited at the horrendous sight that greeted them, while their older comrades dropped immediately to one knee proclaiming, “Hail the new leader,” which shows that while they may lack power Rodentians do not lack pragmatism.
Charex had been ruling for a few solar cycles now and while he may not have been a wise ruler he certainly inspired loyalty. Perix waited before his leader who was thinking over the idea he had been presented with. Eventually he spoke.
“Mowser,” he said.
Perix’s ears pricked up as Charex slurred the second syllable, his keen eyes spotting the many empty bottles of blackberry wine tucked behind the leader’s chair. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, Perix thought to himself, suppressing a smirk. If Charex was struggling he could well use this to his advantage. Charex seemed to lose focus momentarily. He blinked a few times and shook his head as if to clear it. Perix pretended not to notice.
“Mowser,” he said again, “are you proposing that I should share my crown?”
Mowser took a step back, theatrically placed his paws over his heart and dropped to one knee.
“My liege,” he stated, affecting mock indignation at the very suggestion, “I was merely suggesting that you appoint an adviser, a loyal assistant if you will. Someone to look after the more mundane elements of your day, someone to relieve you of the tedium of day-to-day nonsense. Someone who could speak on your behalf, while you attend to those duties more suited to your unique and numerous skills.”
For a moment he suspected that he might have overdone it. Charex was many things but he wasn’t a total idiot. Perix could only hope that the blackberry wine had sufficiently pickled his brain. Long, dangerous minutes ticked by. Perix was starting to wonder if his head would be placed next to Scrix’s or if he wouldn’t even be afforded that meagre honour. The silence was broken by Charex’s deep laughter. He hauled himself from his chair and tottered unsteadily towards Perix. Perix braced himself for the pain he was sure was coming. Instead Charex patted him on the back so hard that he momentarily lost his footing, staggering forward, surprised yet relieved to still be alive.
