[Mkguild] Divine Travails of Rats - Pars V. Ascensum (f)

[C. Matthias]

Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx

Pars V: Ascensum

(f)


Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR - Morning


In the shadows below the stands Charlie found the 
King's retinue standing about the stables in a 
rough circle around Pelaeth, now in his full 
armor, and the skunk mage Murikeer. While the 
steppes king held out his steel and black sword 
the skunk traced the tips of his fingers lightly 
along the blade, head bowed in concentration. 
After a few moments he raised his hands and his one-eyed gaze.

“It is done, your Majesty. For the next handful 
of hours your mighty weapon will harm none, 
beyond the bruise of its weight knocking them on 
their rump.” The skunk smiled warmly. Charlie 
rather doubted, having seen Goldmark, that even 
that sizable blade would sit him on his rump. 
Pelaeth raised his weapon and gazed upon it 
dubiously, for there was nothing to indicate that the mage had done anything.

The group gathered as, above, they could hear the 
muffled shout of the crier calling forth the next 
combatants. Murikeer passed Charlie as he left, 
catching the youth's quizzical gaze. The magic of 
making weapons safe was usually left to lower 
ranked mages. “It's big, it's ancient, and a 
family heirloom,” the skunk offered while Horvig 
saw to the last adjustments to the King's 
intimidating wolf armor. “I thought it best to 
make a show of having Thomas' own court mage do the work.”

“Just because its size, hmm?” Charlie asked laconically.

Murikeer laughed brightly. “I would expect that 
your father might have something to say about 
comparing swords among men, but, well...” He 
leaned in closer and said in a lower voice, “It 
is a strange metal, that black, and did not take 
easily to magical blunting; perhaps it was safest 
that I tend this task in the first place. And...” 
he leaned back and resumed his usual voice, 
“perhaps it is best we retired and watch how he 
uses it.” His remaining eye glinted in the muted 
light as he slipped past the rat.

Charlie watched him go while the King's retainers 
fell in behind him and they moved as a 
well-coordinated group toward the exit of the 
stables; men-at-arms leading and bracketing, King 
Pelaeth and Horving shoulder to shoulder, squires 
bringing up the rear carrying the King's banner. 
Since there was no mounted component of the 
contest of foot no grooms or steeds were needed, 
though the golden-hued steppes steeds looked on 
with intelligent curiosity from their corral behind the stands.

“Your Majesty,” Charlie called, walking swiftly 
to fall in alongside the group, though outside 
the perimeter defined by the alter men-at-arms. 
“May I walk with you to the field?”

“Ah, young Charlie, aye! Come, come, let us 
walk.” Peleath held out an inviting arm, the open 
visor of his helm tilting the snarling wolf 
visage skyward. The guards let Charlie slip 
through them to fall into step beside the steppes 
King. “Tell me, lad, what be this ill will thou 
didst show the baron yesterday? His is thy blood, am I mistaken?”

Charlie winced at the blunt, direct question, 
ears and whiskers drooping for a moment. “It 
is... ahh, your lordship, it is not so much bad 
blood as... the confusion of youth.” He shrugged. 
At the King's opposite shoulder Horvig kept his 
gaze forward, only turning his head enough to 
scan the surrounding crowds for possible 
problems. “My sire and my father are fair 
friends, but... the issue of my adoption weighs heavily upon my heart.”

Pelaeth nodded his head slowly, the polished 
silver of the snarling wolf atop his head 
glinting in the sun. “Ahh, aye. Thou dost know 
both sire and father and the why of the choice 
doth rear its ugly head to chew upon thy spirit.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Charlie admitted. Ahead the 
pavilion at the end of the tournament field came 
into view around the brightly colored awnings and 
tents of other families and shops. “Moreso of recent than in the past.”

“Thou art upon the cusp of true manhood, lad, and 
hath a mighty name upon thy shoulder to account 
for thy noble station. But thy blood be of lesser 
station, and thou feel unworthy of the title 
given by thy adoptive father? He has blood of his 
own, unless the winsome red-furred lass be another so taken into thy House?”

Charlie snorted at the thought of the very human, 
very down-to-earth King, would look at his 
wolfish sister as 'winsome'. It took another wolf 
to see that, or one well used to the variety that 
was Metamor's animorphed population. “No, 
Majesty, she is truly of his lineage, whereas I am not.”

At the pavilion Horvig and the men-at-arms 
stopped, while the King continued onto the 
tournament field. “Thou art lineage of the title 
given, lad. Count thyself fortunate that thou can 
know thy sire and dam as well, and by all 
appearances before thou didst trounce him, art 
well loved there.” The broad shoulders rose and 
fell beneath the upturned wolf's snarl. “Be it 
for whatever cause, it doth appear just to my 
outlander eyes. Satisfy thyself for having two 
families that offer their love. Most hath not 
e'en one. My own brother didst leave my family to 
join the Magyars many years ago. He hath become 
great amongst them, bosom friend to the scarred 
mage in my retinue, and between him, yon mage, 
and others of their ilk, hath done great deeds to 
heal the worst of their people that there might 
be peace on the steppes. Their band, thou dost 
see, hast not stolen a single mite in a dozen 
years.” The King paused and then laughed. “Well, 
at least not without returning said mite with a 
stern warning to careless townfolk on how to keep their wares!”

Charlie now regretted his foolishness from 
yesterday for a new reason as it had kept him 
from learning more of this foreign king and the 
many fascinating stories he could tell. “I wish I 
could hear that story, your Majesty. Do you ever see your brother again?”

“Every time their band returns to Cheskych. And a 
very happy time it be for all in our families.” 
With that the king raised his gauntleted fist and 
slapped down the visor of his helm. Abruptly the 
steppelands human became a snarling silver and 
steel beast, as much wolf as the Keepers of that 
species standing at the rail of the tournament field cheering him on.

Charlie accompanied the King out onto the 
tournament field, shoulder to shoulder, and none 
said aught of his unexpected presence. Upon 
reaching the center of the field Charlie looked 
up at the Marshal of the Field at his podium. The 
man looked down at Charlie and offered nothing 
more than a nod to acknowledge him. Turning, the 
rat made his way toward the far end of the field 
from where he had entered, approaching Goldmark 
as he went. The rat 'taur stood nearly two feet 
taller than he did, taller than the King himself, 
and looked at Charlie with both surprise and 
trepidation. In his hands he carried a staff as 
thick and stout as a wagon tongue, and almost as long.

“Why'd you let him stand in for you?” The rat, 
garbed in nothing heavier than minimally tooled 
boiled leather armor, looked past Charlie to the 
impressive – and daunting – human in his heavy armor and snarling wolf helm.

“Go easy on him, Goldmark. You're bigger than he 
is, and heavier. You have an extra set of hands, 
too,” Charlie chided as they drew abreast, 
tilting his gaze briefly down at the 'taur's 
large forepaws. Like all rats they were quite 
flexible, intended for pouncing and holding or 
clawing at walls. Had they thumbs they would have 
been proper hands. “Just... think like a rat, not 
a soldier. He'll never expect it.”

Goldmark chittered apprehensively and clutched 
his huge staff. “Go easy on him, he says,” the 
frightened rat quavered, continuing onto the 
field while Charlie turned toward the stands nearby. “But what about me?”

Walking along the inside of the rails defining 
the tournament field Charlie made his way to the 
front of the shaded stands set aside for the use 
of the aristocracy and lower nobility. House 
Matthias had a small section cordoned off and, at 
that moment, they were crowded with Matthias rats 
young and old. The Baron and Baroness sat in the 
center, just high enough to see above the common 
folk standing in the narrow space between the 
stands and the railing. Charlie ducked under the 
uppermost rail and the commoners quickly parted to let him through.

Mounting the stands he smiled at the gathered mob 
of Matthias and the retainers seated with them, 
but Erick's scowl spoke volumes. His brother and 
littermate was clearly still displeased with his 
actions the day before and Charlie did not blame 
him at all. Charles and Kimberly, however, smiled 
and waved him to come join them. Charles moved 
over a seat so that his son could sit between them.

“Hi Mom, Dad,” Charlie said, pausing to lean down 
and give the Lady Kimberly a warm hug. “I saw 
that willow switch, Mom. Thank you for sparing me.”

Kimberly tittered and wagged a finger at him, 
only to produce the same willow branch he had 
seen in their pavilion earlier. It had been 
propped against the side of her seat where he 
could not see it when he approached. “Oh, I'm 
still more than willing,” she chided, lightly 
tapping his hip with it. With a laugh Charlie sat down.

“You and Misanthe both, Mom, never fear. I may 
not escape its application, even yet.”

“Then behave,” Charles groused humorously as the 
Marshal of the Tournament took his podium to look 
down at Goldmark and King Pelaeth.

“What brings you, son?” Charles asked in a quiet 
aside while the two combatants shook hands. In 
his current 'taur shape, Goldmark's huge hand engulfed the human's.

“Politics.”

Charles turned his attention to his son with a 
quirk of his ears and whiskers. “Politics?”

Charlie shifted his attended as well, nodding. 
“All witnessed what transpired yesterday, so it's 
expected that the rumors of friction in the 
Matthias clan will be spreading rampantly.” 
Leaning back in his chair, his tail curling about 
the legs beneath, Charlie rested his hands in his 
lap. “It's best to put the rumors to rest before 
they become problematic, let them see that there 
is no acrimony between you and I, or with the 
family.” He tipped his chin toward Erick, who had 
turned his irritated scowl back toward the field. 
“Though I have much work ahead of me to assuage the anger of my siblings.”

“And your parents, young man,” Kimberly offered, 
though with a smile. Charlie bobbed his head to 
that and reached over to set his hand upon his mother's.

“With you two most importantly, yes, mother.”

“Hear ye, hear ye! Before us stand the final 
combatants of the Summer Tourney, to vie for the 
Crown!” A hearty cheer rose up from the crowd 
until the Marshal held a hand up for some 
restraint so he could continue. “His lordship, 
the young Sutt heir, has chosen to stand out for 
reasons of Honor. In his place the King of the 
Steppes, Pelaeth of Vysehrad, has graciously 
stepped in. Though he is a stranger to our lands, 
he is no stranger to contests of arms, and we of 
Metamor will show him our best.”

A snicker went through the crowd at that, for 
Goldmark was far from the best warrior Metamor 
had to offer. Nor, to be truthful, was he the 
worst, Charlie had to admit. He would not have 
wanted to face the rat 'taur with his daunting 
wagon tongue cudgel. While the crowd roared 
another hearty, deafening cheer Charlie leaned toward his sire.

“Are you well?” Charlie touched a hand to his own 
breast as he spoke over the tumult. His sire had 
donned a high collar and long sleeves so that no 
suggestion of any of his scars could be seen.

“I would have fared better without the trouncing, 
son, but I fare well enough for all that,” 
Charles admitted with a warm smile. “Your sleep was peaceful?”

“For the nonce, though I have not braced Her, 
yet.” Meaning Nocturna, whom he had carefully 
avoided since their last fractious meeting.

“I do not envy you that, Son. Her countenance is daunting.”

“At times.” Charlie turned his attention to the 
field as rat and human separated and moved to 
their respective posts in preparation for the 
Marshal's flag to begin. Peleath drew the huge 
black-streaked steel blade from its scabbard upon 
his back and made a few practice swings with the 
huge thing easily in one hand. Goldmark clutched 
his stave fearfully and looked on, his long tail 
lashing side to side in agitation.

Raising one arm the Marshal spared each of them a 
glance and swept the pennant he held in one hand 
downward. Pelaeth let out a mighty roar and 
launched himself across the intervening distance 
at a sprint, sword held high over one shoulder 
with both hands. Goldmark fell back a pace, 
visibly steeled himself, and met the clearly 
telegraphed sweep of the mighty sword with his stave.

The reverberating crack of sword meeting stout 
wood rent the expectant silence like a 
thunderclap but the sword was halted in its 
swing. Peleath let it rebound and danced to one 
side smoothly to dodge the downward sweep that 
Goldmark offered in riposte. The crowd let out a 
gasping cheer and lapsed into a hushed silence as the two squared off again.

Goldmark certainly had reach on the King with his 
massive weapon, keeping the feints of his blade 
well away from himself with short sweeps, each 
time wood and blade coming together with the 
sound of a giant chopping trees. The stave was 
certainly stout enough to weather the abuse 
without snapping as a normal quarterstaff may 
have, but the heavy swings made the entire 'taur's body shudder.

“He may last him on stamina alone,” Charles 
opined as the two circled, each looking for an 
opening to score a hit. Goldmakr was not slow on 
the parries but he could not follow up his blocks 
with any strikes of his own for the human danced 
out of reach. “With all of that armor on I 
daresay the King is at a disadvantage.”

“With that sword only adding to the exertion,” 
Charlie added, attention focused upon the battle. 
“But he's a warrior born and raised to the weight 
of sword and armor, just as I have been. I can 
carry both against Bryn for almost as long as he 
had strength to counter me, and he's got size and strength and stamina on me.”

“How do you ever win, then?”

“Prick him like a mosquito until he loses a bit 
of his strength, just as I hope Goldmark can do.”

But the rat had other ideas, for the King was 
pressing him inexorably back. Due to the size of 
the 'taur he could not circle effectively so he 
simply pressed directly into the rat's wooden 
defense, whacking away at the stave sending 
splinters flying. The impacts were telling and, 
after over a minute of repeated strikes, the 
vibrations so numbed Goldmark's grip that he dropped the staff at his feet.

Pelaeth barked a victorious word and waded in, 
but Goldmark swept the stave up in his forepaws, 
which did have some manner of grasping ability, 
and reared up to his full height. Towering almost 
twice the height of the human, with the staff 
grasped before him, he strode awkwardly forward 
bringing the King up short. The rat dropped down 
and leaned his upper body forward, scoring a 
quick swat at the snarling visage of the steel 
wolf's helm before Pelaeth could retreat. Taking 
a couple of quick strides, dragging the stave 
with his forepaws, Goldmark reared up again.

And charged forward upon his rear paws with the 
awkward gait of a charger en'pesade, forcing 
Pelaeth back at a swift trot, his sword out to 
parry the awkward swings of the staff. The crowd 
roared its approval and stood, the Matthias clan 
joining in. Goldmark continued to press his 
charge forward with short steps and hops, quickly outpacing the King's retreat.

And then he simply fell forward, his forelegs and 
save bearing the sword down while his hands came 
down upon the human's shoulders. With the massive 
'taur's greater weight suddenly falling upon him, 
Pelaeth lost his footing and fell backward to the 
explosive cheer of the spectators. The tumult was 
so unbridled Charlie backed his ears and gaped in 
astonishment as Goldmark sprawled his entire body 
down onto the King, pinning him ignominiously to 
the ground. He cast the stave aside before it 
became a bar across the man's breast and used one 
hand to swat at the awkward, ineffective swings 
of the sword that did nothing more than slap at 
the barding of his barrel and flanks.

Underneath him Pelaeth squirmed and kicked but 
could not marshal enough leverage to make any of 
his assaults effective against the bulk of beast 
sprawled upon him like a hunting hound upon a 
toddler. The crowd roared and, in the High Box 
across from them, Charlie could see the entire 
retinue of Metamor's nobility and Pelaeth's 
sister standing at the rail looking down in awed 
shock. Sig's jaws were open so wide a flock of 
birds could have nested on his tongue and rented 
out his fangs to their friends.

“Oh, by Yahshua!” Charles gaped, somewhere 
between aghast horror at the ignominy and laughter.

After a long count the Marshal took up the 
pennant and raised it above his head, calling the 
match complete. Charlie could not have expected 
the crowd to become any louder, but had to slap 
his hands over his ears before the roaring, 
whooping, howling cacophony rendered him truly 
deaf. Noting the raised pennant Goldmark raised 
himself to his legs and backed up, extending a hand toward the King.

Pelaeth slapped the hand aside irritably and 
bounced up, pacing in circles for a moment 
clearly in a fit of pique. The crowd slowly began 
to quiet wondering if the visiting Kind was about 
to become dangerous. Raising a hand Pelaeth 
flipped the wolf visor of his helm up and dropped 
his hands to his hips to glare at Goldmark for 
several seconds, the wary rat watching him with concern.

And then Pelaeth abruptly laughed, loud enough to 
be heard over the susurrus of the crowd. “I want 
him!” The King roared, striding to Goldmark and 
slapped him loudly upon the shoulder. “Never 
before have I been so soundly defeated! Truly, 
the peoples of this fine Kingdom are warriors to 
be respected!” The crowd resumed its cheer, 
rattling the stands and kicking up a cloud of 
dust. Grasping Goldmark's hand he raised it high. 
“To victory! To...” He glanced at the rat who 
muttered something. “To your champion, Goldmark!”

Charlie could only laugh along with those around 
him as the crowd took up the chant, “Goldmark, 
Goldmark, Gold – Mark!” The Marshal waved his 
pennant and tried to regain some semblance of 
order but failed entirely. Even as Duke Thomas 
and the rest from the High Box made their way 
down onto the field the roaring acclaim 
continued, much to Goldmark's clear chagrin. He 
truly never expected to win, or even make it 
beyond the first bouts, yet there he stood with a 
foreign King holding his hand aloft to proclaim him champion.

Only when Thomas raised an arm for quiet did the 
spectators accede, falling quiet after a few 
breaths. As the horse lord began a stirring 
congratulatory speech, Charlie chuckled lightly 
to himself and looked over the rest of the 
Matthias clan – his family. His litter-sisters, 
Bernadette and Baerle, were both seated on the 
other side of Kimberly. Bernadette, the 
bride-to-be, sat nearest their mother and caught 
his glance. While Erick was angry with him, his 
first sister appeared to harbor him no ill-will, 
offering him a warm, whisker-filled smile in 
return. His second sister Baerle had her eyes 
closed and appeared to be praying her beads 
besides so did not notice her brother's attention.

His eyes returned to Erick who sat forward a row 
and off to one side with some of their younger 
siblings. The scowl he'd offered Charlie on his 
brother's arrival had vanished in the thrill of 
the surprising battle and his ears were turned 
forward to catch every congratulatory word from 
the Duke. If there was any in his family he hated 
hurting more than any other it was Erick.

But Charlie waited while Duke Thomas gave a 
stirring speech congratulating not only Goldmark 
but the winners of the other contests as well. 
Just as Sir Dupré had been awarded the Golden 
Lance, Duchess Alberta came down to the field, 
and with King Pelaeth's assistance, presented the 
Summer Crown to the overwhelmed rat 'taur. 
Goldmak stood awkwardly with his round ears 
jutting out to the side beneath the circlet of 
faux leaves, berries, and golden ivy.

Another round of thunderous applause, 
hoof-stomping, hooting, and howling ensued when 
the Duke's accolades were complete. Both his wife 
and the foreign king made their way from the 
field and back to the high box as Goldmark, his 
grin triumphant, marched a victory lap around the 
field even as laborers rushed out to tend the 
grounds. He finally took his leave near the 
stands where the Matthias family sat and was 
immediately pounced by the younger rats, both his 
own children and those of the Matthias family and 
a few other rat families living at Metamor.

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
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