Impact

[Fildering Dillwithers]

Fildering let go of the bellrope, watching Atlas's furious reaction.

The great scarred face turned abruptly to look off into the mists at the approaching vessel.

"Seascum!" the badger hissed through his teeth. He rushed to the forward deckrail, dark eye glaring at the ship in the fog. Clearly, one prisoner was of little consequence at the moment. Fildering breathed out a slow sigh of relief.

It was short-lived, however.

"Colonel!" Atlas said gruffly.

Fildering looked to Frederick, who shot him a quick nod in return before dashing up to join Lord Stormstripe on the forecastle. "They haven't noticed us yet, despite that infernal bell-ringing," Atlas was saying.

"Orders, sah?" the veteran said, his voice barely above a whisper.
As he secured the prisoner, Fildering saw Atlas's eye brighten, almost maniacally so. "How's the wind behind us?" the badger asked.

"Couldn't be better, m'lord," Frederick replied. "Why?"

The big badger shrugged. "Because we're going to ram them."

"Ram them, sah?" Frederick's voice was incredulous.

Fildering had heard enough. He exchanged a nervous look with Scully before shouting to Qwirry and Twilbee, "Qwirro, Twils!"

"Yes sah!" the beasts in question responded simultaneously.

"Take th' prisoner down to the brig an' secure 'er there, wot! Things are about to get rough!"

The two saluted eagerly, hoisting Plink by her shoulders. "Yes sah! Right away, sah! Securin' prisoner in th' brig, sah!"

The pair tramped off toward the hold corridor, leaving Fildering at the fore.

The unseasoned hare stood alongside the Colonel and Lord Stormstripe as the enemy vessel's wall of oars became fully visible. A pirate galley.

Drandy Roaringale, the otter he had met previously, slid up alongside him at the rail, eyes aglow. The otter reached out and patted the hare on the shoulder with hearty enthusiasm. "Hoho, this's where th' real fun starts, son."

Fildering moaned.

"Line her up to ram, Colonel," Atlas ordered.

"Aye aye." Frederick turned to the crew and passed the order on. "Line up to ram to port!"

"Lining up to ram portside, sir," came the boatswain's reply. "Angled at sixty-two degrees now."

Fildering saw Atlas nod. "Good."

"That blinkin' angle's too low. We'll scrape the blighters more than we'll hit them. Hmm, waterspeed report?" asked a nervous Frederick.

"Five knots, sir," the boatswain replied.

"Our angle's off, sah," said Frederick. "We can't board like this."

"I don't care." Atlas's claws were digging into the carved-pine railing, scoring great scratches in the finish. Fildering felt a lump growing in his throat.

Frederick turned apologetically to the shrew boatswain. "Continue ramming operations."

"Aye aye, sir." The shrew lowered his head.

The Zephyr was cruising now, like an unstoppable juggernaut, rain-battered white sail canvases stretched to their limits. Ahead, the galley lay in full view through the fog.
Fildering began to fidget with pure excitement, coupled with dread. Pirates. He looked around for Scully; the younger hare should've been here for this moment, but was evidently nowhere to be seen. Fildering couldn't dwell on it long, however. The Zephyr was closing, and closing fast.

His heart pounded in his ears as his eyes began to pick out individual vermin on the pirate ship's deck.

"Six knots. Brace for impact!" the boatswain shouted out. Those crew who hadn't yet done so rushed to batten themselves down.

Fildering gripped the rail tightly, paws going bone-white. He tried to keep watch, but the anxiety proved too much for the young soldier. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

Then came the crash, and a thundering crack as the pirate vessel's oars splintered like matchsticks and their port wale crunched under the battering. A violent shudder reverberated down the length and breadth of the Zephyr. The jarring impact threw Fildering and several others backward onto the forecastle deck; the hare tumbled head over paws into the foremast.

He lay in pain for a long moment. The ramming had caused a part of the vermin oardeck to collapse, and agonized shrieks of both foebeast and slave rent the night air. Fildering clapped both paws to his ears, trying to shut out the awful noise.

Nearby, through buzzing ears, he could hear Frederick and Atlas shouting.

"We took out their portside oar banks, sah. Should we lower th' boats an' row across for boarding, sah?"

"No. Ram her again!" came the badger's rough reply. 

"Sah?"

"I said, ram her again, Colonel!"

Rubbing bruised limbs, Fildering scrambled up as the Zephyr raked alongside the crippled enemy ship.

He stumbled over to the splintered deckrail, eyes wide and head throbbing painfully. He stared at Atlas, incredulous. Isn't once enough?

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The Zephyr hauled past the floundering corsair galley, its golden sides thoroughly smashed and gouged. Arrows flooded through the air in a deadly exchange between the two vessels, and Fildering thought he saw more than one beast go down on the pirate deck. He averted his eyes, subconsciously hoping he hadn't.

"Dwinno! Damage report?" Frederick shouted to the shrew boatswain above the roar as the Zephyr finished her pass of the enemy ship.

"Unknown." Dwinno paused a moment, chewing his lip indecisively.

"We need a report on that bloody damage!" yelled Frederick.

The shrew paused a moment more, then called to the seasoned deckhand, Drandy, and another, younger otter, "You two! Check the stern, now! I want a full damage report!"
He turned to a mouse and squirrel standing nearby. "And you, check the port wale, sharpish!"

Drandy and the younger otter, whose name was Finrel, stamped off past Fildering toward the stern.

The hare watched them go, reeling with the shock and realization that Atlas was truly mad with his hate for vermin. He fully realized that now. He had to get away from Atlas. A bit of escape from the fore, and all those eyes of the beasts who'd seen him take a young rat to the brink of death. He flushed at the thought of Plink, poor, helpless in his eyes, surrounded by watching crewbeasts, about to be punished in some horrible fashion suiting Lord Atlas . . . or worse. And it had all been because of him.

Trying to stifle his current thought pattern, he jogged after Drandy and Finrel, calling with a voice of forced humor, "I say, mind if I toddle along, chaps?"

The otters continued jogging sternward, although the elder of the two did turn his head.

"Not at all, Fildy mate!" Drandy replied with a wink. "Gettin' away from th' roarin' an' wheesht up front, aye?"

Fildering nodded apologetically, quickly inventing an excuse other than his own guilt. "I-it's absolutely bonkers up there, old fellow. No offense intended, but does His Nubbs really intend on bally rammin' 'em again? If he wasn't Lord o' Salamandastron, I'd say 'e didn't have both bloomin' oars in th' water, if y'know what I mean."

"Hmm, who knows what goes on in th' minds o' badger lords, mate? 'Tis up to us jes' to do what we're paid for, while we're paid to do it, I'd say. If 'e rams again, that's 'is business. Come on, laddie, if yore comin'."

The trio quickened their pace as they slipped through the aft corridor and out the stern gallery doorway. They emerged onto the stern balcony, the golden inlay of which shimmered gently in the flickering eventide moonlight. The otters set to work at once, peering all around the stern of the galleon for signs of damage.

Silence reigned among the three. They knew a battle was coming, and it was going to be ugly. There was little to say, but the crushing urge to speak while he still had a chance loomed over the corporal. For the moment, he held it in.

Drandy broke the silence as they searched. "Well, 'ere we are, buckoes. Let's see what's 'appened t' this bird."

"Hmm, all's clear on this level."

"Aye, same o'er 'ere. Wot about th' starboard side?"

"I'll try that; then, we're goin' fer a dive. Best check that they 'aven't damaged our rudder assembly."

"Drands, old thing- " the hare began.

"Aye?" the otter prompted.

"Have you . . . I mean t' say, d'you suppose . . . would Lord Stormstripe have really slain that rat back there, just now? Just for takin' things?"

Drandy sighed. His kind old eyes winced. "Ye don't want to go there, shipmate. Let's jes' finish what we're out 'ere for . . . aye?"

Taking that as a confirmation, Fildering went silent. Searching alongside the two, the young soldier made a note that Finrel was also quiet beyond his usual. He wasn't surprised. A lot of stress had built up among the crew in light of recent events.

Fildering leaned out over the stern balcony railing, letting the cool breeze drift through his fur. It had a slight calming effect on his feverish mind. He listened to the wind and felt the fog mist on his face. Listened to the wind.

The . . . clacking, cacaphonous wind.

He felt a feeling of creeping suspicion wash over him. Cacaphonous? Was that the sound of coopering? He leaned further, looking down at the steering bloc and rudder as the Zephyr came to a slow halt. "I say, you chaps . . . somebeast's down there, wot."

"Wot?"

Drandy was at his side in an instant. "Where awa'?"

"Hoi, I don't see anythin'," said Finrel, chewing his lip. "Could just be th' wind, matey."

"I...I can't quite make out th' bounder, but I c'n 'ear the racket. Bloomin' awful, wot? 'E must be trying to cripple our rudder!"

The hare pointed down. The otters eyes followed his.

"Maybe, ba . . ."

Finrel's voice drifted off as both he and Drandy's eyes lit up.

"I 'ears it now," Drandy said under his breath, turning to face Fildering. "It's a sabeetur. Go get reinfrostiments. Tell the bo's'n. Anybeast. Get 'em over 'ere, mate, an' make it quick-like; me 'n' Finrel're goin' in." With that, the old seadog charged at the railing and threw himself overboard, with Finrel following close behind.

Fildering waited until he heard two loud splashes before he dashed off to muster what he could of the crew.

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The Zephyr had turned once again to face the Silver Maiden as Fildering made his way out onto her main deck, jogging frantically. Spotting the boatswain and officers still gathered on the forecastle, he rushed across the open deck and scrabbled up the fore ladder.

As he topped the ladder, breathing heavily, Fildering heard Atlas repeating the order to build ramming speed a second time; saw Frederick arguing with voice raised in passionate resolve.

"There are slaves on that vessel!" Frederick was saying now, whiskers twitching. "Why not send out the boats to board?"

"Because I command it! Are you disobeying a direct order . . . Colonel?"

Frederick stood eye-to-eye with Atlas, resolution etched on his face. There was a desperate note to the older hare's voice when he turned to Dwinno.

"Waterspeed report?"

"Four knots, sir," came the boatswain's reply.

"Angle?"

"Seventy-five degrees, sir. Even if we tried to stop, it's too late now."

The hare turned back to Atlas, sighing in surrender. "We're set to ram, sah, whether some of us want it, or not."

"Good."

Fildering froze. The badger's single, gimlet eye was completely clouded with deep scarlet mist. His conversation with Drandy came rushing back to him; the feeling of dread at the murder he'd almost witnessed clutched at him like some primeval monster. He shuddered. Murderer.

"What's th' matter, Mister Dillwithers?" asked Dwinno, noticing the hare's distant expression.

Fildering snapped out of it. "Er, wot? Ah, er, right, sah: Mister Roaringale, deck-paw second-class sent me, sah," he half-whispered to avoid accruing Atlas's interest, "an' says 'e's in need o' bally h'assistance on th' blinkin' stern gallery. Found suspicious personage there who may offer resistance, wot wot. That's all, sah."

The boatswain nodded grimly and stood up, declaring to Frederick, "I must take short leave, Colonel. A business with the tiller has come up."

Swiftpaw nodded simply. The badger said nothing, apparently uninterested.

Shrew boatswain and hare soldier made haste to abandon the forecastle, making their way down the stairs and then across the main deck.

"There's somebeast there, ye say?"

"Positive, sah," Fildering replied, secretly glad to be out of Atlas's vicinity. He was surprised and disgusted that he felt this way, but he felt it nonetheless.

"Are ye sure it's not one of ours?"

"Negative, sah."

Dwinno rushed along, slightly behind Fildering, calling out to various inactive deckhands as they went, "Hoi! Gerro, Limpry, Fraggs! To the stern; follow th' rabbit!"

The impromptu group rushed for the stern, as fast as their paws could carry them, weapons clutched tightly in ready paws.

It was a short trip across the main deck at their increased spead, and the the fivesome burst out onto the stern gallery balcony in record time.

The hedgehog, Gerro, pointed at several forms in the water, shouting, "Look, over there!"

The two river otters were closing on the saboteur, a large, muscly creature that was putting up quite a resistance. Fildering fancied it looked like an otter, but what kind of otter would be attacking Zephyr?

Whatever it was, the hare wasn't letting it get away with this. "Come on, chaps! Get 'im!" He snatched up a long fishing spear and hurled it at the enemy; Dwinno followed suit, whirling off a slingstone into the choppy seas. The others set at it with a will, shouting and launching projectiles of varying shapes and sizes at the mystery creature, who dodged them with proficient ease.

"Did I hit it?"

"I dunno, mate, but I think I lopped its fat tail off, by blood!"

"Hah, clean yore eyes out, bucko. 'Twas my shot what did 'im in."

Fildering took up another long spear and slung it with all his force. The weapon hit the water with a dull splash.  The saboteur was boxed in; projectiles were coming in on the left, and otters closed on the right.

A mouse came rushing out onto the stern gallery balcony. "We're closing in to ram! Captain wants all able paws to the fore!"

Fildering paused in the middle of reaching for another javelin.

Dwinno peered down over the balcony rail. "Ye got 'im, lads?"

Drandy called up, "Situation's unner control, mates! We've got 'im cornered! We'll catch ye up later, when we're done dealin' wi' this fiend."

". . . Right. Hmm, well, I s'pose that means we're no longer needed, cully," Dwinno addressed Fildering. "Best foller Cap'n's orders and head back to the fore."

The hare turned, giving one last glance toward the dark waters behind the ship. "Righto, sah. Glad I could be of assistance, wot."

Fildering traipsed off, heading back toward the main deck. Orders were orders.

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The Zephyr was thrusting back in for the killing stroke at breakneck speed. The familiar thrum of the wind in the sails rose in his ears again, coupled with the roaring churn of the seas against the speeding bulk of the massive galleon. The hare had just made his way out the stern corridor and was halfway across the main deck when the Silver Maiden once again came sharply into view. Fildering took a deep breath. He'd never make it to the forecastle in time. The waves lashing at the speeding ship had reached a roaring crescendo now, coupled with the whining of the ratlines. There was no time to take hold of anything. Instead, he threw himself flat on the deck, paws covering his head as the two ships once again collided with force.

There was the familiar ringing of the ship's bell, and then a defeaning roar of crashing timbers as the Zephyr's mass connected with the smaller pirate vessel amidships. Tackle lines snapped and whirred, spars splintered and the bowsprit smashed against the enemy foremast. The already-weakened wale of the Silver Maiden caved completely; the ship sagged in the water. The bow of the Zephyr held fast in the enemy's timbers.
The world was gray for a moment, then Fildering was roughly hauled up off the deck by Gerro. No time to waste. Not one bloody second.
The hare staggered over to the mainmast and lay back against its heavy pine timbers, taking a few long breaths.

This was it.

Fildering jumped up, drawing his dussack and heading to the shattered fore; he saw Atlas turn to Frederick.

"Give the command, Colonel."

The crew and soldiers stood about expectantly, tensed and waiting.

For the second time since sighting the vermin ship, Frederick stopped in his tracks. "Sah, wouldn't it be best if we call for their surrender? While they're in disarray, I'm sure they'd- "

"Colonel Swiftpaw, you heard your orders. Give the command."

"But, sah, this is wrong. We don't have to kill them. They're sufficiently weakened to th' bally point that they'd surrender, given the chance, I'm sure. We could easily-"

Atlas frowned, his expression darkening. "Do not try my patience, Colonel. Not now." The badger turned hastily to a younger officer nearby.  "I've no time for this nonsense. You there!"

"Killian Wrightbones, sah, Lieutenant First Class, wot!"

"Not anymore. I'm promoting you to Colonel-Commandant, effective immediately. Give the order to charge."

Frederick's eyes widened in surprise at the other hare's sudden promotion. "Lord Atlas, I must object!"

Atlas looked back to hare. "Then do as I say, and give the order!"

Frederick stayed silent, his gaze narrowing at the badger.

"We shall talk about this later, Colonel Swiftpaw," Atlas warned, turning back to where Killian stood. "If you would, Colonel Wrightbones."

The hare shuddered a moment, blustery, not quite able to take his sudden promotion in. The moment didn't last long, however. He turned to Fildering. "Corporal, relay th' command! We're chargin' in, by th' left! Up an' at 'em, chaps! Chaaarge!"

"Give 'em blood an' vinegar, wot! Eulaliaaa!" the Corporal cried.

Fildering charged over the Zephyr's massive bow and leaped clear, his footpaws hitting home on the pirate deck moments later. Hares, hedgehogs, mice, squirrels and otters charged past, howling the time-honored warcry of fighting woodlanders. "Eulaliaaaa!"
Fildering barely paused, taking it all in with fervent passion, then with a wild laugh dashed headlong into the fray. Immediately he set eyes on a scowling fox corsair with a boathook and rushed at the vermin, bladepaw eagerly dancing at his side. The fox responded with force, bringing its wicked-looking boathook into action.

Instinctively the hare brought his own blade to bear, but the reach advantage of the polearm had him hard-pressed. The corsair was a seasoned killer; Fildering could see that from the way he used his weapon to the scars and tattoos crossing his lean-muscled chest. The hare swung his blade desperately, just barely managing to ward off the attacks.

The fox stabbed to the left; Fildering parried to the left.

The fox hooked to the right; Fildering blocked to the right, but his opponent was quicker.

The corsair was on top of him in an instant. Fildering saw no mirth in the eyes of his enemy; only the harrowed look of desperate survival.

The fox pirate pushed him to the ground and drove in with the boathook. The hare gasped with pain as the spiked weapon scored along the side of his ribs, taking off fur and flesh, and ended point-down in the deck beside him.

It was going to be him, or the fox.

The big fox grappled him further, a wide grin spreading across its face. A grin of victory.

His assailant died with that smile. Blood, lots of the nasty, oozy stuff, gushed out and down the rufous corsair's pulsating neck from where a long, gray arrow fletched with sparrowfeathers had penetrated the base of its skull. The vermin crumpled to the deck with a dull clunk of seaboots and the clattering of the now-ownerless boathook.

The devil . . . ? Fildering blinked in surprise, looking first at the dead fox beside him and then to the pirate's killer.

Good old Dwinno.

"I say there, thanks for th' bally thought, but I had him there completely, donchaknow."

"Oh, aye . . ." the shrew winked in response. Fildering got to his feet, picking up his fallen blade in the process.

By some means or other, the sails were ablaze now, and somebeast- a weasel, he saw -was attempting to put the fire out, one bucket of seawater at a time. One weasel. His old bravado heightened, but a sharp pain told him his physical condition wasn't going to any time soon. He reached down and touched his side where the boathook had scored him; his paw came back bloody. Trying to maintain proper footing, he winced and stumbled off toward the weasel, leaving Dwinno to work with the others on the quarterdeck behind him.

The pirate turned as he approached. The hare thanked the fates under his breath; the weasel's manner and eyes betrayed him as a coward at best. Fildering chuckled, dodging as a screeching stoat and a squirrel went down past him, grappling ferociously with daggers in their paws. He jogged toward the weasel, a lackadaisical mood taking his mental reins. Enough of pondering and moral quandaries. It was time for some bladework.

"I say there, y'greasy toad, 'ello. Hah, no luck puttin' out that fire, I see. 'Pologies to break up y'gig an' all, but . . . Eulalia!"

Fildering dove in, giving a invitational cut. The weasel ducked wildly, releasing his hold on the half-empty bucket in his paws. The blade swished harmlessly overhead, and the weasel stumbled awkwardly. The bucket hit the deck at the same time the weasel did. Fildering ignored the pain in his side, laughing despite it all. Were all weasels like this?

"Harrumph, no weapon on ye," the hare tutted, shaking his head. "My mistake, old chap! Can't make this unfair, now, can we?"

The hare searched the deck, spotting an unoccupied cutlass lying near the mast several steps away. He scuffed it over to the downed vermin. The weasel stood up, accepting the cutlass.

"Ah, there we are! Now up an' at em! This'll be a right rippin' old battle for the jolly songwriters, wot?"

The weasel leapt, swinging crazily and sending himself off-balance in the process.

"Easy there, old sort!" Fildering said, catching the unfortunate pirate's blade as he continued. "Now again, with less, err, gusto!"

The weasel lunged with an overhead cut. Fildering parried and advanced with a speedy riposte. This time, the weasel matched his assault with a parry.

He chuckled. "Now you're gettin' it! By jove, you'll turn into a boomin' proper fighter yet, m' old weasel!"

The vermin was not amused. Growling, he attacked.

"Good parry, but a bally poor advance," the hare continued as the blades crashed against each other. "Careful with your fades, mate, and stop bein' so flippin' aggressive!"

"Shuddup!" the weasel screeched, attacking again.

Fildering dodged, but just barely. The ugly abrasion along his side was taxing his willpower. Either he ended this deadly game now, or he risked tiring himself to injury. He grimaced and dove in close, locking blades low and twisting violently. The weasel let go, hopping with pain.

"Hmm . . . I say, er . . . well, I suppose that's the blinkin' end o' that, wot . . . lesson's over."

Fildering leveled his blade with the weasel's throat. Another pirate, dead . . .

An image of Plink, balled up on the deck and sobbing for mercy, sprang unbidden to his mind.

"This is wrong." Frederick's words seemed to whisper in protest.

His paw slackened for one brief moment of indecision. The weasel was weaponless.

This isn't how a real soldier fights. One unarmed weasel was of little trouble to anybeast. He'd already proven himself. Besides, some other chap might come along and finish the job, anyway.

You can walk away from this.

Fildering sighed inwardly and started to withdraw his blade.


His swordpaw had just begun to move when the world exploded, and just before he was swept away, Fildering Dillwithers thought he distinctly heard bells.