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Amy Carrier · Posted: Fri Jun 22, 2012 3:12 pm Post subject:

Sometimes, when inspiration strikes, the words flow quickly and easily.

I hope this link stays active for a while. The story will make more sense if you know what inspired it:

Warning: No happy endings here.

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The war had raged on for nearly a decade, ravaging both sides. But now, at last, the giant wombats were ready to strike a winning blow against their dread enemy the savage crocodiles. The battle would take place on the shore of Reedy Marsh, the crocodile’s last stronghold. Moon-pouch, the marsupial battle captain, had laid a brilliant strategy for her warm-blooded warriors; a plan that would draw out their hissing cold-blooded reptilian enemy and give sure victory to the wombats.

At daybreak the first blow was struck, and the tide of battle flowed strongly in favor of the giant wombats. Even those wombats felled in battle died with a grim smile on their faces, knowing that before the day was out their ancient enemy would be exterminated forever.

But all too soon a cry of “Fire!” was heard from the ranks of reserve troops at the rear of the battle. The cry was quickly repeated from a dozen other throats. Moon-pouch reared onto her hind legs to survey the battlefield. A crescent of fire had sprung up, hemming them in everywhere except on the side toward the swamp. The marsh plants were too well saturated to burn.

A crocodile lunged toward her unprotected belly, hoping to disembowel her while she tottered on her back legs. Moon-pouch was a better warrior than that. She had already seen what she needed to see. The ground trembled as she brought her three tons of weight down on the foolish reptile’s skull, crushing it beneath her forelegs. Even headless, the body continued to thrash and twist. Reptiles never died quickly.

“This fire is not an accident. Our enemy has changed the lay of the battlefield,” she said calmly.

“But how? They couldn’t have,” protested her chief lieutenant. “Crocs aren’t fire-users!”

“True as that may be, it doesn’t change the fact that a fire has been set to drive us into the swamp, where they will have the advantage,” she replied. “I didn’t plan for this contingency.”

Before her lieutenant could speak again, there was a shout of “Salamander!” from nearby. Both wombats jerked their heads around just in time to see a marsupial warrior bringing his foot down on a small red oily-skinned amphibian.

“NO, DON’T TOUCH IT!” screamed Moon-pouch, but it was too late. The sinuous amphibian’s body burst under the impact, squirting globs of boiling blood in all directions; blobs which erupted into flame as they landed on the wombat warrior’s thick fur. Within seconds he was wreathed in flames, shrieking in agony.

Moon-pouch turned her face away as he twisted in his fiery death. “Beware of salamanders,” she called! “They can vomit up burning coals and their blood will ignite if they die. Do not attack them! Do not attack the salamanders!”

Her lieutenant shook his head. “When did the crocs gain salamanders as an ally?”

Moon-pouch ignored his question. It was an important question, but one that could not be answered on the battlefield. “Rally our troops toward the north. There may yet be a way out of this trap!”

It was easy enough to collect the marsupial warriors, as the crocodiles were no longer interested in fighting. The advancing flames would roast reptile as well as mammal, and the crocodiles wanted only to get back into their safe, wet marshland.

“Listen carefully,” called Moon-pouch, addressing her troops. “The north side of the battlefield is more grassland than forest. The grasses behind the fire will have burned out already. We’ll need to fight our way through the swamp for only a short distance to outflank the open flames. Then we can emerge onto the scorched ground it has left behind.”

“There will still be embers, our fur will still catch fire and burn,” protested one warrior, her voice close to panic.

“No, we’ll be wet from the marsh. That should be enough to protect us from mere embers,” said another warrior.

“But won’t the crocs be waiting for us in the swamp,” asked one of the sub-lieutenants?

“Of course they will,” answered Moon-pouch. “But their salamander allies will be useless to them in the soggy swamp, and we’ve already decimated their ranks. If we keep in close formation, there aren’t enough of them left to stop us.”

The marsupials formed themselves into columns as ordered. They were battle-hardened warriors, ready to fight even when the odds were against them.

“Most of us won’t survive this,” the chief lieutenant whispered to Moon-Pouch.

“I know,” she replied quietly. “Most won’t, but some will. Enough to rebuild our numbers and fight again another day.” Then, with a stoic calmness in her voice, she added: “Besides, which is the true warrior’s death – to slowly burn, alone, or to die with the enemy’s teeth in your throat and their bodies crushed under your feet?”

Then the order was given and the army charged. The ground shook and even the flames themselves seemed to tremble as the giant wombats thundered into the swamp. Their momentum carried them over the first lines of waiting crocodiles, trampling the reptiles into unrecognizable pulp.

There were cheers from the wombats as they slaughtered the crocodilian advance guard. Raucous hissing was heard from all sides as the few surviving reptiles called for retreat in their sibilant language. One sub-lieutenant even shouted out “We’re going to win! Despite the fire we’re going to win!”

But the nature of the swamp itself was against them. Slick ground robbed the huge mammals of footing, slowing the charge. Hard unyielding cypress trees resisted the wombat’s massive strength and broke up the battle formation. Soon it was apparent to all that this truly was a fight for survival, not victory. Even so, progress was steady. Despite being slowed, despite a steady stream of casualties, the crocodiles could not stop the advance of the wombats. At last Moon-pouch judged that they had come far enough. She turned her warriors back toward dry land. “One last push and we’ll be free,” she shouted to her troops.

Barely had her words been spoken when a hissing sound was heard. It seemed to rise from all sides, but in particular it came from between the wombats and dry land. As it grew in volume, the clumped weeds and canebrakes began to writhe. Huge lizards pushed through the slimy undergrowth, ropy strands of thick saliva drooling from their open jaws.

“Komodo mercenaries! The crocs have hired komodo mercenaries,” someone gasped.

“What do we do,” asked the chief lieutenant?

The weary commander looked at her warriors. There were fewer than a hundred left. Far fewer. She considered the options – there was nowhere to retreat to, and reptiles did not take prisoners. “What do we do? We fight!”

With a mighty roar the giant wombats advanced, joining battle with their reptilian foes. The komodo mercenaries were fierce, and the two sides evenly matched. The fighting was more savage that anything that had come before. For every lizard slain, a wombat fell as well. At last Moon-pouch could see glimpses of dry land through the choking marsh weeds. It was burned and blacked land, with wisps of smoke rising here and there, but it was dry land nevertheless. She turned to rally her remaining warriors and saw that she was alone – behind her lay only a trail of corpses.

Moon-pouch died with her enemy’s teeth in her throat, and his body crushed under her feet.

Kobold Courier