Chapter 48 Butcher and his Favorite Gutting Stick

Rakrak's grin twisted into something grotesque as he studied Lyn's face.

  "Hmmmm... you ready to talk? That easy?" He tapped a claw against his chin, mockingly thoughtful. 

"I don't think I made myself clear enough just yet. I need to be sure you are taking me serious."

A snap of his fingers.

Butcher moved, his meaty fist closing around Murb's tiny body. The hatchling let out a shrill cry as he was hoisted into the air, his legs kicking empty air weak.

"Let's make absolutely sure you're not feeding me lies."

Butcher loomed over Murb. His knuckles were still crusted with the hatchling's blood from earlier beatings.

"Dis one bit me," Butcher slurred, "Dis one needs... special lesson."

"No—!" I choked, reaching out a shaking hand.

  "Please—please, don't hurt them! Let him be—!"

Butcher ignored me. His massive fist closed around Murb—my loudest, my bravest—lifting him up like a doll.

"MURB!" The shriek tore from my throat, raw and broken.

Rakrak's laughter slithered through the air as Butcher unsheathed the gutting stick from his belt - a rusted iron rod with a barbed shaft, still crusted with old blood. Murb's tiny chest heaved in panic as the cold metal pressed against his tiny butt.

"Wreee... P-please, no... Dada... please save me..." Murb squeaked, his voice breaking. His big eyes found mine, brimming with tears.

  "Papa, don't let him hurt me. Papa... h-help... h-help-REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

The gutting stick pushed.

Murb's scream pierced the camp as the barbed tip breached flesh. Butcher twisted - a slow, practiced motion - and when he pulled back, ropes of glistening intestine came with it, spilling onto the dirt in steaming coils. The smell of blood and bile flooded the air.

"Look at that! Like unspooling yarn!" Butcher crowed, shaking the gutting stick so Murb's own innards slapped against his face. 

Murb was still alive.

His tiny hands clutched at the empty cavity of his belly, his breaths coming in wet, gurgling hitches. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping on land, but no more words came - just choked, animal whimpers.

Then, Butcher jammed the stick back in and lifted him toward the torch.

The flames licked at Murb's feet first. His skin blackened, curling away like paper. The stench of burning flesh joined the metallic tang of blood as his tiny toes charred to brittle coals, crumbling away bit by bit. Murb's body convulsed, his remaining strength spent on wordless shrieks that grew weaker with each passing second.

Rakrak leaned forward on his throne, chin resting on his fist. 

"Take notes, slaves! This is what defying me earns you! Anyone who dare to cross me will meet the same fate!"

Remaining hatchlings came running in my arms, wailing, their tiny claws digging into my chest as they buried their faces against me. Lyn's growl had turned to something feral, inhuman - her pupils slitting into dagger-thin lines as her claws tore grooves into the wooden post.

And I?

I cradled my surviving hatchlings closer, my tears cutting tracks through the dirt on my face.

Murb's final breath left him in a shuddering sigh as Butcher bit his cooked little body in half and chewed.

Rakrak leaned forward on his throne, his grin stretching wider.

"Ahhh, there we go! Now it must be crystal clear—I don’t bluff. So! Now that we’ve settled that little misunderstanding… let’s talk. The Cat Clan’s forces. Their plans. Their weaknesses."

His voice dropped to a mock-whisper.

  "And who knows? If you’re very cooperative… I might even find a bit of mercy. Wouldn’t that be nice? Well? What do you say, little cat? Ready to play nice?"

Lyn lifted her head slowly, her golden eyes burning with a cold, unshakable fire. Blood matted her fur, her body was beaten, but her voice was steel.

"You want to talk about my father’s forces? Fine. Let’s talk."

Rakrak’s grin widened, thinking he had won.

"The moment he gets your letter? He’ll be here in less than a day. Most of his warriors are scattered in the forest—hunting. But even if half come? They’ll carve through this camp like a knife through rotten meat. When my father arrives? He’ll make sure you’re alive long enough for us to watch him tear you apart."

"What, is that it? That’s all you can tell me? ‘My daddy’s coming, oh nooo’? I was hoping for numbers. For weaknesses. For something useful. But no. Just empty threats from a beaten little cat."

"You want numbers? Fine. 100 warriors in the main clan. 50 archers in the high rocks. The southern ridge is unguarded after dusk—the sentries rotate then."

Rakrak's grin returned, slow and slick as oil. 

"Now that's more like it."

"But," Lyn continued, her golden eyes locking onto his, "my father is coming with less than half his forces. There is no time to gather all of our forces but that will be enough to wipe your miserable camp of this forest floor."

Rakrak listened, his claw tapping slowly against his chin as Lyn spoke. When she finished, he let out a low, unimpressed hum.

"Hmm. 150 cats in total, but only half would show up?" 

He smirked, glancing at his gathered warriors—goblins sharpening blades, hounds snarling, the reinforcements from Grishnak standing ready.

  "My forces outnumber even your full strength. And that’s if you’re telling the truth."

Lyn didn’t flinch. 

"I am. I wouldn’t lie when innocent lives are at stake. I told you the truth. Every word of it. And there’s no point hiding it anyway. You already knew my father would come for me. The only difference is how. Even if you set a trap. Even if you throw every last one of your pathetic warriors at him. You. Still. Lose."

For a long moment, Rakrak just stared at her. Then—slowly, dramatically—he began to clap.

"What a stirring performance! Truly, I’m shaking in my boots! Ohhh, Lyn. You almost had me there! ‘You can’t win’? Tell me, little cat, did you practice that speech while gagged in your cage, or does dramatic nonsense just come naturally to you?"

Straightening up, he waved a dismissive hand.

 "Face it—you’re nothing but a shitty cat. And when he comes charging in like the fool he is? We’ll be ready."

With that, he turned his back on her, flicking his fingers at the guards.

"Leave them right here," he commanded. 

"Let the whole camp see what happens to those who defy me. Maybe another day without water will make her creative with her threats."

His gaze slid to the guards, sharp and expectant. 

"Go on then! What are you waiting, fools! Give them a proper beating—but don’t kill them. Not yet. I want them awake for what’s coming."

Then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced at my hatchlings—huddled together, trembling, their tiny bodies already bruised and broken.

"And don’t forget the little shits. Beat them until they can’t even lift a finger. But keep them alive. I want them to suffer. For a long, long time."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, his laughter lingering in the air.

The moment Rakrak's footsteps faded, the guards descended like starving wolves upon wounded prey. Their laughter was sharp, their eyes alight with vicious glee as they formed a tightening circle around us.

The largest guard—a hulking brute with knuckles studded with rusted nails—grabbed Lyn by the throat and slammed her back against the wooden post. Her breath exploded from her lungs in a choked gasp, but she didn't cry out. Not even when the second guard drove a fist into her ribs with a sickening crack.

"Still so proud, cat?" the guard sneered, yanking her head back by her hair.

A third guard lashed out with a whip—the crack of leather splitting flesh echoed across the camp. Blood welled from the stripes across Lyn's back, her muscles trembling with the effort to stay silent. Another blow. Another. Until her knees buckled, her bound arms taking the full weight of her body as she hung limp from the post.

A shrill chorus of whimpers rose as the guards turned their attention to the hatchlings.

Snik tried to scramble away, but a guard stomped on his little feet, pinning him in place.

  "Where you are going, runt?" The club came down on his small back—once, twice—until his frantic squeals dissolved into wet, hiccupping sobs.

The guard roared and kicked him square in the chest, sending him skidding through the dirt. Before he could rise, a boot pressed down on his tiny head—not enough to crush, just enough to make his claws scrabble helplessly at the ground as his breath wheezed.

Another hatchling, barely conscious, could only curl into a ball as a guard rained kicks onto his fragile body.

  "Take it you little shit, take it!" the guard spat, flipping him onto his back with a toe.

  "Not so brave now, huh?"

Next guard came to me. A fist in the gut doubled me over, only for a knee to snap my head back up. Blood sprayed from my split lip as another blow sent me sprawling onto the hatchlings, my body too broken to shield them anymore.

"Look at this shit," a guard crowed, grinding his boot on my fingers.

  "Can't even protect his own little shits. What's the matter, slave?! Don't you care what happens to your beloved hatchlings?"