2. The Black Mission

In the dead of night, two strangers entered the barbarian camp to ask Bar-Bar to do the impossible. Now, as the barbarians had no clearly defined borders or walls, strangers weren’t that strange. Animals regularly appeared, traveled with them for a while, then disappeared.

These ones, however, were strange. They snuck to the largest tent under cover of dark. The only place where a light still burned, around which the leaders of different tribes sung their drunken songs.

Two pigs playing in the dirt jumped aside at their approach. They complained about ruining their mud bath. Especially because they didn’t need it—these strangers were frighteningly clean.

“Shouldn’t we, like, raise an alarm?” one pig whispered to the others.

“Nah. It will be fine,” the other responded.

They giggled. The strangers could put on a mask and wear a black cape, but it hid nothing at all. Only filthy rich animals would wear a cape of the most expensive velvet. Only members of the royal family would wear a mask inlaid with gold.

The pigs were tempted to throw some dirt their way. It would help them—now they stuck out among the Grapi Tribes like a sour claw.

“This is a bad idea, Wolfar,” said one of them. “These are idiots. Barbarians. They’ll never keep a promise.”

The other wolf returned a stern gaze. “Must I remind you of the Hens, little Wodrik? This is exactly what those smelly barbarians were made for.”

Wodrik kicked away some stones. “And they can’t even sing,” he mumbled.

When the wolves entered the tent, the singing immediately ceased. The pigs slipped in after them, which startled Wolfar, who reacted by almost hitting them.

Instead he kept his composure and grunted. “Keep your children under control. And please, put on some clothes.”

“They’re our children,” Bar-Bar said, a large sheep commanding the biggest herd of animals out of all the tribes. “Not our slaves.”

Wolfar nodded to his younger brother Wodrik. He took a bag of gold coins in his mouth and threw it towards the campfire. “Send your children away or we walk away.”

“Alright-o! Goodbye-o!” said the leader of a neighboring tribe. He’d never been very resistant to alcohol.

“If you think you can command us and we’re all the same filth,” Bar-Bar said calmly, “then we have nothing to discuss anyway. The only reason we have to live closer and closer to Amor, is because the Hens attack us. And yet you call them barbarians too!”

Wolfar and Wodrik exchanged glances.

“Then you might like to know,” Wodrik said, “that the king has just issued a new insane command. All barbarians have to be exterminated immediately. He’s gathering soldiers as we speak.”

All jaws dropped. It was true: they had slowly given up their traveling ways, living closer to Amor than ever, hoping it would be a safe haven against the Hens. But if the king wanted …

“The Cuckoo King,” Bar-Bar mumbled. “The Mindless Monarch. That’s what they call him. Everyone knows it, but you let it happen.”

“What were we supposed to do?” Wolfar yelled. “He is the rightful king. Chosen by the people when his mind still worked. There is no … lawful away to get rid of our father. It is as I’ve spoken.”

“And thus we come here,” Wodrik said, more bored than nervous. “We agree that the king’s mad leadership can only destroy the beautiful Amori now.”

Bar-Bar danced around the fire, to music only he could hear. A few children smiled and joined him, although his next words scared them.

“Stick a knife in the king’s back while he’s sleeping. Problem solved.”

The two princes dropped their masks. Wolfar beat his chest; Wodrik looked away in disgust.

“The Amori have the heart and the wisdom of the Gods who once roamed our Somnia. Murder is unthinkable to us,” Wolfar said proudly. “That is my statement.”

“And forbidden by law,” Wodrik added, raising his paw as if he had a question.

“If the godchildren still roamed these lands,” Bar-Bar spoke sadly, “they would have laughed themselves silly at that statement. You killed them. You drove them—”

“Which of us has the biggest city? The best technology? The most comfortable lives? The fairest—no, wait, you don’t have laws or a justice system. And then—”

At that moment, another pig stumbled through the opening and splashed dirt onto Wodrik. Several chickens ran after him, which caused a gust of wind that extinguished the fire. The first to touch the pig yelled: “You’re it!” And they ran away again.

“I want to leave,” Wodrik said in a whiny voice.

Amidst the chaos of the chicken chase, however, another creature had entered the tent. A rat. He had clearly eavesdropped from outside the tent, as he joined the conversation as if he’d always been there.

“Where is your third?” he asked. “Don’t you have another younger brother?”

“He is too dumb and weak for any important matters,” Wolfar said, clenching his teeth. The rat wrote down his exact words using his tail and a piece of parchment. When Wolfar realized who he was talking to, he kicked the parchment away from him. When the next herd of bunnies ran into the tent, almost ripping the fabric, Wolfar roared and scared them away.

“The offer is a mission. You know what mission. Do it silently, be arrested, we don’t care. But I suppose you … solve this issue before our father kills all barbarians.”

“That’s all?” Bar-Bar said, confused. “No help? No here is a map of the palace? No—”

“Predictable,” Wodrik said. “Have to explain everything to these idiots.”

“Don’t worry, should be easy,” the rat said, pointing at Bar-Bar. “He’s a demigod. He will work his magic and—”

“Never,” Bar-Bar said resolutely. “Never again.”

“Predictable,” Wolfar said. “Barbarians even refuse to do the thing they can do.”

They put on their “disguises” once more and slipped into the dark night. Wolfar turned around one last time to address the rat. “Oh, Tattlerat, one word about this to anyone and I will find a hundred laws to sentence you to death.”

The rat slumped. This meeting would have been the best gossip he ever spread.

“Ah well,” he said, finding new parchment to write down what happened. “I will just modify the story a bit. You all saw four strangers, right? Who asked you to kill Wolfar?”

More and more members of the Grapi tribes streamed into the tent, asking for explanation.

Bar-Bar looked pained. “Outrageous. Also the best chance we have.”

Food was passed around. A few strong pigs walked back into the night to retrieve fresh water from the tip of the Tibber. All felt this would be a long night.

“It’s a trap, right?” a small giraffe said. “They wait until we did the mission and then arrest us immediately?”

“Not sure, not sure,” multiple voices said. “Tough decision.”

“Tough decision? What is wrong with you?” the Tattlerat said, interrupting a pig who wanted to tell him more gossip. “The soul of Asha still lives inside us. And it is clear. We kill nobody. We don’t live in a big city, we keep moving around in small tribes, and … and in a month we’ll be on a different continent!”

“Oh? And how do we get there?” Bar-Bar said, looking for something to drink. “Amor squashes us on one side, the Hens on the other.”

“Even the Amori fear the Hens,” Tattlerat said. “We should use this as a first step towards cooperation.”

This drew laughter. The start of cooperation with a folk by killing their king?

“They would never,” Bar-Bar said with a cold certainty. “They don’t see us as equals. They think us barbarians equal only to a pile of poo.”

“Then use your magic!” Tattlerat yelled, shaking his head. “You could control the king without anybody dying.”

“And you could kill the king with some well-placed rumors,” he answered. “But you won’t, because you’re too selfish to actually risk yourself for anything.”

Bar-Bar looked around the silenced tent. “Whom amongst you wants to end in the Amor dungeons as thanks for saving their pitiful existence?”

The silence remained.

Tattlerat left the tent in a huff. Probably to spread some fake rumors back in Amor about what had happened here.

The discussion continued until morning. Children rolled over the fields again, and some tribes walked away from Amor, as if to say “we don’t want to be involved with any of this”.

What do you do, dear reader, if the right action is not the right action? If everyone sees the injustices pile up because a king has gone insane, but there is no neat law to dispose of that king?

As the sun rose, Bar-Bar left the tent to give commands. A few sheep, goats and pigs were to travel to Amor to gather information about the king and possible ways to remove him. They’d do as he asked, he was certain of it. His magic allowed him to gather multiple large tribes under his command.

He was sick of giving commands and other animals listening without question. He captured them, quite literally, and had no way to set them free.

No. Tattlerat was wrong. He would not use the magic again. He would find a different way.