"We're going to have to send you ahead alone on this one, Colonel," the General said. "There's no possible way to avoid an ambush without someone scouting ahead, and frankly, you're one of the best we've got."
"Of course, sir," Monhare told the large bear.
"Now, I would usually send someone of lower rank as a scout, but I don't trust anyone else on a job this dangerous."
The two were alone in the General's tent, discussing plans for the army's next move. Their only option was moving through a tight valley to their destination; any other route would take at least a week longer, and they didn't have that kind of time. However, the valley was the perfect spot for an ambush, and one that could possibly cut the army's numbers by more than half. The only viable plan was to send someone to scout for such an ambush and, if possible, foil it.
It seemed simple, but where an entire army was drawn out while traveling through the valley, an army less than a quarter of that size could easily wait up the valley's east wall and take out the opposing side.
"You have your orders," the General said, interrupting Monhare's thoughts. "I'm leaving it up to you what to do if you run into that ambush."
"Yes, sir," Monhare replied.
"Dismissed."
Monhare saluted, then turned and walked out the tent, his tails flowing behind him. Instead of walking to the fire and the soldiers gathered around it as he usually did, he went directly to his tent. There would be little sleep for him tonight--not that there was ever much to begin with. He needed to plan, pack, and leave before the sun rose tomorrow. Today, he corrected himself, glancing at the moon. He shook his head and turned away from his own tent towards the fire. "Troops! In the sack! We're moving out at dawn!" he called. A chorus of "Sir!"'s answered him, accompanied by salutes and men moving off to their tents. His eyes scanned those who still stood by the fire. They either outranked him or were not his own subordinates, so he turned back and walked into his tent.
*~*~~*~*
Two hours before dawn, a black figure moved out of camp. Monhare quickly made his way to the head of the valley they were set to travel that day. It took him most of the time before dawn to scout out the valley and confirm that the enemy troops had not yet set up an ambush. He made camp on the ledge above the side of the valley perfect for an ambush.
With ten minutes before the sun rose, Monhare spotted troops heading into the valley. Only fifty or so made up this small group, and they were coming from the wrong direction, so he instantly knew this was the ambush he was waiting for. However, he couldn't take them all on when they were grouped like this; he would have to wait until they were at least mostly set up, which gave him precious little time to foil their plans.
Or so he thought, but five minutes later the ambush was in place and everything seemed to go according to the enemy plans. Monhare had seen that one of the main commanders had headed this opperation and was set up almost directly below him on the side of the valley. He knew it would take his own troops a good half-hour to reach the valley, so this gave him plenty of time. He was going to wait until the sun just peaked above the horizon, luring the enemy into a false sense of security.
No one had seen him yet. He stepped one foot onto the slope and, lifting his other leg up, started sliding down. The noise alerted the rear-most enemy troops, who turned their guns towards him. Before they could fire off a shot, he muttered, "Shadow Bolt," and a dark bolt of energy flew from his raised hand right through the two troops. Their death was silent, but not unnoticed.
He continued firing off his magic as he slid down, dodging the enemy's bullets. It was enough for him to get too close for the enemy to use their guns accurately. They switched to swords, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a set of keys on a retractable keyring. "This is going to be fun," Monhare and the enemy troop's leader said simultaneously.
Three of the foe went down before they could even move, the keys moving in an arc through their necks. The keys slid back to him silently, the mechanism obviously well-oiled. This left only a few between him and the commander, not counting the other enemies farther down the valley still waiting for the ambush.
"Hiding behind meatshields, are we?" Monhare taunted, shadow-bolting one of the troops.
"You have to learn to survive somehow, ringtail," said the bulldog commander.
Monhare scoffed and proceeded to dispatch another soldier with a key to the throat. "Call me that again and see what happens," he threatened.
"Awe, did I hurt the /vixen's/ fragile feelings?" The word 'vixen' was said with such distaste that it sounded worse than any curse word he could have said.
"Let's see how fragile this /puppy's/ feelings are," Monhare retorted as a throwing knife appeared in the last obstacle's chest, effectively killing him.
At this, the bulldog's eyes narrowed in fury. "No one calls me 'puppy'!" he cried, throwing himself at Monhare.
The hybrid smirked and sidestepped the canine's obviously poorly-thought rush. He slid his keys between his fingers and delivered a powerful punch to the commander's stomach. The bulldog gasped for breath, but was otherwise unhurt. Monhare looked at the keys in his hands, bent and snapped beyond repair. "Body armor. Nice," he said.
"Shut up... and die..." the commander said between gasps. He pulled out a dagger and tried to catch the colonel by surprise, but Monhare was ready for almost anything. Except...
When Monhare went to duck under the dagger, his foot hit a gopher-hole. He tripped, missing the dagger by mere cetimeters, and fell hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him. The canine lowered his sword, preparing for the final blow. As the blade fell toward his neck, Monhare watched his death come closer. Instead of closing his eyes in fear, he kept them open as one final defiance.
Death was a half-second away when the bulldog suddenly flew from Monhare's vision, the blow falling harmlessly inches away from its intended target. Monhare sat up and looked to where the commander fell. With a gaping, sizzling hole in his chest, he was no longer a threat. The Umbreon hybrid raised his eyes to the top of the valley, where he saw a figure staring down at him. The only thing he could see was yellow fur and bright green eyes before it vanished.
He rose, staggering, to his feet. The fight had taken its tole on him, he realized and he stumbled and nearly fell onto the body of one of the enemy soldiers. He hoped he had gotten them all; there wasn't much he could do if they challenged him. Luckily, or maybe because of that strange figure that took down the commander, he encountered no one on his way down to the valley floor. He collapsed on a large stone and waited for the rest of the troops to show. He had succeeded... This time...