BRIAN
JACQUES

3

QUEEN SERENA WATCHED her little son Truffen sadly as he sat alone in the centre of Castle Floret’s banqueting chamber. Poor squirrelmite, forced to spend his days and nights in captivity, often separated from both parents, with only his old badger nurse Muta to protect him. Serena and her husband, Gael Squirrelking, sat together at one side of the chamber, with Truffen at his bench in the centre, whilst on the opposite side Nagru and Silvamord occupied the positions of honour at high table, surrounded by rodent Captains. Serena clutched Gael’s paw tightly, and they fixed their eyes on the tiny hostage.

Serena let her mind wander over past events. Was it only a season ago that Nagru and Silvamord had arrived at their gates? It seemed as though they had been in Castle Floret for an eternity. She recalled the night they had allowed Nagru and his mate into their home. It was a windy, drizzling evening in early spring, and the two foxes had looked half-dead, starved and bedraggled. Her husband Gael ordered that they be admitted, fed and clothed warmly. Serena regretted that Gael had not heeded the urgent warnings of their friend Rab Streambattle. But the Squirrelking could be stubborn, and he would not hear of Castle Floret’s hospitality being denied to any needy creature. Rab continued to oppose him and the argument escalated until the angry otter stormed out of the castle, taking his otter guard with him.

Within the space of two sunsets the foxes had taken over everything. It was done with fiendish simplicity. Silver-tongued Silvamord had lured Muta to a side chamber and locked her in. Nagru snatched little Truffen and held him breathless with fright, the fearsome hooked wolfclaws a hairsbreadth from the babe’s throat. Gael was forced to lower the drawbridge, and in a trice the castle was teeming with rats, savage, dirty grey rodents, eager to maim, destroy or kill at a nod from their leaders, Nagru and Silvamord.

From that moment their lives had hung by a thread. All loyal friends and courtiers who resisted were slain or imprisoned in Floret’s dungeons, while those who were not considered dangerous were forced to wait on the foxes and their officers. The far southern sun no longer shone over a peaceful and happy land. A new king and queen held sway, backed by a horde of murderers.

Nagru was big for a fox. Lean and powerful, he was mottled bluish grey from tip to tail, and his cruel eyes resembled chips of granite flake floating in a sea of carmine bloodflecks. His only clothing was the full pelt of a wolf, its head resting on top of his own like a cowl with eyeless sockets. The hide trailed down over his back with the front limbs covering his own. The wolfclaws had been replaced with sharp iron hooks, and when Nagru slid his own paws inside them they became awesome weapons.

His mate Silvamord was smaller in stature, but no less savage. Her fur was whitish grey with a silver-striped muzzle and back markings, and her eyes were dark obsidian green. Her regalia was a thick skirt of animal tails with glittering chips of crystal cunningly sewn into them. She moved sinuously to its strange tinkle, the equal of her mate in cunning and evil.

Now the barbaric pair sat side by side, sipping elderberry wine from Floret’s cellars and sharing the gamey meat of a long-dead plover. Nagru spiked a damson with his claw and shot it viciously at a fat old rat who stood nearby holding a stringed lutelike instrument.

‘Yoghul, play my song!’

The rat began playing, singing the dirge in an eerie, high-pitched voice.

Yoghul was playing the verse over again when Nagru called across to Gael, ‘Hey Squirrelking, d’you know why they call me Foxwolf?’

Gael sat silent, and Nagru answered his own question. ‘Because I am the only fox that ever slew a wolf. This is his hide I am wearing. I’ll wager you’ve never even seen a wolf, much less had to fight one. Well I did, and I won. Nobeast alive can stand against me!’

The Squirrelking ignored his captor, who continued boasting. ‘I’ll tell you something else, that wolf’s name was Urgan. So I took it and turned it backward and made a name for myself, Urgan Nagru! Try saying it both ways, it comes out the same. That’s to let my enemies know that I can come at them backward or forward, both ways. But I have no enemies, they’re all dead. Only fools and dreamers are left, like you and your Queen. It’s your own fault, squirrel, you let me in here. Aha! I see you are glaring at me. Good! You are wishing that the Foxwolf were dead, eh? The wishes of the weak are like raindrops on the face of the sea, they count for nothing. Play on, Yoghul!’

Whilst Nagru drank wine and tore at his meat, Silvamord had been staring fixedly at Muta the old badger nurse. Muta could not speak. Sometimes in peaks of joy or distress she would make hoarse barking noises, but it was unusual for her to make any sound at all. She crouched at little Truffen’s side, always faithful to him. It irritated Silvamord to see the dumb badger’s devotion to her small charge, and the vixen never missed an opportunity to humiliate or torment Muta. Calling Yoghul across to her, Silvamord divested him of his cloak, a small red thing trimmed with yellow. Then she snatched the cap from his head. It was floppy and conical with two tiny bells hanging from it. Flinging both hat and cloak at Muta, Silvamord called out derisively, ‘Come on, up on your paws, stripedog. Put those on and do a dance for me. I command it, dance!’

The big badger did not move. She stood glaring at the vixen. Silvamord beckoned Riveneye, one of the Captains seated nearby. ‘If that stupid beast doesn’t start dancing right now,’ she barked, ‘I want you to take your sword to the squirrelbrat and tickle a dance out of him!’

Riveneye stood and drew his sword.

Muta had no choice. Rather than see Truffen hurt, she donned the small cloak and tied the ribbons of the ridiculous little hat beneath her chin. Slowly she commenced a shuffling dance.

Silvamord aimed a kick at the minstrel rat. ‘Play, Yoghul – play faster. I want to see the big fool dance!’

Round and round Muta shambled, trying to keep up with the speed of the music, the bells tinkling wildly on her silly hat. Silvamord and the rats jeered cruelly at the badger’s stumbling efforts. A single teardrop spilled down Muta’s face.

Queen Serena turned away, unable to watch the cruel exhibition. Gael leaned in close as if sharing her sympathy, and began whispering so only she could hear. ‘It’s all right Serena, don’t worry. Listen to me and try not to show any surprise. Remember our singing blackbird Relph? Rab has sent me a message through him. There will be otters waiting in the castle moat today. We will accompany Muta when she takes Truffen for his afternoon nap. Relph will hang a red cloth on the window nearest the drawbridge to tell Rab we are coming. When we leave here, watch for the window with the red cloth on the sill, that’s the one we jump from. When we land in the moat the otters will take us to safety. Don’t look around, just nod if you understand . . .’ Muta’s hoarse bark caused the Queen to turn.

Truffen could not understand that Muta was being made fun of – they had often played at dancing together. Seeing her dance now made the little fellow chuckle happily. It was a game! He began hopskipping alongside her, giggling as he clapped his paws together in time to the music.

Muta threw back her head and made happy barking sounds, and the two danced wildly, leaping and jigging back and forth. Truffen pulled the cap from Muta’s head as she bowed to him and waved it about, jigging the bells and shouting uproariously, ‘Fasta! Fasta! More!’

Nagru flicked a damson contemptuously at Silvamord. ‘Well, I see you’ve managed to make them both happy, a prancing whelp and a jigging badger, good work! Tell me, who looks the bigger fool now, you or the badger?’

Silvamord flung a wooden bowl at Yoghul. ‘Stop playing, you oaf!’ she shrieked.

The music ground to a halt. Truffen jangled the cap bells. ‘More dances ’Uta, want more dances!’

Taking advantage of the moment, Serena hurried over. Sweeping her little son up, she took Muta by the paw and began leaving the room. Gael joined them. ‘Time for Muta to take you for your nap, Truffen. Come on, Mummy and Daddy will go with you.’

They were almost at the door when Silvamord called out, ‘Halt! Who said you could leave without our permission?’

Nagru idly flicked another damson at his mate. ‘Let them go, huh, they’re not going anywhere.’

Silvamord leaped up, eyes blazing. ‘Stop flicking damsons at me, spotblotch, I’ll say when they can go! You just carry on slopping wine!’

Nagru was not one to be insulted. He rose in a hot temper, sending dishes spilling and clattering. ‘You’ll feel these claws if you talk to me like that, vixen! If I say they can go, my word is final! Don’t try taking your sour mood out on me because your joke went wrong!’

All the time the little party were edging further out of the banqueting chamber. Silvamord grabbed a spear from a Captain named Hooktail and pointed it at the Foxwolf, screaming, ‘Put those claws near me and I’ll gut you! Stop those creatures leaving, now!’

Two more rats, Sourgall and Ragfen, drew swords and leaped up. As Gael pushed the others ahead of him into the hall outside, Serena forgot herself and cried out, ‘Look on the windowsill, the red cloth!’

Gael felt Sourgall’s claws clamp on his shoulder. He jumped backward, cannoning Sourgall into Ragfen as he called out to the badger, ‘Muta, out of the window – jump for the moat! Help is waiting there. Save my family!’

Then Gael went down. He was trampled and knocked aside as other rats, led by Silvamord, came charging into the passage. Muta dashed to the window where the red cloth fluttered, sweeping Serena and Truffen with her. Thrusting the little squirrel into his mother’s outstretched paws, the big badger lifted them both bodily over the sill. A spearshaft broke across Muta’s back. She grunted and flinched, then, gathering her mighty strength, she hurled mother and babe outward, so that they would not strike the castle walls in their descent to the moat. Turning, she ripped the dancing-cloak from her shoulders. Muta smashed two rats flat with a single blow and smothered another two with the cloak, shoving them roughly into those behind and causing a mêlée of confusion in the enclosed space.

Now the corridor was packed with rats. Muta could not reach Gael – it was death to try. There was only one way left open to her. Lifting her bulk on to the windowsill, the badger glanced down at the long drop to the moat. Suddenly, claws sunk into her lower back. Silvamord had climbed over the milling rats and seized her tight.

‘Got you, stripehead! Now you’ll die long and sloooooo . . . !’ Without a second thought Muta had clamped her footpaws around the vixen and rolled off the windowsill, carrying her enemy through with her.

Rab’s otters already had Serena and Truffen out on the bank as Muta and Silvamord came plummeting down and hit the water with a resounding boom. Locked together, they plunged beneath the surface. Muta rolled over, thrusting the vixen beneath her, then, stepping on Silvamord’s head, she pushed up towards the surface. Seconds later Muta was hauling herself up on to the bank and scrambling off in pursuit of her friends and their rescuers.

Terror and panic gripped Silvamord – the badger’s footpaws had pressed her down into the muddy moat bottom. The vixen’s ears, nose and mouth filled with water as she kicked and scrabbled furiously, then, coming free with a dull sucking noise, she drifted upward.

Whump!

The drawbridge thudded down on to the moatbank, and the rat horde came pouring out intent on catching the escaped prisoners. Spitting water and mud, Silvamord splashed up and down, screeching, ‘Help! Save me, you fools . . . Glubble . . . I can’t swim!’

The rats halted, fearful of ignoring the Foxwolf’s mate. Several long pikes and spears were stretched out quickly into the water, one so hastily that it clouted the drowning fox, half stunning her.

Nagru came bounding out over the drawbridge in time to see Silvamord hauled dripping from the moat. Her bedraggled skirt of tails clung wetly as she buffeted the head of a rat called Crookneck, shouting, ‘I said save me, you addlebrained toad, not brain me!’

As she sank exhausted to the grassy bank, Nagru berated her. ‘Idiot, why did you let them escape?’

‘Why did I let them escape?’ she shrieked, spitting moatwater and mud at him venomously. ‘Where were you, bogbrains? Still swilling wine and feeding your face?’

Nagru sighted the receding figures vanishing into the trees on the wooded hillside. He pointed to a group of twoscore or more rats standing on the bank. ‘You lot, follow me, I’ll catch them!’

Silvamord tottered upright at the water’s edge, footpaws seeking purchase in the wet grass. The Foxwolf could not resist giving her a hefty slap on the back. ‘You stay here and dry off, vixen!’

She overbalanced and toppled back, screeching, into the moat.

The four otters rushed Serena along at a cracking pace. Truffen was seated on the sturdy shoulders of a young male called Troutlad. Muta followed up the rear; for all her seasons and girth she was still nimble and swift. Tree shadows threw alternating patterns of sun and shade over the Southswarders as they fled up the thick-timbered hillside.

Nagru halted at the bottom of the causeway steps leading down from the castle plateau. His keen eyes picked up the movements of the small group racing up the wooded tor across the valley. A rat Captain named Gatchag stuck his sword into the ground and sank down on his haunches beside the quivering weapon, shaking his head knowingly. ‘Huh, they’re away like two brace o’ woodpigeons. Nah! You won’t catch ’em now, take my word fer it!’

Swift as a flash, the Urgan Nagru grabbed Gatchag’s sword and slew him with a single, powerful slash. The shock that ran through the rats was registered in a single moan, like a sudden gale running through long wheat. Nagru threw the blade down on the lifeless body.

‘Anybeast got more strong opinions to voice can join him! Up on your paws, slopmouths, before I let daylight into some of your skulls! Mingol, take twelve and circle right. Riveneye, take another twelve and circle in from the left. The rest of you follow me, we’ll go straight up after them. If we shift fast enough they’ll be cut off from three ways. In my horde, a slow rat is a dead one. Now move!’

Rab Streambattle and six of his otters watched anxiously as the fugitives toiled uphill. Rab’s mate Iris fitted a stone to her sling. ‘Those rats are coming on fast, Rab. They’re going to pincer in front of our lot before they get here – what’ll we do?’

The otter leader loosed an arrow, picking off one of Mingol’s front runners. Laying another shaft on his bowstring he took aim, and said, ‘We’ll have to buy them some time by holding off the rats. Lay on and make every shot count!’

The otters attacked with a will. Arrows, slingstones and short javelins whipped skilfully down the wooded slope to left and right, peppering the horderats and harrying their pincer movement. Rab hurtled forward and reached the fugitives. He ran past them, calling out, ‘Keep going, there’s help ahead mates. Hurry! Nagru’s right behind you, I’ll keep him busy!’

Rab Streambattle was a warrior who did not know the meaning of fear. The most skilled weaponbeast among otters, now he showed his mettle. Planting both footpaws firmly, he threw off his quiver and with a speed born of desperation began zipping arrows into the ranks of Nagru’s rats.

The Foxwolf was sorry he had not slain the fierce otter on first sight. Leaping to one side he dodged behind a scrub oak, leaving the rat immediately behind to die by the arrow that was meant for him. Another rat screamed and leapt high, transfixed by Rab’s next shaft. Nagru cursed silently, wishing he had brought a bow and arrows along. Flailing his claws wildly, he shouted, ‘Idiots! Move about, duck and dodge, use your arrows and spears – he’s only one otter!’

A deadly shot from Rab pinned a rat to a rowan tree. Grim-faced, he called out as he strung another arrow, ‘Aye, I’m only one otter, but here I stand, try an’ pass, scum!’

Serena came gasping and stumbling into the outstretched paws of his. The otter embraced her briefly before going back to slinging rocks. ‘Serena, no time to chatter now, we must get you an’ the liddle un to safety!’

‘But Gael . . . and Rab, what about them?’

Keeping her eyes on the target, Iris bowled a rat over as her stone cracked his skull. ‘If your Squirrelking doesn’t escape there’s nothin’ we can do at the moment, Marm. As for my Rab, you know he’d swap his life for friends – that’s what he’s doin’ now. I’ve got to get you away, that’s my job!’

A spear had furrowed Rab’s side. He ignored the searing pain and dropped a rat with an accurate snap shot. Then he counted his remaining arrows. Three.

Using bush and tree cover, Nagru’s rats were surrounding Rab. Without turning his head, the brave otter roared, ‘Get them out o’ here, Iris. Go!’

Snuffling a tear aside, his courageous mate hustled Serena and her babe along with the otters. ‘You heard my Rab, come on, move yourselves!’

They fled over the hilltop, zigzagging north through the trees. All but one.