you. Don’t want t’get in the way of my blade, now, do we?”
Keen steel slashed through the weasel’s belt, causing his ragged pantaloons to fall round his footpaws. Ting! A brass earring was chopped neatly from the fox’s earlobe. Swish! He lost a tail bracelet. Thwup! A shabby sleeve dropped from the weasel’s dirty shirt. Pingpingping! This was the sound of three fancy bone buttons shooting off the fox’s tawdry waistcoat.
Buckler surveyed his work, leaning on his sword hilt. “What d’ye think, Miz Flib. What next?”
The shrewmaid bellowed savagely, “Their ears, snouts ’n’tails, then their necks!”
The vermin collapsed on the sand, pleading pitifully.
“Aaarr no, sir, y’wouldn’t do that, sir!”
“Don’t kill us, yer Lordship. We’ve got families!”
“Aye liddle uns an’ wives. Spare us fer their sakes!”
Buckler ’s eyes went cold; he kicked them both. “Get up, up, both of ye! Snake-tongued liars. If I believed ye, I’d finish both of ye right now just t’save any poor beast the misery an’ shame of havin’ the like of you as fathers. Now, which way am I pointin’?”
“North, sir, yer pointin’ north,” wailed the fox.
Buckler growled through clenched teeth, “Aye, north ’tis. Go now, an’ don’t stop for the next three sunsets, or I promise ye’ll be flybait!”
A few stinging smacks from the narrow flat of his blade sent them scurrying awkwardly off. Still tied back-to-back and paw-to-paw, they stumbled and tripped off into the falling dusk.
To say that Flib was impressed was an understatement. She sat wide-eyed, whispering, “I never seen anybeast that good wirra blade, never!”
Diggs patted the shrewmaid’s paw. “Indeed, an’ you ain’t likely to, missy. You’ve just witnessed a Salamandastron Blademaster, the best there is. But y’must remember, he was only toyin’ with ’em, right, mate?”
Buckler speared a slice of apple from the fruit salad, flipped it up with his swordpoint and caught it in his mouth. He sat down, winking at Flib. “Right!”
5
Zwilt the Shade waited until three of his Ravagers, with their two small captives, stopped to rest. Then he made a silent and unexpected appearance behind them. The leader of the vermin, a weasel called Grakk, spun around as the polecat tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Lord Zwilt, we were just—” Zwilt silenced him by raising a paw. “I know, Grakk. You were just stopping to rest before you carried on to Althier. Where did you capture the shrews?”
Grakk pointed with his spear. “By the south bend of the River Moss. Their tribe were camped there, Sire. These two had strayed off into the trees, so we took them.”
Tugging gently on the halter about their necks, Zwilt drew the young ones closer. They were gagged and blindfolded; both looked exhausted.
The polecat nodded as he looked them over. “Good work, Grakk. You did well. The Sable Quean will be pleased when I tell her. I will take them to Althier.”
The weasel saluted with his spear. “Lord!”
Zwilt wound the halter around one paw. “Go back and see if the shrewbeasts have any more little offerings for us.”
Grakk and the other two Ravagers, both weasels, stole off into the woodlands.
Althier was the secret place. Only a chosen few of the Ravagers were allowed to be there. The main body of the vermin were camped half a league away in the depths of Mossflower Wood. In this way, there was no well-trampled pawpath, which would reveal the Sable Quean’s location.
The two young shrews were stumbling with exhaustion as the Shade led them to the great oak. He tapped on the concealed door in its trunk. Two vermin guards admitted him, leading the new captives down a twisting tunnel into a large central chamber. The ceiling was formed by the arched roots of the mighty tree above. This was no vermin achievement—Althier had been constructed countless seasons before by far more noble beasts.
Prodding his little prisoners,
Keen steel slashed through the weasel’s belt, causing his ragged pantaloons to fall round his footpaws. Ting! A brass earring was chopped neatly from the fox’s earlobe. Swish! He lost a tail bracelet. Thwup! A shabby sleeve dropped from the weasel’s dirty shirt. Pingpingping! This was the sound of three fancy bone buttons shooting off the fox’s tawdry waistcoat.
Buckler surveyed his work, leaning on his sword hilt. “What d’ye think, Miz Flib. What next?”
The shrewmaid bellowed savagely, “Their ears, snouts ’n’tails, then their necks!”
The vermin collapsed on the sand, pleading pitifully.
“Aaarr no, sir, y’wouldn’t do that, sir!”
“Don’t kill us, yer Lordship. We’ve got families!”
“Aye liddle uns an’ wives. Spare us fer their sakes!”
Buckler ’s eyes went cold; he kicked them both. “Get up, up, both of ye! Snake-tongued liars. If I believed ye, I’d finish both of ye right now just t’save any poor beast the misery an’ shame of havin’ the like of you as fathers. Now, which way am I pointin’?”
“North, sir, yer pointin’ north,” wailed the fox.
Buckler growled through clenched teeth, “Aye, north ’tis. Go now, an’ don’t stop for the next three sunsets, or I promise ye’ll be flybait!”
A few stinging smacks from the narrow flat of his blade sent them scurrying awkwardly off. Still tied back-to-back and paw-to-paw, they stumbled and tripped off into the falling dusk.
To say that Flib was impressed was an understatement. She sat wide-eyed, whispering, “I never seen anybeast that good wirra blade, never!”
Diggs patted the shrewmaid’s paw. “Indeed, an’ you ain’t likely to, missy. You’ve just witnessed a Salamandastron Blademaster, the best there is. But y’must remember, he was only toyin’ with ’em, right, mate?”
Buckler speared a slice of apple from the fruit salad, flipped it up with his swordpoint and caught it in his mouth. He sat down, winking at Flib. “Right!”
5
Zwilt the Shade waited until three of his Ravagers, with their two small captives, stopped to rest. Then he made a silent and unexpected appearance behind them. The leader of the vermin, a weasel called Grakk, spun around as the polecat tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Lord Zwilt, we were just—” Zwilt silenced him by raising a paw. “I know, Grakk. You were just stopping to rest before you carried on to Althier. Where did you capture the shrews?”
Grakk pointed with his spear. “By the south bend of the River Moss. Their tribe were camped there, Sire. These two had strayed off into the trees, so we took them.”
Tugging gently on the halter about their necks, Zwilt drew the young ones closer. They were gagged and blindfolded; both looked exhausted.
The polecat nodded as he looked them over. “Good work, Grakk. You did well. The Sable Quean will be pleased when I tell her. I will take them to Althier.”
The weasel saluted with his spear. “Lord!”
Zwilt wound the halter around one paw. “Go back and see if the shrewbeasts have any more little offerings for us.”
Grakk and the other two Ravagers, both weasels, stole off into the woodlands.
Althier was the secret place. Only a chosen few of the Ravagers were allowed to be there. The main body of the vermin were camped half a league away in the depths of Mossflower Wood. In this way, there was no well-trampled pawpath, which would reveal the Sable Quean’s location.
The two young shrews were stumbling with exhaustion as the Shade led them to the great oak. He tapped on the concealed door in its trunk. Two vermin guards admitted him, leading the new captives down a twisting tunnel into a large central chamber. The ceiling was formed by the arched roots of the mighty tree above. This was no vermin achievement—Althier had been constructed countless seasons before by far more noble beasts.
Prodding his little prisoners,
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