“Dirty traitor, eh? Listen who’s talkin’. You’re the turncoat, bucko. Slagar told me to keep my eye on
you. And don’t you start waving that dagger at me, snotwhiskers. I’ve got a sword twice as big as that.
Look!”
Halftail rushed Scringe as he tried to draw his sword. Taken unawares, the ferret was easy prey to the
stoat’s dagger. He fell mortally wounded. Halftail turned upon the rest.
“That’s what spies and traitors get. Anybeast want some? Come on!”
Threeclaws pulled out a vicious-looking hook. “Hey, Halftail. You’ve got a lot to say for yourself. Who
do you think you are, the Chief?”
“I am, as far as you’re concerned, weasel; Slagar left me in charge when he told me he’d be gone for a
while.”
Threeclaws brandished the hook, nodding to Fleaback and Drynose, and all three advanced slowly
upon Halftail. Threeclaws grinned wickedly.
“Slagar left you in charge? Whose paw do you think you’re trying to pull? He would have left one of us
weasels in charge, wouldn’t he, mates?”
Halftail snatched the sword from the dead Scringe. He swished it at them and jabbed with his dagger.
“Get back, weasels, leave me alone or there’ll be real trouble when Slagar returns.”
Threeclaws circled slowly, swinging the hook. “You must have bread for brains if you think the fox is
coming back, you idiot. Why do you think he took the slaves with him? He’s got no intentions of coming
back. Ha! No wonder they call him the Sly One.”
Drynose made a rush at Halftail. The stoat leapt to one side and spitted the weasel with his sword. He
shouted an appeal to Bageye, the only other stoat in the group:
“Come on, Bageye. Slagar left me in charge, help me out, mate.”
Before Bageye could rise to his paws, Wartclaw and Snakespur, two other weasels, jumped on him.
Their iron hooks flashed once. “We’ve got this one, Threeclaws, go on, finish Halftail!”
Halftail fought like a mad creature, he wounded Skinpaw and was about to finish him when Snakespur
struck him from behind with his hook. Halftail was dead before he hit the ground.
The survivors of the mutiny sat about licking their wounds and eating any provisions they could find. Out
of the crew that had taken the young ones from Mossflower there were only five weasels remaining,
Skinpaw, Fleaback, Threeclaws, Wartclaw and Snakespur. Undecided, they lounged about the camp.
Threeclaws fancied himself as leader, but after the slaughter that had taken place he decided to stay in the
background lest one of the others challenge him for supremacy. Besides, who knew? Slagar might come
back, and then there would really be trouble.
As if reading Threeclaws’ thoughts, Snakespur grumbled aloud, “Deserted, that’s what we’ve been
mates, deserted. That scurvy fox has left us in the lurch and gone off to get the reward for the captives
himself. What makes me so mad is that we’ve followed him like a pack of fools all this time. ‘Yes, Chief,’
‘No, Chief.’ Huh! Now where are we? Half a season’s journey into the middle of nowhere, with empty
paws and empty bellies too, by the look of those slack ration bags.”
“But what about little Vitch,” Fleaback interrupted. “I wonder what’s happened to him?”
Snakespur slashed at the grass with his iron hook. “Dead as a pickled frog, for all I care. What’s one rat
or more got to do with us? We’re weasels, mate. Oho, I tell you, I’d like to have that fox’s guts at the end of
this hook right now.”
“Brave words from the scum of the earth!”
A large male badger had walked quietly into the camp. He stood testing the edge of a big double-
headed battleaxe with his paw. The weasels leapt up, unsure of what to do against the huge warrior,
without a leader to galvanize them into action.
Orlando gave a cold smile.
“Run or fight, eh, baby stealers?” His voice was deceptively calm. “I know you haven’t the courage to
fight. There’s only five of you and not a gang. Ah well, if you’re not going to fight then you must run like
the cowards you are. But even then you won’t get far, because you’re surrounded.”
Matthias and his friends stepped from the bushes and the rocks.
Wartclaw began trembling violently. “It was Slagar. It was his idea. We don’t even count. Look at the
way he’s deserted us.”
Matthias pointed at the bodies of the fallen. “Tell me, weasel, what happened here?”
“It was the masked fox. He did it!”
“You lie! We lay hidden and watched it all. You murdered your own comrades. Listen to me. If you do
not speak the truth then you will all join them. Is that clear?”
The weasels nodded vigorously.
Jess Squirrel faced Skinpaw. “Where has Slagar taken the captives?”
“I know you’re not going to believe me,” the weasel moaned in despair, “but when we woke this
morning he was gone. The prisoners too, and a rat named Vitch.”
Matthias drew his sword. The five weasels began pleading:
“It’s true, it’s true!”
“Please, sir, believe us!”
“See that dead weasel there? He’s Damper. We found him slain when we woke. He must have tried to
stop Slagar leaving.”
Log-a-Log drew Matthias aside and whispered, “He’s probably telling the truth. My scouts have
discovered tracks. They’ve been well covered, but there were rats here. Matthias, I’m not just speaking
about a group; this was a horde, a mighty army.”
The warrior mouse nodded. He turned to the five weasels.
“I believe you. Now try to remember, did any of you wake last night and see who was here?”
“No, sir, no.”
“We were asleep.”
“Slagar took the watch alone.”
Basil picked up a rope and made five loops in it.
“Right, c’mere, you wicked weasel types. Put these nooses around your dirty necks. Stop blubberin’, we
ain’t goin’ to string you up. Though it’s all you richly deserve, wot? Wretches! Now, we’ll let you march up
front. Isn’t that good of us? That way you’ll get the benefit of any bally old traps that’ve been laid for us:
poison arrows, swamps full of mad frogs, great eagles that rip your jolly old eyes out, an’ suchlike. Cheer
up, chaps, it’ll be fun!”
Cheek found Threeclaws’ willow cane and gave it to Basil. “I say, a blinkin’ flogger. Is this what you
keep the slaves goin’ with, sort of give them the odd whack. Like this, and this, and this! Whack! Swish!
Thwack! ”
Matthias stopped Basil. There was a sound from the bushes, and the old rabbit tottered out, still
wrapped in his sack. He walked round the captured weasels, staring at them with rheumy eyes.
“Death, death, is this all he left? Last time the masked one came this way none of his band lived. Dead,
all slain!”
Matthias tried questioning him further, but he staggered off into the bushes, still moaning about death
and doom.
Orlando watched the ancient one until he was lost to sight.
“Matthias, that one knows a lot more than we think. Did you hear him? He’s seen Slagar passing
through here once before. It must be an old game with the fox to pick out a band of vermin and promise
them the sky, then when he gets near his destination he either dumps his helpers or slays ’em, one way or
another. Then he’s free to reap the rewards of his filthy trade all for himself.”
“Yes,” Matthias agreed, “but what does he get out of it? What is his reward?”
Orlando shrugged. “Maybe we’ll find out when we catch up with him. One thing is clear; now that he’s