Выбрать главу

woodlands. There was not a great deal of toll or levy coming in. The weasel

clutched the bread close as he padded along.

The hall was hostile and damp, with wooden shutters across the low windows.

The floor was made from a dark granite-like rock, very cold to the paws. Here

and there the nighttime

12

guards had lit small fires in corners, which stained the walls black with

smoke and ashes. Only captains were allowed to wear long cloaks as a mark of

rank, but several soldiers had draped themselves in old sacks and blankets

purloined from the settlement. The stairs down to the lower levels were a

jumble of worn spirals and flights of straight stone steps in no particular

sequence. Half the wall torches had burned away and not been replaced, leaving

large areas of stairs dark and dangerous. Moss and fungus grew on most of the

lower-level walls and stairs.

Hurrying along a narrow passage, the weasel banged on the storeroom door. A

key turned in the lock.

"WhatVe you got there? Loaves, eh. Bring 'em in."

The two guards who had been fighting were sitting on flour sacks. One of them

eyed the bread hungrily. "Huh, is that all you got tonight? I tell you, mate,

things are getting from bad to worse around here. Who sent you down with

them?"

"Blacktooth."

"Oh, him. Did he count them?"

"Er, no, I don't think so."

"Good. There's five loaves. We'll have half a loaf each— that'll leave three

and a half. Nobody'11 notice the difference."

They tore hungrily at Goody Stickle's brown oven loaves.

Upstairs, Martin had managed to wrap one of the ropes around a stone column.

Soldiers were jeering at the efforts of the patrol to get him away and up the

stairs. "Yah, what's the matter, lads, are you scared of him?"

Blacktooth turned on the mocking group. "Any of you lot fancy having a go at

him? No, I thought not."

The door opened behind them, and snow blew in with a cold, draughty gust. A

fox wearing a ragged cloak trotted past mem and up the broad flat stairs to

their first floor. The soldiers found a new target for their remarks.

"Hoho, just you wait, fox. You're late."

"Aye, old Greeneyes doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"I'd keep out of Lady Tsarmina's way, if I were you."

Ignoring them, the fox swept quickly up the stairs.

Martin tried to make a dash for the half-open door to the parade ground but he

was carried to the floor by weight of numbers. Still he fought gamely on.

13

The jeering soldiers started shouting and calling humorous advice again.

Blacktooth tried freezing them into silence with a stera glance, but they took

no notice of him this time.

Splitnose sniffed in disgust. "Discipline has gone to the wall since Lord

Verdauga's been sick,''

Fortunata the vixen waited nervously in the draughty antehall of Kotir. A low

fire cast its guttering light around the damp sandstone walls. Slimy green

algae and fungus grew between sodden banners as they slowly disintegrated into

threadbare tatters suspended from rusty iron holders. The vixen could not

suppress a shudder. Presently she was joined by two ferrets dressed in

cumbersome chain mail. Both bore shields emblazoned with the device of their

masters, a myriad of evil green eyes watching in all directions. The guards

pointed with their spears, indicating that the fox should follow them, and

Fortunata fell in step, marching off down the long dank hall. They halted in

front of two huge oaken doors, which swung open as the ferrets banged their

spearbutts against the floor. The vixen was confronted by a scene of ruined

grandeur.

Candles and torches scarcely illuminated the room; the crossbeams above were

practically lost in darkness. At one end there were three ornate chairs

occupied by two wildcats and a pine marten. Behind these stood a four-poster

bed, complete with tight-drawn curtains of musty green velvet, its footboard

carved with the same device as the shields of the guards.

The marten hobbled across and searched the satchel Fortunata carried. The

vixen shrank from contact with the badly disfigured creature. Ashleg the

marten had a wooden leg and his entire body was twisted on one side as if it

had been badly maimed. To disguise this, he wore an overiong red cloak trimmed

with woodpigeon feathers. With an expert flick, he turned the contents of the

satchel out onto the floor. It was the usual jumble of herbs, roots, leaves

and mosses carried by a healer fox.

Approaching the bed, Ashleg called out in an eerie singsong dirge, "O mighty

Verdauga, Lord of Mossflower, Master of the Thousand Eyes, Slayer of Enemies,

Ruler of Kotir—"

14

"Ah, give your whining tongue a rest, Ashleg. Is the fox here? Get these

suffocating curtains out of my way." The imperious voice from behind the

curtains sounded hoarse but full of snarling menace.

Tsarmina, the larger of the two seated wildcats, sprang forward, sweeping back

the dusty bedcurtains in a single move. "Fortunata's here. Don't exert

yourself, father."

The vixen slid to the bedside with practiced ease and examined her savage

patient. Verdauga of the Thousand Eyes had once been the mightiest warlord in

all the land . . . once. Now his muscle and sinew lay wasted under the tawny

fur that covered his big, tired body. The face was that of a wildcat who had

survived many battles: the pointed ears stood above a tracery of old scars

that ran from crown to whiskers. Fortunata looked at the fearsome yellowed

teeth, and the green barbarian eyes still alight with strange fires.

"My Lord looks better today, yes?"

"None the better for your worthless mumbo jumbo, fox."

The smaller of the two seated wildcats rose from his chair with an expression

of concern upon his gentle face. "Father, stay calm. Fortunata is trying hard

to get you well again."

Tsarmina pushed him aside scornfully. "Oh, shut up, Gin-givere, you

mealy-mouthed—"

"Tsarmina!" Verdauga pulled himself into a sitting position and pointed a claw

at his headstrong daughter. "Don't talk to your brother in that way, do you

hear me?"

The Lord of a Thousand Eyes turned wearily to his only son. "Gingivere, don't

let her bully you. Stand up to her, son."

Gingivere shrugged and stood by silently as Fortunata ground herbs with a

pestle, mixing diem with dark liquid in a horn beaker.

Verdauga eyed the vixen suspiciously. "No more leeches, fox. I won't have

those filthy slugs sucking my blood. I'd sooner have an enemy's sword cut me

than those foul things. What's that rubbish you're concocting?"

Fortunata smiled winningly. "Sire, this is a harmless potion made from the

herb motherwort. It will help you to sleep. Squire Gingivere, would you give

this to your father, please?"

As Gingivere administered the medicine to Verdauga, nei-

15

ther of them noticed the look of slyness or the wink that passed between

Fortunate and Tsarmina.

Verdauga settled back in bed and waited for the draught to take effect.

Suddenly the peace was broken by a loud commotion from outside. The double

doors burst open wide.

16

Ben Stickle nearly jumped out of his spikes as Gontf bounded out from behind a

snow-laden bush in the nighttime forest.

"Boo! Guess who? Hahaha, Ben* me old matey, you should have seen your face

just then. What are you doing trekking round here in the snow?"

Ben recovered himself quickly. "GonfF, I might have known! Listen, young