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