"Aye, that's a fox for ye, always one jump ahead of a grasshopper! The villain knew we'd follow t' get our boat back, so he's sidetracked off down herethough I suspect he doesn't know where he's goin' to. This isn't the way to the sea."
"Whurr do et lead to, zurr Affaloh?" Arula peered up the dim overgrown waterway.
Alfoh scratched his chin. "Only one place it can lead to, Arula: the Great Lake."
It was like paddling through a long green tunnel. The water reflected the trees overhead as they crowded low, and the mossy banks, and everywhere was green. Samkim looked at the faces around him, tinged by the green light. Apart from
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the muted sound of paddles, they were in a cocoon of verdant silence. Spriggat paddled and snacked upon various winged denizens of the hidden waterway, lifting his eyes as the splash of water on the leaves above announced the arrival of the rain. They ate as they went, passing back oatcakes and small fruit scones preserved in honey and flower syrup.
Arula took gulps of cooling lilac and rosewater from a hollow gourd and passed it to Spriggat. "Yurr, wash'ee flies down, zurr."
All along the waterway there were signs that the fox had passed in the stolen boatbroken branches, bruised plants and scrapes in the mossed banks. The wind increased overhead, howling a dirge through the treetops. The banks started to rise higher and the watercourse flowed faster as it took a downward slope.
Suddenly Alfoh pointed ahead to the stern of a logboat vanishing round a bend. "There they are! Dig those paddles deep. We've got "em!"
Dethbrush heard the shout. Looking over his shoulder, he called to the five tracker rats, "Paddle for your lives! It's those shrews!"
Other side streams, swollen by the rain, began gushing into the watercourse, and the stolen boat picked up speed, zinging along on its downhill course to the inland lake. Behind it the three logboats raced to catch up.
Dethbrush's boat tipped dangerously and took off into the waters of the Great Lake with a loud splash. It was followed soon after by the Guosssom boats. Now all four were in the open waters. The howling northeast wind whipped the surface into foaming gray waves driven along in a wild slanting downpour of battering rain. Samkim wiped rainwater from his eyes, shielding them with a paw as he tried to keep his sight focused on the boat ahead. The storm drove it powerfully over the wave-crested waters. Up and down bobbed the prow of Samkim's boat, driving deep into the troughs and being lifted high upon the crests. The crew pulled with might and main,
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until Samkim could see the back of the fox drawing closer.
"We've got 'em, lads. Dig those paddles deep!" With a shrew rapier in his paw, the young squirrel stood balancing as far out on the prow as he could go. "Paddle! Paddle, you water-wallopers!''
Within a third of a boatlength Samkim braced himself and took off with a mighty leap. Hurtling across the water with the waves almost hitting his paws, he sprang across the gap between the two boats to land scrambling for balance on the stem of the fox's boat. A rat raised a paddle at him, but Samkim ducked and thrust in one movement, taking the tracker through his midriff.
Dethbrush turned, brandishing the sword of Martin the Warrior. He advanced on Samkim, calling above the storm, "Come on, I'll carve your gizzard to doll rags! 'S death for you, young un!"
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Ferahgo lay stretched upon the rock. An old cloak that belonged to him had been soaked in seawater by Sickear and thrown over him to heal his scalded back. He sprawled flat on his stomach, feigning sleep, watching the shoreline through half-open eyes. The Assassin was expecting an attempt upon his life, whether from Klitch or some other source he knew not, but he was certain of one thing: injured leaders were a good target for the rebellious. When his penetrating stare caught the telltale movements far out among the rocks of the shore, he called Sickea? to him.
The rat was weary after nursing Ferahgo all day; he lolloped across and threw a desultory salute. "Yes, Master? Can I be of service?"
Ferahgo rose slowly, shaking his head. "No, Sickear, you've done enough for one day. You look tired."
Expecting a reprimand, the rat came to attention. "No, Master, I'm fresh as a daisy. It's my duty to get you well."
The Assassin ruffled the rat's ears good-naturedly. "And a splendid job you've done of it, Sickear. My own mother couldn't have nursed me better. Listen, I'm just going to see what that son of mine is up to. You can have the rest of the night off. Come here, lie down on this rock. It's flat and
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smooth. Come on now, I won't take no for an answer."
The rat complied somewhat hesitantly, but Ferahgo was right, the rock was cool and smooth. He stretched out on it and yawned. "Thank you, Master."
"Oh, it's the least I could do." Ferahgo's blue eyes smiled lovingly. "Here, lei me cover you with this cloak. You wouldn't believe how soft and soothing a drop of your sear water has made it. There, how does that feel?"
Sickear relaxed. "Mmmm, it feels really good, Master." Ferahgo ducked down and stole off into the rocks. Within moments Sickear was slumbering peacefully, the damp cloak protecting him from the early night breezes that drifted about the darkened shoreline.
Forgrin had sharpened an edge and point upon his sword all afternoon, and Raptail had driven a sharp spike through the top of a wooden cudgel. They crept slowly across the rocks toward the still draped figure lying on the flat stone near the tideline. Of the two, Forgrin was the bolder. He popped up from behind the rocks and bobbed down again.
"See, Rap, not a sentry in sight. I told yer, young Klitch 'as taken charge of the rest. This'll be a piece of pie. You'll see!"
Raptail nodded at the fox and brandished his c!ub. "Listen, mate, I'm scared, I don't mind tellin' yer. Suppose Ferahgo wakes up?"
Forgrin pawed the blade of his sword, grinning at the rat. "I've sent many a beast to sleep wi' this liddle beauty. None of them ever woke up. Come on, let's git it done afore yer nerve runs out altogether!"
Not even daring to breathe, they stole up on the supine figure.
Forgrin felt confident. Standing over the cloak-draped creature, he could not resist a quiet snigger. "Weasel yer way outta this one, weasel!"
He drove the sword downward with both paws. The cloaked figure gave a gasp and went rigid. Raptail thudded
two solid blows of his club to the covered head and leapt back.
"Is 'e dead, mate? Stick 'im agin ter make sure!"
"Oh, he's quite dead. There's no need to stick him any more."
The voice was unmistakably that of Ferahgo.
Raptail died with a faint moan as Ferahgo dispatched him with his skinning knife, almost carelessly in passing. Not even bothering to glance at the fallen rat, the Assassin turned to the fox. Forgrin was shaking uncontrollably. The blue eyes looked almost jolly as they smiled through the night at him.
"See, we've killed a rat apiece. You murdered Sickear and I slew Raptail. Now what happens, do you kill a weasel, or do I kill a fox?"
Terror had robbed Forgrin of his power of speech. A gur-gling noise escaped his throat as he turned and ran along the beach.