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Warm and dry inside the cave, Sawney Rath ate the remainder of a poached dace, which the Seer had caught to feed the otterbabe. Sawney watched the little creature with a fondness that was almost fatherly.

"Look at him, sleeping like a proper old riverdog. Did you see him tearing at the fish? Not much wrong with his appetite!"

Grissoul turned the babe's paw lightly, exposing the birthmark. "It is interesting that fortune chose an otterbeast to be Taggerung. An intriguing choice."

Sawney drew his knife. Holding it by the point, he placed the handle between the tiny paws. Deyna clasped it in his sleep. The Chieftain's fierce eyes turned to the vixen Seer.

"Aye, it's not usual, but otters grow big and tough, full of muscle and sinew. I'm sorry he wasn't a ferret like me, but an otter will serve the purpose just as well. We have to live by the prophecy and the omens. Thank your fortunes it wasn't a toad we found bearing the mark you foresaw!"

Grissoul agreed. "Aye, thank the fortunes!"

Sawney chuckled quietly, so as not to disturb his charge. "Look at him, holding the knife like a true assassin. This one will be a powerful force when he grows, mark my words."

Rain pattered on a canvas groundsheet that had been fixed to the riverbank side close to the cave. Beneath it Antigra lay nursing the babe she now had to call Gruven. Two other vermin shared the shelter, Wherrul the rat and Felch, the fox whose paw Sawney had crippled with his blade. Wherrul had his nose close to the fox's ear, complaining bitterly.

"It ain't right, cully. We've carried the tents from the scrublands to the ford, an' now we're carryin' them back the way we came. Where's the sense in it, if we ain't allowed to use them? Sittin' out 'ere in the rain under bits an' scraps o' canvas, while Sawney's got a dry cave, a fire an' good cooked vittles. My back's killin' me from bein' bent double all day, wipin' out tracks. It ain't right, I tell yer!"

Felch held up his injured paw, whispering a reply. "Lookit that. Me axe paw ruined for life. Sawney didn't even allow me t'stop an' bandage it. I 'ad to make do with a dollop of bankmud an' a dock leaf. All because I looked the wrong way at that otterbrat. Huh! Taggerung! I never 'eard of no otter becomin' a Taggerung. But I'll bide me time, Wherrul, wait'n'see. One day Sawney'll pay for what 'e did to me, I swear it!"

Hugging Gruven, Antigra closed her eyes, ignoring the whines and complaints of her companions. By listening hard she could hear Sawney and Grissoul's voices echoing from the cave. Sawney was speaking of the otterbabe's future.

"As he grows I'll teach him all I know; the use of the blade, the teeth, the claws. I'll teach him never to turn his back on an enemy, to be more tough and savage than anybeast. Vallug can instruct him in archery. Little Taggerungll be twice as fierce and fast as my father ever was. He's my lucky charm; since the time I found him my stomach hasn't troubled me."

Grissoul stared into the fire, trying to extract messages from the flame-shapes and the pattern of the ashes. "Aye, the fortunes of the Juskarath grow by the way. Thou did well to heed the omens, Sawney Rath. But the babe must be taught speed. Quickness of the paw is everything. Give him a short and fast name to remind him of this."

A thought caused Sawney's eyes to light up. "Tagg! That's what we'll call him. Tagg!"

Grissoul brought forth certain objects from her pouch. "Now is the time to speak the ancient words and confirm him. Cover thine eyes when I put my paws o'er the flames."

The Seer placed a hawk feather, a piece of flint and the gleaming skull of a small pike on the ground beside the otterbabe. Holding her clenched paw above the flames, she opened it suddenly. A blue flare rose from the fire for a brief moment, intense and bright, and Grissoul began to chant.

"Who can outrun the wind

Yet turn on a single leaf,

Stand silent as an amberfly

Or steal the breath from a thief?

The Taggerung!

Who can outswim a pike

Whose eyes are keen as the hawk's,

Who brings death in his wake

Yet leaves no mark where he walks?

Zann Juskarath Taggerung!"

Sawney watched as the Seer painted the clan sign on the sleeping infant's face. A black stripe flanked by red dots, with a small added lightning flash of blue on his left cheek, to denote that he was no ordinary creature. The little one slept through it all. Sawney lay down beside him, sharing the cloak. Grissoul had never seen the ferret Chieftain show tenderness toward any living thing, so she was astonished when Sawney spoke gently to the babe.

"Zann Juskarath Taggerung. My son Tagg!"

Outside, under the sheltering canvas, Antigra bit her lip until she tasted blood.

"Take the life of my mate, take the name from my son. I am strong, I can bear it. One day I will take it all back and add the title Taggerung to my son's name. I hope you are strong then, Sawney Rath; strong enough to face a slow and painful death along with your new son Tagg. It will happen, I swear it on the memory of my mate Gruven!"

Within the hour following dawn over Mossflower Wood, mist tendrils rose from the treetops. Heralding a fine warm day, the sun stood high in a sky as blue as a kingfisher's tail plumes. Skipper took his javelin from Broggle's paws. Ears and whiskers twitching, the big otter signaled by waving the weapon at the searchers nearby.

"Down, mateys. Lie still'n'quiet!"

Broggle dropped to the damp grass, his eyes wide. "Wh-what is it, S-S-Skip?"

The otter threw a paw about Broggle's shoulder. "Ssshhh, an' listen!"

It was the strangest of sounds, like three or four creatures all playing instruments, jangling but tuneful. It sounded even odder when a wobbly voice warbled along with the music in an off-key tenor.

As whatever it was drew nearer, Skipper and Broggle had to stifle giggles at the ridiculous song.

"Collop a lee collop a loo,

Oh what I wouldn't give to

Be eating a filthy great plate o' salad,

Instead of composing this beautiful ballad.

A collop a lollop a lee oh loo,

Life's hard without scoff 'tis true,

You can always eat a lettuce, but

A lettuce can't eat you. Oooooohhhhhhh

Collop a lee a loo!

Hey ho for the life of a fool,

I recall my mater's wise rule,

Eat at least ten meals a day,

Or else you'll waste away she'd say,

Poor dear Mater so old and grey,

And fat as two bales of hay, hey ho. Oooooohhhh

Father said to me, 'M'lad, you know,

She's goin' to explode one day ... I saaaaaaay.'

So both of us ran away. Hey!"

Crashing and stumbling through the undergrowth came a hare. On his head he wore what had been a three-pointed jester's cap, but only the top point with its bell remained. The sides had been cut away, and in their place the hare's ears formed the other two points, each with a small round bell attached to it. His outfit defied any accurate description; it was a flowing, trailing ragbag of harlequin silk, with bits catching on the bushes and tearing off as he toppled and staggered through the woodlands. The reason for his awkward gait was apparent: he was carrying a gigantic musical instrument. The thing had strings and levers, bells, small bugles, flutes and even a drum attached to it. He finally tripped and fell flat on his back. It did not seem to put him out a bit. He lay there, struggling with the instrument and still composing his ridiculous song.

"Oh the saddest sight on earth,

I'll tell you for what it's worth,

Is the sight of a chap with an empty turn,

Laid low in the grass without a chum,

A jolly pal, who'd stay close by,

An' feed a poor fellow some apple pie,

Or perchance a slice of onion pastie ..."

He stopped and gazed up at the faces of Skipper's crew surrounding him. "I say, what rhymes with pastie?"

Broggle offered a suggestion without thinking. "Fastie?"

The hare looked thoughtful. "D'you think so? Let's give it a try. Or perchance a slice of onion pastie, with which to break my morning fastie.. . hmm. Many thanks, old scout, but it'll need a bit of workin' on, wot!"