“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 got rid of his band he must be near the end of the journey. Though where that is, your guess is as good as mine.”

Matthias stood between the two tall rocks. He drew out the parchment. “I hope this will take some of the guesswork out of it, friend.”

He indicated the space between the badger and bell rocks. “This is where we are now. Let me see, the poem says:

‘See the badger and the bell,

Face the lord who points the way

After noon on summer’s day.

Death will open up its grave.

Who goes there . . . ? None but the brave.’

Jabez squatted beside the bell rock. “Not long to go till afternoon. We’ll rest here. Where’s this lord who’s supposed to be pointing the way?”

They gazed out at the country. It was mainly grassy hills dotted with scrub and groves of trees. In the late summer morning there was no indication of mystery, death or doom. It all looked fairly plain and harmless.

Orlando shook his head. “Well, whoever the lord is, he’s not come out to show us anything yet. I’d best give a shout. He may be taking a nap.”

The badger cupped his paws to his mouth and roared until the valley echoed:

“Hi, there! Are you listening, Lord? This is Orlando of the Axe from the Western Plains. Come out and show us the way!”

The echoes died on the summer air.

“No, no, you’re doin’ it all the wrong way, old stripetop,” Basil chaffed Orlando. “Here, let a chap with a touch of breedin’ have a jolly try.”

Basil stood beyond the rocks. Throwing his head back, he yodelled out in a wobbly tenor.

“Hullo, there! I say, Lord old fellah, it’s Basil, one of the Mossflower Stag Hares, doncha know. Listen, why don’t you toddle out an’ point the way to me and my pals? Super wheeze, wot?”

The only sound that could be heard in reply was Orlando sniggering.

Matthias offered Basil a shrewcake, and he wandered off eating and chuntering to himself, “Confounded bad form, you’d think the rotter’d have the manners to answer a chap!”