Browntooth ran slapbang into Threeclaws. The weasel held the tender end of his smarting nose as he glared at the stoat, who sat on the ground rubbing his head. “On your paws, clumsyclod. Get searching, hurry!”

“Oh, er, righto. Which prisoners are we searching for?”

Scringe had been checking the slave lines. He grinned wickedly. “That Redwall lot, the female badger and the young hedgehog. Hoho, I wouldn’t like to be in your fur when Slagar gets back.”

“Oh no, not the Redwallers.” Halftail groaned. “Slagar’ll have our guts for garters if that lot have gone missing, ’specially you, matey. You’re supposed to be in charge.”

Threeclaws held his throbbing nose indignantly. “Who, me? Not the way I heard it, bucko. You’re the one who always wants to be boss when he’s away.”

Vitch ran about waving his paws. “Oh, stop arguing, you blockheads. Let’s find them, or he’ll flay the lot of us alive.”

Scringe stuck out his paw and tripped Vitch neatly. “Watch who you’re calling blockhead, dribblenose. I can see I’ll have to take charge here after the mess you lot have made. Wedgeback, Badrag, go back the way we came. No need to go further than that big hill. Slagar would have spotted them if they’d got that far. Halftail, Damper, search up ahead. The rest of you look around here, under rocks, behind bushes, anywhere they might be hiding. Vitch, Browntooth, into the water and search that river!”

Vitch stood his ground defiantly. “Huh, who are you to be giving orders? I’m not going into any rotten old river. Who can tell how deep it is? Besides, it’s nearly dark and there might be a pike in there or something. Ouch!”

Threeclaws stood brandishing the willow cane he had laid across Vitch’s back. “Do as he says. Get in that river, snivelwhiskers, and you, Browntooth, or I’ll tie you in a sack with rocks and toss you in there myself.”

With a fine show of moody bad temper, Vitch began lowering himself gingerly into the water, followed by a resigned Browntooth.

“Yah! I suppose we’ll have to do it if the rest of you are too scared to get your paws wet.” The undersized rat muttered aloud.

Scringe grabbed a passing weasel. “Scared? Who’s scared? Me and Skinpaw will search downstream, you and Browntooth look upstream, and we’ll show you just who’s scared, won’t we, mate?”

Skinpaw looked decidedly unhappy but tried to put a bold face on. “Ha, we certainly will. . . . You go first, Scringey.”

*   *   *

Underneath the rock ledge upstream, Tim Churchmouse heard every word. He turned to Mattimeo. “What are we going to do, they’re searching the river?”

Tess plucked a hollow reed and bit the end off it. “Look, remember we lay under the Abbey pond breathing through reeds like this last summer when Constance was looking for us?”