“Blackie, no. I didn’t mean it!”

The ferret tottered unsteadily into the water, lifted the spear to throw and fell dead into the shallows.

Splitnose kept backing off as if in a daze. “I didn’t mean to, Blackie. Honest. You can have half the c—”

Suddenly he was gone! All that remained was Blacktooth the ferret, face down in the shallows of the swirling stream.

The three friends had fallen over. They lay, bound, gazing at the water where Splitnose had been a moment before.

“Pitholes, matey, full of bottom mud.” Gonff explained. “We’ll have to remember that when we cross.”

Dinny wriggled. “Us’ll ’ave to set about thinken ’ow to free usselfs.”

Martin wrenched round to face Gonff. “Any ideas?”

The mousethief smiled in the darkness. “Stay still. I can reach my dagger. Didn’t I ever tell you, matey, I’m a prince of escapers.”

Martin felt the blade sawing at their bonds. “Aye, I seem to remember you saying something of the sort in the cells at Kotir, matey.”

The ropes fell away under Gonff’s keen blade. He stood upright.

“I was right that time too, if you remember,” Gonff pointed out.

Dinny straightened up. “Hurr, tho’ you’m ’ate to boast about et.”

They took stock of the damage. Martin threw a trampled cheese to one side.

“Huh, they’ve ruined our supplies,” he said with disgust. “Most of the food rolled into the water with them. Look, even the fish fell in the fire.” He held up a smoking relic.

Gonff pushed Blacktooth’s carcass into the fast-flowing water. “It could’ve been worse, matey. At least we’re alive.”

Dinny blew on the embers, adding dry reeds and wood. “Ho aye, Marthen. Us’ll make out awright, ’ee’ll see.”

Fortunata followed a trail that led to a dead end. Some creature had skilfully covered most traces, but the vixen knew that there had been woodlanders here. The camouflagers had not been entirely successful in covering everything; there was still scent and the odd broken twig. She scratched about in the undergrowth, trying to reveal further clues.

“Lost something?”

The vixen was startled by the voice. She whirled around, attempting to discover its owner. All she saw was the silent woodland. Quite suddenly there was another fox standing alongside her.

“I said, have you lost something?” he repeated.

Fortunata weighed up the newcomer carefully. He was an old fox, patched gray and dusty brown, slim built and slightly stooped. But it was the eyes that caused her to shudder—weird, flat, shifting eyes. This was the most evil-looking of her species that the vixen had ever encountered.

“No, it’s not something I’ve lost,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned. “Actually, I was merely passing through here.”

“Aye, me too. Maybe we can help each other,” the old fox suggested.

“Yes, maybe we can. My name is Besomtail, the wandering healer, what are you called?” Fortunata asked.

“I’m Patchcoat. I come from far away to the east,” he replied.