Gonff caught up with Martin. “I don’t like the look of those two. Has that snake got adder markings?”

Martin’s warrior nature rose. Tightening his grip on the rope with one paw, he unslung the broken sword from around his neck.

“Looks a bit skinny and undersized to be a true adder, Gonff,” he reassured his friend. “I’m pretty certain that the other one is only some kind of newt. Leave it to me. We’ll soon find out.”

It was now apparent to the ford guardians that the travelers were coming across.

“What’ve you got for us?” the lizard asked, his voice harsh and aggressive. “Come on, move yourselves. Up on the bank here, and empty those packs out. Quick, now!”

Martin’s face was grim. “Listen, you two. You don’t frighten us. We’re travelers and we aren’t carrying anything of value, but we’ll fight if we have to, so you’d better stand clear.”

The snake lowered his head onto the rope, glaring wickedly at them. “Hsss, fools, one bite from my fangs means death. If you have no valuables, then go back and get something to pay our toll with.”

Martin yanked down on the taut rope, letting it go with a twang. The line sprang upward, vibrating. The snake was hammered on the lower jaw several times before he was tossed flat on the bank. “How’s that for starters, worm,” Gonff laughed. “Stand up straight, and I’ll give you a taste of my dagger when I get ashore. Come on, Din.”

The mole waved a hefty digging paw. “Oi’ll make knots in ’ee, then oi’ll teach yon glizzard sum manners.”

The three friends bounded up on the bank, dripping but determined. Martin advanced, wielding his broken sword; Gonff drew his dagger as he and Dinny spread in a pincer movement; the mole whirled a pack loaded with plants and roots.

As they closed for combat, the snake flicked his coils at Martin. “Hsss, you’ll leave your bones on this bank, mouse!”

Fortunata was becoming irate with her traveling partner. “By the fang, Patchcoat, I’m certain we’ve passed this same yew thicket three times today. What are you playing at, in the name of foxes?”

Patchcoat whirled upon the vixen, pulling out a long rusty knife. “Are you calling me a liar, Besomtail? Think I don’t know where I’m going?”

The vixen backed off, licking dry, nervous lips. “Of course not, friend. I’m sorry, this forest looks all the same to me. I’m a healer, not a pathfinder, you know.”

Patchcoat grunted, as he sheathed his knife. “Huh, I’m no trailmaster myself. I’m a mercenary by trade. I’d swap a good barracks for this lot any day. Never mind, not far to go now.”

Fortunata pushed aside an overhanging branch. “A mercenary, eh? Soldier for hire. Well, you do right by me and I might be able to find you a good barracks. I could have you made into a Captain.”