* * *

A fraction before both sides joined in combat there was a deep gruff shout from the reeds. “Whoooaaahhh, gerroutofit!”

A small, ferocious shrew, armed with a heavy hornbeam club, hurled himself roaring onto Deathcoil and Whipscale. He belabored them mercilessly with swift hard blows.

“What’ve I told you two filthy reptiles?” he shouted. “Gerroff my bank. Here, take this with you, and this, and this too!”

The snake and the lizard were thrashed into the stream.

“Ouch, ow, no, please, owoo, ooff!” they cried.

The bad-tempered shrew slammed his club down hard on Whipscale’s tail. It flew off into the air, and he batted it into midstream with an expert flick.

In the water, a pattern of dirt floated away from Deathcoil, showing that under the dark bruises he was only a common grass snake.

The shrew turned to Martin and his friends, gesturing toward the unlucky pair in the stream. “See, a grass snake and a newt. Pair of nuisances, I’ve warned ’em before about threatening honest travelers. Go on, clear off you snotty vermin. Just let me catch you around here again, and I’ll make you eat each other’s tails!”

The snake and the newt were carried off by the current, hissing dire threats now they were out of reach of the shrew and his club. “You wait, you’ll pay for this, you haven’t seen the last of us.”

A well-aimed stone from Gonff’s sling bounced off the snake’s head; another from Martin stung the newt’s severed tail stump.

The shrew nodded approvingly. “Slingmice, eh? Good shots. This club’s my weapon. They won’t be back for another dose of this.”

Martin smiled. He liked the shrew’s truculent manner.

“Thank you, sir,” he said warmly. “I am Martin the Warrior. This is Gonff the thief, and this Young Dinny, our mole friend. We are travelers, as you see, bound on a quest to Salamandastron.”

The shrew shouldered his club. “Sala what? Oh, you mean that big place t’other side of the mountains. Well, I’m called Log-a-Log Big Club. I own the ferry round here. You should have given me a shout, like this.”

Log-a-Log cupped his paws around his mouth, bellowing out in a deep voice which echoed off the mountains.

“Logalogalogalogalog!”

Gonff put his sling away. “We would have if we’d known, matey. Do you live around here?”

Log-a-Log parted the reeds, revealing a cave hewn into the bank. “Aye. I live alone. I expect you’re hungry; travelers always are. Come inside. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Inside the cave was a nest of untidy odds and ends. Fishing nets draped the walls, a fire smoldered in one corner, many tools lay all about a large, skilfully made boat that dominated the living area. An old black water beetle sat by the fire.

The travelers found seats amid the jumble, and Log-a-Log served them steaming bowls of freshwater shrimp soup with arrowhead bread and spring radishes. He sat stroking the beetle’s back.

“I call this fellow Grubwhacker. He lives nearby, comes in and out of here for his food, just like a pet. That there is my boat. It’s about finished. I was going to try it soon in the stream.”