Ben rubbed his eyes tiredly. “A hero, eh. Funny you should say that. I thought I saw just such a one earlier tonight. Ah, but he’s probably dead or in the dungeons by now. Let’s get some sleep. I’m bone weary.”

The little hut was an island of warmth and safety in the night, as the howling north wind drove snowflakes before it, whining and keening around the gaunt trees of winter-stricken Mossflower.

Struggling wildly between two stoats, the captive mouse was dragged into the bedchamber. He was secured by a long rope, which the guards tried to keep taut as he dodged and jumped, scratched and bit, first letting the rope go slack, then dashing forward so the two guards were pulled together; as they collided he leaped upon them, biting and kicking despite the rope that pinned his paws to his sides. A ferret guard from the door came running in to help. Between the three of them they managed to pin the warlike mouse upon the floor. They lay on top of him, trying to avoid the butting head and nipping teeth. The mouse was breathing heavily, his eyes flashing reckless defiance at his captors.

Verdauga sat up straight, sleep forgotten as he questioned the two stoats. “Make your report. What have we got here?”

One of the stoats freed his paw and threw a quick salute. “Lord, this one was caught within the bounds of your lands. He is a stranger, and goes armed.”

A weasel marched in and placed the traveler’s ancient rusty sword at the foot of the bed.

Verdauga looked from under hooded lids at the sword and the sturdy young mouse upon the floor. “It is against my law to carry arms or to trespass upon my domain.”

The mouse struggled against his captors, shouting out in a loud, angry voice, “I didn’t know it was your land, cat. Tell your guards to take their claws off and release me. You have no right to imprison a freeborn creature.”

Verdauga could not help but admire the obvious courage of the prisoner. He was about to speak, when Tsarmina grasped the battered sword and stood over the captive with the point at his throat. “You insolent scum! Quick now, what is your name? Where did you steal this rusty relic?”

As the guards pinned the struggling mouse down, his voice shook with fury. “My name is Martin the Warrior. That sword was once my father’s, now it is mine. I come and go as I please, cat. Is this the welcome you show travelers?”

Tsarmina forced Martin’s head back with the sword-point. “For a mouse, you have far too much to say to your betters,” she said contemptuously. “You are in Mossflower country now; all the land you can see on a clear day’s march belongs to us by right of conquest. My father’s law says that none are allowed to go armed save his soldiers. The penalty for those who break the law is death.”