“Spare me your lies, fox.” Amber’s voice was flat and harsh. “You have lived the life of a traitor and earned the reward of treachery. Tell your deceitful tales to whoever meets you at the gates of Dark Forest.”

Amber’s tail flicked upright like a banner.

Ten arrows flew straight and true!

* * *

O for the life of a sailormouse,
It’s better than Kotir gaol,
A rest for the weary traveling paws,
With the wind to drive our sail.
There’s a shrew for skipper
Two mice for mates,
And a mole for a cabin boy.
When we sight Salamandastron,
We’ll shout out loud, Ahoy!

Midafternoon on the waters of the Great South Stream saw the friends learning to handle the boat that Log-a-Log had named Waterwing. Martin was taking a turn at the tiller under the shrew’s guiding paw, while Gonff charged about playfully trying to air his new-found nautical knowledge.

“Keep her downwind, me lads. Steady at the tiller there. Watch your larboard side, Cap’n Log-a-Log. Bring the helm a point to starboard. Steady as she goes!”

Dinny was definitely not cut out for a sailor’s life. The young mole lay amidships clutching his stomach.

“Burr oo, ’ush ’ee, Gonffen. This yurr pore mole be a-dyen. Yurr, c’n oi goo ashore an’ walk apiece, ’twould stopp ’ee wurld goen round.”

Log-a-Log produced some herbs for Dinny to chew upon. After a while he felt better, but he kept up a steady stream of comments.

“Oi’d as soon be a gurt burdbag flyen in ’ee sky than sailen on this yurr streamer.”

Martin watched the stream carefully. The mountains towered right over them now, blocking out the sky ahead.

“Log-a-Log, have you noticed the current? It’s very swift here and getting heavier. We’re moving along a bit too fast for my liking.”

“Aye, I’ve noticed the stream is starting to take a steep downward course, Martin.” The shrew looked worried yet spoke calmly. “Here, Gonff. Let’s see you take the sail in and drop the mast. Better lend a paw, Martin and Dinny. I’ll take the tiller.”

As they worked, the water began to get very choppy. Crested foamheads began appearing around rocks which stuck up like jagged teeth in the swirling flow. Log-a-Log was stretched to his limit holding the tiller and maneuvering Waterwing. The little craft began to buck and tilt; water was splashing in heavily over the forward end.

“Leave the mast.” The shrew’s voice boomed out above the roar of water. “As long as the sail’s down, bale her out before we’re swamped. Hurry!”

Waterwing leaped about like a frenzied salmon. The thunder of the stream rose, echoing from the mouth of a dark tunnel forming overhead. Hanging bushes and vegetation clawed at the small crew, while rocks pounded dangerously at the sides of the boat. Without warning, they were swept deep into the tunnel. The stream became a waterfall.

In a mad torrent of boiling white water they were hurled over the brink of the chasm. Waterwing hung for a second in space, then plunged into the abyss. The mast struck the mountainside. It snapped with a resounding crack and came crashing down onto them.