“Ha, you could do with some proper fighters, Queen. Especially if that oaf and Fortunata are a specimen of what you keep around here.”

Tsarmina showed her great fangs in an approving smile. “Well, at last a real warrior. Welcome to Kotir, Patchcoat. I’m sure you’ll do well here. Cludd, get up off the floor and give this fox your Captain’s cloak to wear. From now on you’ll take orders from him.”

Sullenly Cludd undid his cloak, flinging it to Mask.

Ashleg stumped in with a band of soldiers. He threw a healer’s bag upon the floor.

“We tried tracking those woodlanders, Milady,” he reported sadly. “But they’re well away. I found Fortunata east of here, full of arrows. Her body is out on the parade ground.”

“Dead?”

“As a doornail, Milady.”

“Then what do I want with a slain fox?” Tsarmina asked impatiently. “Throw it out in the woods for the eagle.”

Tsarmina started back up the staircase. “Patchcoat, I’ll be up in my chamber. Come up later. I’m sure we have plenty to discuss together.”

Mask fastened on the cloak of Captaincy. “Aye, later, Milady. First I want to inspect these cells Fortunata told me about. Maybe I can discover how two young hedgehogs escaped from them so easily.”

Tsarmina climbed the stairs pensively. This strange fox was certainly a lucky find.

Time stood still. Martin imagined he was back under the river in Mossflower being towed along by an otter. Everything was pitch-black and ice-cold. A million thoughts rushed through his brain, bringing memories flooding back: his father leaving to fight the sea rats . . . Tsarmina snarling at him . . . the kind face of Bella at Brockhall . . . Dinny chuckling as he wrestled with Gonff . . . Everything whirled together into one great maelstrom of crashing water, then there was silence.

Martin felt mossy ground against his wet back.

“Not dead, bring medicine, medicine,” a sibilant voice was saying somewhere close.

The warrior mouse felt some vile-tasting liquid being poured between his lips. He opened his eyes.

He was lying on a broad ledge, which was covered in velvety moss. Soft light cast flickering luminous water patterns around the rock face. A mouse was standing over him, another crouched nearby. Martin took a second look. Surely these creatures could not be mice? They had very little fur, black leathery skin and, oddest of all, wings!

The one nearest pushed the bowl toward Martin with a black claw.

Martin smelt the putrid medicine and pushed it away. “No more, thank you. I’m all right now. Where am I? Who are you?”

“Lie still, lie still. We are the tribe of Lord Cayvear who is ruler of Bat Mountpit. You will not be harmed, not be harmed,” the creature assured him.

Martin sat up, he felt wet but unhurt. “My name is Martin the Warrior. There were three others with me—a shrew, a mouse and a mole. Where are they? Have they been rescued from the water?”