It was the newt and the grass snake, Whipscale and Deathcoil. The unsavory pair saw they were noticed and grinned wickedly.

“D’you fancy standing on my tail again, shrew?”

“Oho, you three are in for it now.”

Dinny shook the net. “Goo boil yurr ’eads, sloibeasts.”

Deathcoil stood almost on the tip of his tail. “Not until we’ve seen you thrown into the Screamhole with the Snakefish.”

Before they had a chance to find out what Deathcoil was talking about, the trio were dragged along in the net once more. The journey was not so long this time; it was far speedier because the net was hauled by many more toads.

* * *

They halted at what appeared to be an overgrown well. Its large circular bore disappeared deep into the earth. Thick ferns drooped about the edges, growing down into the pit.

Marshgreen came waddling up with the snake and the newt. They were flanked by toads carrying firefly lanterns on their trident forks.

“Krrpook! Snakefish feedwell, Marshgreen bringyou furmouse,” the toad ruler called down the dark wellhole.

A toad presented Marshgreen with an elaborately carved trident. He jabbed it ceremoniously at the captives in the net, then jabbed it three times toward the well. The assembled toads flattened themselves against the ground, chanting, “Snakefish mightyone, stayin Screamhole, eatup furmouse, leavealone Dampwatch!”

Martin and his friends lay apprehensively listening as the chant grew louder. Suddenly it stopped. The toads holding the net spilled it open, tugging it backward vigorously.

Martin, Dinny and Log-a-Log were shot forward through the tracery of overhanging ferns. Deep into the Screamhole.

* * *

Tsarmina had detailed her archers to scatter volleys into the trees and brush in case of concealed woodlanders. They fired off a desultory salvo, then all else was forgotten as they broke off to watch the battle between Skipper and Cludd at the water’s edge.

* * *

Jaws locked, the combatants rolled over and over. Loam and sand flew in all directions as they bit, grappled and kicked, raking each other with heavy claws. The very ground shook at their wildness. Fur hung on the dawn air. Blood spattered into the river.

It was not too long before Cludd realized he was outmatched by the power and fury of Skipper; now he was fighting for his life. The weasel tried to pull free from the maddened otter, but to no avail. His breath sobbed raggedly in his throat as he strained to reach the spear he had dropped in the first charge.

Skipper, aware of what Cludd was up to, squirmed over, rolling him in the opposite direction to the weapon. Suddenly Cludd grabbed a pawful of sand and ground it into his opponent’s eyes. Temporarily blinded, Skipper furiously tried to clear his vision, unwittingly freeing Cludd. Seizing his chance, Cludd bounded up and snatched the spear. With a savage scream he charged at his floored adversary, leveling the point at Skipper’s unprotected neck.

Through a sandy haze, Skipper saw the weasel coming. He rolled to one side. As he did, his paw came in contact with the Captain’s cloak he had shed upon the bank. Sweeping it up and over in one continuous movement, the otter netted Cludd, head and haunches. Falling over backward, Skipper felt the breeze of the spearpoint pass his ear.