Ashleg’s face was a mask of frozen agony. The claws dug deeply in him, blood was staining his cloak.

Suddenly Tsarmina released him and scrubbed furiously at herself with the cloak she was wearing.

“Uuuuuhhhh, deep, cold, slimy, dark water,” she muttered incoherently.

Ashleg backed quietly out of the chamber. The wildcat was oblivious to his departure; she was battling the watery torrents in her imagination.

As the pine marten hobbled swiftly down the stairs, his Queen’s ravings echoed about the spiral stairwell.

“Stay away! Stay away! You won’t get me. I won’t come near the water.”

Ashleg’s mind was made up: he could not stop a moment longer. Tsarmina was a mad Queen. Kotir was a place of danger to those who stayed there.

* * *

The late afternoon sun poured down over the ramparts of Kotir. Silence made it frightening to the departing Ashleg; the large areas of dark shadow and sunlit stillness unnerved him. He had cast aside the plumed scarlet cape, exchanging it for a dull brown homespun cloak. Hurrying across the deserted parade ground, Ashleg slipped through the gates and began walking south—away from Tsarmina, Mossflower and dreams of ambitious conquest. Maybe there was somewhere under a different sky where he could find a new way of life; maybe somewhere there were friends waiting who knew how to live simply, without delusions of grandeur.

* * *

Perched in his high spruce, Argulor opened one eye. Never too proud to scavenge, the eagle had satisfied his hunger with the results of the confrontation at the river. Argulor’s eye closed again lazily. Feeling full and tired, he slept on in the mistaken hope that everything comes to him who waits.

Ashleg had flown the coop; that is, if a pine marten with a wooden leg does ever fly.

* * *

Dinny counted himself lucky. He had found the woven rush net that had carried them to Screamhole. Securing one end to a tree root, he pushed the remainder over the edge of the pit.

“Yurr below, grab’n ’old of ’ee net, Marthen.”

Unfortunately the net fell short of the travelers’ grasp.

From above, the mole’s voice was calling urgently, “Burr, ’asten now. Oi ’ears they toadbags a-cummen.”

Gonff jumped up and down with frustration. “Think of something quick, mateys!”

Snakefish poked his massive head up. “Sit on my head. I think I can reach it!”

“What? Not likely!” Log-a-Log backed into the cave.

“Urry, they’m nearly yurr!” Dinny called.

Sitting at the edge of the cave, Martin placed his paws on the huge reptilian head and braced himself against the skull ridge beneath the smooth skin.

“Push me up, Snakefish!”

The great eel thrust upward, slid back slightly, then with a colossal effort reared out of the water and shot up like a bolt. Martin grasped the net, keeping his purchase on the eel’s head.

“Quick, bite!”

Snakefish’s teeth clamped onto the bottom of the net. He hung there a moment, then began bunching his coils, the rough underskin finding contact with the fibers as he weaved his sinuous body into the meshes of the net.