Skipper and Amber had coordinated their firepower. After the otters loosed stone and javelin, the squirrels shot their arrows, each giving the other a chance to reload, while keeping up continuous fire.

“Slings away!”

“Archers, fire!”

Brush and Birch were two big competent squirrels. Following Lady Amber’s directions, they swung off toward Kotir’s furthest side, carrying as many ration packs between them as possible. Chibb flew with them. All three were silent, and unseen by those in the fray below.

* * *

Cludd’s bellow urged the soldiers forward. “Come on, you lot. Stir your stumps, you laggards. Keep pushing on. We’ll have ’em soon. You can have an otter apiece shortly.”

A stoat winced as a rock bounced off his spearshaft, sending shocks of pain through his claws. “Huh, I’ll have a mouse or a wounded hedgehog, mate. Let Cludd and the Queen tackle those big otters.”

His companion, a weasel, nodded agreement. “Aye, let them have the glory. We’ll be satisfied with the pickings.”

Seconds later he was silenced by an arrow.

* * *

Lady Amber was beginning to get worried. She called down to Skipper, “We’re almost out of arrows up here, Skip. There’s too many of ’em. We can’t stop their advance; it looks as if we’ve had it.”

Skipper’s tongue was lolling as he tore off two large rocks from his sling.

“There’s nothing for it, marm. We’ll just have to see how many of ’em we can take with us.”

Early morning was enveloped in white mist. It clung to tree and bush like a gossamer shawl, sparkling with dewdrops in the promise of a hot sunny day ahead.

Eager to be on their way, the three friends broke fast as they traveled. Martin unpacked scones for them, Gonff doled out a russet apple apiece, and Dinny vanished into the mist, reappearing with a canteen of fresh spring water.

Limbs loosened as the night stiffness receded. They stepped out at a brisk pace to Gonff’s latest marching chant.

Sala-manda-stron, look out here we come,
A thief, a warrior and a mole.
Though the quest may take its toll,
We’ll march until we reach our goal,
Sala-manda-stron.

The flood of morning sun penetrated the mists, melting them into a yellowy haze. Martin and Gonff struggled to keep straight faces, listening to Dinny chanting the marching verse in mole tongue.

“Salad-anna-sconn, lookit yurr ’ee come.”

Still in fine fettle, they reached the outskirts of Mossflower Woods. Pushing on through the fringes, they found themselves facing a brown dirt road, which curved and bent like a snake. Beyond it lay the far dim expanses of the flatlands shimmering in the heat. Between the path and the flatlands was a deep ditch, though because of the dry weather it contained only the merest trickle of water.

The companions kept silent, remembering that Scratch and his aides might well be somewhere nearby.

Gonff went back to the woods and returned with a long stout branch. Taking his knife, the mousethief trimmed off the twigs.