Approaching the bed, Ashleg called out in an eerie singsong dirge, “O mighty Verdauga, Lord of Mossflower, Master of the Thousand Eyes, Slayer of Enemies, Ruler of Kotir—”

“Ah, give your whining tongue a rest, Ashleg. Is the fox here? Get these suffocating curtains out of my way.” The imperious voice from behind the curtains sounded hoarse but full of snarling menace.

Tsarmina, the larger of the two seated wildcats, sprang forward, sweeping back the dusty bedcurtains in a single move. “Fortunata’s here. Don’t exert yourself, father.”

The vixen slid to the bedside with practiced ease and examined her savage patient. Verdauga of the Thousand Eyes had once been the mightiest warlord in all the land . . . once. Now his muscle and sinew lay wasted under the tawny fur that covered his big, tired body. The face was that of a wildcat who had survived many battles: the pointed ears stood above a tracery of old scars that ran from crown to whiskers. Fortunata looked at the fearsome yellowed teeth, and the green barbarian eyes still alight with strange fires.

“My Lord looks better today, yes?”

“None the better for your worthless mumbo jumbo, fox.”

The smaller of the two seated wildcats rose from his chair with an expression of concern upon his gentle face. “Father, stay calm. Fortunata is trying hard to get you well again.”

Tsarmina pushed him aside scornfully. “Oh, shut up, Gingivere, you mealy-mouthed—”

“Tsarmina!” Verdauga pulled himself into a sitting position and pointed a claw at his headstrong daughter. “Don’t talk to your brother in that way, do you hear me?”

The Lord of a Thousand Eyes turned wearily to his only son. “Gingivere, don’t let her bully you. Stand up to her, son.”

Gingivere shrugged and stood by silently as Fortunata ground herbs with a pestle, mixing them with dark liquid in a horn beaker.

Verdauga eyed the vixen suspiciously. “No more leeches, fox. I won’t have those filthy slugs sucking my blood. I’d sooner have an enemy’s sword cut me than those foul things. What’s that rubbish you’re concocting?”

Fortunata smiled winningly. “Sire, this is a harmless potion made from the herb motherwort. It will help you to sleep. Squire Gingivere, would you give this to your father, please?”

As Gingivere administered the medicine to Verdauga, neither of them noticed the look of slyness or the wink that passed between Fortunata and Tsarmina.

Verdauga settled back in bed and waited for the draught to take effect. Suddenly the peace was broken by a loud commotion from outside. The double doors burst open wide.

Ben Stickle nearly jumped out of his spikes as Gonff bounded out from behind a snow-laden bush in the nighttime forest.

“Boo! Guess who? Hahaha, Ben, me old matey, you should have seen your face just then. What are you doing trekking round here in the snow?”

Ben recovered himself quickly. “Gonff, I might have known! Listen, young feller me mouse, I haven’t got time to stop and gossip with you. We’ve left the settlement at last and I’m lookin’ for the little hut that the Corim keep for the likes of us.”