Carefully uncorking a green glass vial, the Poisoner went about his deadly work, dividing the contents of the vial evenly between the ten barrels. It was the work of a moment, then he was gone.

Slipping off down the corridor, he descended a rough-hewn flight of rock stairs to the lower level. Farran spent considerable time checking the rooms on this level; they were all armory chambers. The pale eyes showed no emotion, but he knew that he was wasting valuable time. Down the next flight of stairs he went in his search for the foodstore. Unfortunately, every room he went into was a dormitory. Taking a long spiral stairway, he found himself in the dining room. Farran knew then that the foodstore would be somewhere close by, near to the kitchens.

It was quiet inside at the base level of Salamandastron; the rock walls shut off all noise from the outside. The Poisoner padded softly about until he found the kitchen entrance. His amber eyes flickered slightly at the sight of the food laid out there for the next morning’s breakfast. Ferahgo had never fed his army this well.

Washing his paws meticulously, the black fox seated himself and ate his fill. Oatcakes, warm and fresh from the ovens—he spread them with comb honey and chewed them with relish, washing them down with gulps of old golden cider; summer vegetable pasties and beechnut crumble, crusty brown bread with mountain cheese—the black fox sampled each one in turn. When he had finished, Farran wiped his lips daintily on a napkin and set about poisoning it all.

Having finished in the kitchen, he sought out the storeroom that led off it. Sacks of flour, vegetable racks, apple boxes, salad bins, nut containers—nothing escaped the deadly potions of Farran the Poisoner. A scattering of powder here, a few drops of liquid there . . . it was accomplished with his evil, but natural skill.

21

Midmorning was cloudy, but promising to clear up later. Thrugg and Dumble had been wakened by the dawn drizzle. The otter sat the little dormouse in the top of the haversack and covered his head with the flap. Shouldering the lot, he strode off northward.

“Better on the move than sittin’ round gettin’ a wet bottom, eh, matey. Come on, give ol’ Thrugg a song t’ keep his paws goin’.”

Anybeast on the road at that time would have marveled at the sight of the big otter stepping out with a singing haversack strapped to his back. Dumble sang his dormouse song.

“There’s no roof mouse, nor chimbley mouse,

No winder mouse or floor mouse,

An’ I ain’t gotta nokker on me nose,

but I’m a likkle dormouse.

There’s a fieldmouse anna ’arvest mouse,

An ’edgemouse an’ prob’ly a shoremouse,

But I’m the bestest of the lot,

’Cos I’m a likkle dormouse.

Ohahaha an’ heeheehee,

Yes I’m a likkle dormouse.

So I’ll eat me dinner an’ grow big,