“If mah faither could see me now he’d kick mah tailfeathers. Intae the woods wi’ ye, Thrugg, ya great bonnie riverdog!”

The curious-looking trio struck northeast into the far tip of the Mossflower woodlands.

*   *   *

The trees were beginning to thin out into flat bush-strewn country, and by midafternoon they had covered a fair distance. Dumble found ripe blackberries and a tree thick with small soft pears, so they stocked up on both. Thrugg rested awhile, watching both the young creatures feeding each other the choicest berries; their faces, both whisker and beak, were heavily stained with the purple juice.

The otter hefted the pack up onto his back, calling to Rocangus, “Up on yore perch, matey. There’s plenty o’ daylight left yet.”

The falcon nodded toward a thick grove of pine and spruce ahead. “Keep your wits aboot ye, Thrugg. That’s crow territory!”

The afternoon was hot and still. Thrugg cast a glance at the grove. Placing Dumble on his left side, he slipped loose his sling, testing the thongs as he loaded a flat pebble into it. There was no sign of crows circling in the air above the trees, but the trio took no chances. They traveled cautiously, keeping hidden among the low brush, fern clumps and any cover the land could afford. Giving the pine grove a wide berth, they went in a curving line, moving at a moderate pace, not too slowly or too quickly, knowing the crows would be down upon them if they betrayed their presence by unnecessary noise. Even Dumble was aware of their precarious position. Every now and then he would give his friends a wink and hold a paw up to his lips as they trekked along in silence.

Everything went well, until the little dormouse stepped on a thistle.

“Wowhoo! I stood onna fissle, Mista Thrugg. Ouch!”

The pine- and sprucetops rustled, loud cawing cut the still air, and ragged black shapes came flapping out of the grove.

Rocangus gave a shrill cry. “Ach! It’s crows. We’re for it, laddies!”

The sandy bed of a dried stream formed a depression in the land ahead of them. Thrugg grabbed Dumble by his smock and made a dash for it. The running otter was soon spotted by the crows. Winging swiftly, they came after him as he ran heavy-laden for the streambed. Calling harshly to each other, the crows zoomed down at Thrugg’s back. Rocangus dealt the first one a savage rip with his curved beak as it tried to latch its claws into the back of Thrugg’s neck. Whisker over tail, the otter threw himself into the shallow bottom. Throwing off the haversack, he brained a low-flying crow with his loaded sling. Loosing off the stone, he watched another crow fall crazily amid a jumble of tailfeathers as the pebble struck it. Thrugg’s fighting blood was up now. Standing tall, he whirled the sling, roaring out the Abbey warcry: