“None reported, sah! A jolly old bloodless victory, wot? Though Windpaw never showed up at roll call after the skirmish. Still, I suppose she’s got her head down in some quiet corner. That hare c’d sleep on a bally clothesline.”

The next sound to reach Farran was that of a pottery bowl smashing on the floor and a chair falling over.

“Shorebuck, what’s the matter, old lad?” Bart Thistledown’s voice came through loud and urgent. “I say, looks like he’s chokin’ on a bit of scone. Lend a paw, you chaps!’

For the first time Farran showed some sign of emotion. His paw struck the rock wall of his hiding place in disappointment. He had made the mixture too strong, his poison was working far too speedily. Other voices crowded in on the fox’s ears.

“Give him somethin’ t’ drink, clear his throat!”

“No, hold him upside down, shake him and pound his back!”

“I can’t, sir. The pore young un’s all doubled up like . . .”

“Out of my way, Sergeant! Here, give him to me. Shorebuck! Shorebuck! Come on, young feller. Stand up straight!”

“Stand aside, chaps. Let Seawood through. He’s a healer!”

There was a momentary silence, then Urthstripe’s anxious tones rang through the dining hall.

“What’s the matter with him, Seawood?”

A pause followed, then Seawood’s voice came through. He was sobbing softly. “He’s dead! Young Shorebuck is dead, sir!”

“Dead? Surely not. Can’t you do something—herbs, a potion?”

“It’s too late. Can’t you see, sir! Look at the way his poor face is all twisted, and his body doubled up tight an’ stiff. It’s poison. I’d recognize it anywhere. Shorebuck’s been poisoned!”

“It must have been somethin’ he’s eaten, sir. The pore liddle feller was right as rain a moment ago.”

“Spot on, Sarge. He dashed t’ that breakfast board like a bally young trooper after his first fight . . .”

Urthstripe’s voice boomed through the dining hall. “Get away from that table! Don’t touch the food!”

*   *   *

Ferahgo tossed his knife high in the air and caught it by the handle. He was in good spirits.

“Haha, what’s thirty or forty creatures slain? There’s always more where they came from. That’s what soldiers are for, to kill or be killed. What’s the matter with your face, backstabber?”

Klitch sat to one side with the four Captains, a scowl hovering around his blue eyes. “The whole thing was a waste of good fighting creatures.”

Ferahgo flicked the knife. It stuck in the ground near his son’s paw. “Oh dear dear. Friends of yours, were they? Are you sad because they were killed in the battle?”