“Mah faither says ye’re going up tae see the Wild King in the mornin’. Be careful, Thrugg. Auld MacPhearsome is a giant. Mind yer manners, address him as King or Your Majesty. Och, he has a braw temper that one has. He’d as soon eat ye as look at ye.”

Thrugg put more of the sweet-smelling bracken on the fire. “Listen, Rocangus me ol’ matey, I’ll do whatever it takes to get those Icetor Flowers back to Redwall Abbey. If I’ve got to pretend to be frightened of some old bird, then so be it.”

“Ye have mah admiration, Thrugg, for I know yer not affrighted of anythin’.” Rocangus flexed his good wing. “Mind, though, ye’d be well advised tae fear the Wild King. He’s the only one who has Icetor Flow’rs an’ he doesn’t part wi’ anythin’ lightly. Oh, an’ ye’d best leave yer sling wi’ me. MacPhearsome won’t have any armed bird or beast near his eyrie. That’s aboot it, Thrugg. Guid luck to ye. Yer a braw friend an’ a bonny riverdog.”

Rocangus had conquered his fear of the fire. In fact, he had rather come to like it. The young falcon spent the night feeding the flames with heather and bracken while Thrugg and Baby Dumble slept peacefully in the high snowcapped mountains of the north.

*   *   *

Dawn in the high mountains was a strange sight. Thrugg shivered as he peered into the whiteness. Clouds had descended upon the peaks, turning the whole place into a land of cotton wool. There was no sky, horizon or ground, save for that beneath the otter’s paws.

Settling Dumble into the near-empty haversack, Thrugg cautioned him. “Stay put, matey, an’ keep yore head down. Ye’ll be nice an’ warm in there.”

The Laird Mactalon flew in low and hovered outside the cave. “A guid mornin’ to ye, Thrugg. Are ye ready the noo?”

Thrugg gave his sling to Rocangus. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Lead on, Yore Lordship!”

Rocangus stood waving with his good wing, watching them until they were swallowed up in the mists.