Forgrin pawed the blade of his sword, grinning at the rat. “I’ve sent many a beast to sleep wi’ this liddle beauty. None of them ever woke up. Come on, let’s git it done afore yer nerve runs out altogether!”

Not even daring to breathe, they stole up on the supine figure.

Forgrin felt confident. Standing over the cloak-draped creature, he could not resist a quiet snigger. “Weasel yer way outta this one, weasel!”

He drove the sword downward with both paws. The cloaked figure gave a gasp and went rigid. Raptail thudded two solid blows of his club to the covered head and leapt back.

“Is ’e dead, mate? Stick ’im agin ter make sure!”

“Oh, he’s quite dead. There’s no need to stick him any more.”

The voice was unmistakably that of Ferahgo.

Raptail died with a faint moan as Ferahgo dispatched him with his skinning knife, almost carelessly in passing. Not even bothering to glance at the fallen rat, the Assassin turned to the fox. Forgrin was shaking uncontrollably. The blue eyes looked almost jolly as they smiled through the night at him.

“See, we’ve killed a rat apiece. You murdered Sickear and I slew Raptail. Now what happens, do you kill a weasel, or do I kill a fox?”

Terror had robbed Forgrin of his power of speech. A gurgling noise escaped his throat as he turned and ran along the beach.

Ferahgo could throw a knife better than any creature. The long skinning knife took Forgrin between the shoulder blades before he had got thirty paces. His eyes were glazing over for the last time as the Assassin retrieved the knife.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Ferahgo whispered close to his ear, “this game ends with the weasel killing the fox. Sweet dreams, Forgrin.”

Ferahgo’s back felt much better. As he strolled along the beach, his brilliant blue eyes lit up with happiness.

*   *   *

Urthstripe watched from the top of the crater with Sapwood and Big Oxeye. Below them on the shore, masses of torchlights were moving away from Salamandastron. Sapwood nodded toward them.

“Hi wonder what they’re hup to now, Ox?”

The big hare leaned on his spear. “You tell me, ol’ chap, you tell me. From up here it looks remarkably like a flippin’ wholesale retreat, wot?”

Urthstripe shook his great striped head. “Ferahgo doesn’t give up that easily. He wants us to think it’s a retreat. What we’ve got to figure out is why.”

“Why what, sah?”

“Why Ferahgo wants us to think he’s retreating. By my stripe, Oxeye, sometimes I think your brain’s been scrambled by all the fighting you’ve done.”

Big Oxeye let one ear droop and grinned. “Quite possibly, sah. I often think that m’self. Shall I take a couple of the chaps an’ investigate?”