In his forge room at the middle level, Urthstripe lay sorely wounded, bound to his bed by restraining bandages as he hovered between life and death. Ferahgo’s Corpsemakers flooded the lower corridors, crowding into caves and chambers—harassed by the hares, who, though overwhelmed by numbers, fought guerrilla style, popping up at intersections and appearing in the most unlikely places to loose arrows at the vermin.

Oxeye was now in sole command of the Long Patrol. He used all his warrior cunning and skill to contain the horde within the lower levels; hares appeared, attacked, then vanished like smoke along the winding tunnels. Big Oxeye used the forge room as his center of operations, issuing instructions as he stayed close to the delirious badger Lord.

“Moonpaw, take Lingfur an’ Penny. Stay at the south stairwell an’ give ’em blood ’n’ vinegar. I’ll send a relief as soon as Catkin an’ Barfle get back.”

Moonpaw took the two younger hares, saluted and set off at a trot for the stairwell. Oxeye watched them go, shaking his head despairingly as he slumped down beside Bart Thistledown. “It’s no good, Barty old lad. We can’t hold ’em back forever—there’s too many of the vermin.”

Wounded and battered from his defense of the opening, Bart grinned lopsidedly through a half-open eye. “No use shiverin’ over lost fur, Ox. What’d you sooner die of, old age or battle?”

Oxeye shook his head admiringly. “Battle, I suppose. By the left, Barty, you’re a cool one!”

His friend stroked a lancebutt with an injured paw. “Cool nothin’—I’m quiverin’ like a jolly jelly inside, but don’t tell old Urthstripe that.”

Oxeye took a damp cloth and bathed the badger Lord’s heated brow. Urthstripe was oblivious to all about him. He lay struggling against the restraining bandages, muttering, “Winter . . . golden medallion . . . cold . . . Father, Mother . . . where are you? . . . White snow, white brother . . . cold!”

*   *   *

The pale moon glinted off Ferahgo’s medallion as he sat out on the sands with Klitch. For once father and son were in agreement over their strategy.

Ferahgo drew his skinning knife and pointed at the mountaintop. “I’ll take a hundred and get up there; you keep up the attack inside—we’ll have them trapped both ways.”

Klitch’s blue eyes shone gleefully into the night. “You took the words out of my mouth, backstabber. By tomorrow night the mountain will belong to us!”

Ferahgo tapped the knifepoint against his son’s chest. “And while you’re in there, young one, remember: just keep fighting, don’t stop to look for badger treasure. I’ll do that when my horde have finished the job.”

“Your horde?” Klitch turned the knifepoint aside with his spearshaft.

The Assassin twirled the knife deftly. “Yes, my horde—and so it will remain while I’m alive!”