“Haint much t’ do out ’ere, sir. You a-comin’ in for summat to eat? There’s wild oatcakes, bilberry tart an’ cold cider. You haint touched vittles since yesterday morn.”

Urthstripe climbed slowly down from the rock and growled anxiously at the hare, “Any sign of Mara yet, Sergeant?”

“Nah, not so far. But don’t you fret y’self, sir. She’ll come trottin’ back wi’ young Pikkle, soon as they’re hungered enough. D’you want me to send the missie t’ you when she does arrive back?”

“No, but let me know the moment she’s back home. See she gets a good meal, and then . . . then send her to me!”

Sapwood ducked and feinted as they made their way across the shore, swaying lightly on his paws as he circled Urthstripe.

“C’mon, sir. Let’s see you try t’ put one on me button!”

The badger Lord tried to ignore his pugnacious friend, but Sapwood persisted.

“Go on, sir, try the old one-two, eh?”

Urthstripe halted, blinking as the hare bobbed and dodged under his nose.

“Really, Sapwood, I’m in no mood for sport.”

The Sergeant dabbed a swift paw at Urthstripe’s jaw. “Oh, ’ave a go, sir. Try yer luck!”

For all his great bulk the badger was surprisingly swift. He spun sideways, clipping Sapwood under the chin with what he judged to be a light tap. The Sergeant was bowled over, knocked flat on his back. Instantly the badger Lord was at his friend’s side, his huge striped face showing concern.

“Sap, are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Sapwood sat up. Uncrossing his eyes and rubbing his chin, he chuckled ruefully. “Bless your ’eart, sir, I’m as right as rain, never saw that’n comin’, though. Good job you never punched your weight, or you’d ’ave knocked me block clean off!”

With their paws about each other the two friends entered Salamandastron, chatting and chuckling about old fights and bygone battles.

Before he entered the mountain, Urthstripe could not resist casting a final longing glance to the open country. Disappointed that he could not see Mara arriving home he heaved a lonely sigh and followed Sapwood inside.

*   *   *

A massive ridge of mountains created a high spine down the land east of Salamandastron. In the foothills to the south they gave way to swamplands, which in their turn led to the dunes sweeping in from the west. The early noon sun was causing grasshoppers to chirrup and rustle in the rock-strewn foothills.

Ferahgo the Assassin sighted his skinning knife at one insect which was about to leap. He flicked the knife expertly. His aim was good: the keen-edged blade sliced the grasshopper in two. The knifepoint was still quivering in the ground as Ferahgo pulled it free and wiped it clean on the grass.

“That’s one grasshopper won’t jump any more,” he chuckled. “Am I not right, Migroo?”