The stoat nodded vigorously. “Aye, Chief, ’twas a grand throw!”

Ferahgo sheathed the weapon in the crossbelts he wore diagonally across his chest. Two other knives were encased there, each as sharp and deadly as the one he had thrown. Smiling, he rested his paws on the broad belt supporting his short kilt of skins. He had grown taller and more sinewy than other weasels. The seasons seemed to lend an extra sparkle to his eyes, which were light brilliant blue like a fresh spring sky; beautiful almond-shaped eyes, with deep laughter creases etching their corners. Many a stranger had met death through the deceit and vicious cruelty which lay behind those innocently smiling eyes. Every weasel, stoat, rat, ferret or fox in his army of Corpsemakers knew that the more Ferahgo the Assassin smiled, the more evil and brutal he became. His reign of terror had spread and flourished in the Southwest Lands until the whole country trembled with fear at his name. Ferahgo!

This summer he had decided to push further north. None of his army dared question the odd decision, though they speculated in secret as to his reason for such a long trek. The horde lounged in the dunes and the foothills—some stretched on the sun-scorched sand and grass, others seeking the shade of rocks—apparently idle, but ever vigilant for their leader’s commands. Disobedience to Ferahgo meant death.

The Assassin stretched luxuriously upon the dry curling grass and closed his eyes, enjoying the still warmth of summer. One eye suddenly snapped open as he called to a weasel stationed in the rocks higher up.

“Feadle, keep your eyes peeled for my son and Goffa. Don’t go to sleep up there.”

Feadle made a show of scouring the terrain north and west before shouting back down, “I’ll let you know as soon as Klitch and Goffa show up, Master. Don’t you worry!”

Ferahgo’s reply gave the lookout good reason to stay awake. “Oh, I’m not worried, Feadle—but you should be, because if you miss them I’ll skin you alive with my knives. Keep those eyes open now, there’s a good weasel.”

It was a plain-spoken, matter-of-fact statement, but everybeast within hearing knew that the Assassin was not joking. Ferahgo seldom joked, even though he did smile a lot.

*   *   *

Dethbrush the fox and his six tracker rats loped in from the south. He heard Feadle announce their sighting from his high perch: “Dethbrush an’ the trackers coming in, Master!”

The fox stood by as Ferahgo, still lying down with his eyes closed, questioned him.

“You have not brought Dingeye and Thura back with you?”

Dethbrush was weary, but he did not dare sit or relax. “No, Master. We tracked them for two moons. They have gone east, into the flatlands on the other side of these mountains.”