The net was roughly dragged for a short distance then tipped by a score of guards. Mara and Pikkle were upended into a deep dank hole. They splashed pawsfirst into muddy water almost to their middles. Squelching to a low ledge at one side, the two friends slumped down together.

Covered in sludge and mud, they lay waiting until the sounds of the toad guards retreated. Pikkle immediately jumped up and tried to scale the slippery clay sides of the pit, but slid back hopelessly.

There was a murmur of voices from the darkness, one louder than the rest.

“You’re wasting time and strength trying to get out. Don’t try again. If the guards come back we’ll all be punished.”

Mara felt about until her paw encountered short muddy fur. “Who are you, what are you doing here?”

The shape of a small creature loomed up out of the gloom. “We’re prisoners, Foodslaves, just like you. What name do they call you?”

“I am Mara of Salamandastron. This is my friend Pikkle Ffolger. He also comes from the mountain.”

The small creature offered his paw. “I am Nordo, only son of Log-a-Log. My father is leader of Guosssom, the Guerrilla Union of South Stream Shrews of Mossflower. There are thirty-four of us all told down here.”

Mara and Pikkle shook Nordo’s paw.

Pikkle pawed sludge from his ear in disgust. “Please t’ meet you, Nordo. Hah, Foodslaves indeed. We’d be filthy if we attempted to serve ’em food in this bally state!”

Several shrew voices piped up. “Oh, you won’t be servin’ food, matey. You are the food!”

“Aye, the mud’ll roast off pretty easy in a cookin’ fire!”

“Foodslave’s only good for one thing matey. Food!”

Mara was horrified. “You mean they intend to eat us?”

Nordo led them to a small cave scooped out in the pitside. He sat them down and explained.

“Glagweb and his tribe are cannibal toads. If there are no captives they eat the weaker ones of their own kind—you wouldn’t believe some of the stories about King Glagweb and his band. At the moment we are lucky; yesterday we numbered forty, but they took six of us last night. We have a temporary reprieve. I heard some of the guards talking today, and it seems that we are to be kept and fed until the King’s Feastday, then it’s our turn.”

Nordo held up a paw. “I know what you’re going to ask me next: when is the Feastday? Sorry, I don’t know—your guess is as good as mine. But while there’s life there’s hope, eh. At least we’ll be given food for a while.”

“And then jolly well served up at a party.” Pikkle gulped. “What a nice surprise. Makes a chap feel wanted, wot, wot?”