“Cook sez breakfast’s gettin’ cold, sir. Hare you comin’ in.”

An ill-timed thrust from a vermin spear missed Urthstripe but knocked Sapwood senseless on the rebound as his head met the blunt end of the spearbutt. Urthstripe grabbed the hare in one paw and slung him over his shoulder as he fought his way back to the entrance. Suddenly Klitch appeared in front of him, brandishing his short sword. The badger turned as he thrust, taking the blade in his arm. Burdened as he was with Sapwood, the badger Lord stood for a moment glaring at the young weasel. Tearing the sword from his arm, he stood on it and snapped the blade, snarling angrily, “Better luck next time, brat. We’ll meet again. Eulaliaaa!”

Urthstripe went hurtling through the melee like a juggernaut. Scattering bodies right and left, he pounded through to the entrance, dropping the unconscious Sapwood into the paws of two waiting hares as he roared out orders.

“Oxeye, get your hares inside. I’ll block off the entrance!”

Within seconds the hares had ducked into the passage and Urthstripe threw his weight against a mighty boulder. The stone rolled into place, sealing the mountain from the horde outside. The badger Lord drove a large oak wedge into its base with a mallet.

Oxeye leaned on his bow, watching him. “Not very friendly those chaps, sir. I take it they want to fight us, wot?”

Urthstripe licked blood from his shoulder and grinned at the irrepressible hare. “Good enough, Oxeye you old battler. We’ll give them a fight, one that we can talk about in the winters to come, when we’re sitting round the fire growing old and lazy.”

Big Oxeye checked his empty quiver. “Don’t mind me sayin’ so, M’lud, but there won’t be too many around to grow old after this fight’s finished!”

16

Dryditch Fever!

The awful name was enough to chill the heart of any creature. A hasty conference was called by the Abbey elders—Abbess Vale, Bremmun, Faith Spinney and Brother Hollyberry, with Furgle the Hermit sitting in on the proceedings. Abbess Vale addressed them.

“Friends, if something is not done swiftly this dreadful fever may wipe us all out. Brother Hollyberry, as Infirmary Keeper do you have any knowledge of this illness?”

Hollyberry pursed his lips. “Mother Abbess, my skills are simple and very limited; tummyaches, headaches, scratches and wounds are what I am used to. I have had a quick look through my medical books, and the opinion of most former Infirmary Keepers is that there is no sure cure for Dryditch Fever. I can keep it under a certain amount of control with my own remedies, but alas I cannot cure it.”

“Flowers of Icetor, heh heh heh! But that’s only an old mousewives’ tale. Heh heh heh, Flowers of Icetor indeed!”

They all turned and stared at Furgle. The woodland Hermit shrugged as he did a small hopskip.