When the drumbeats ceased that evening, Damug Warfang was standing on the stream bank with the entire Rapscallion horde spread wide around the valley behind him. He sat down on the head of a drum the rat Gribble had provided. Facing him in three ranks stood the remains of the trackers, with Lousewort at the front.

The Firstblade shook his head in disbelief at the tale he had heard. “Three hundred shrews in twenty big boats, are you sure?”

Lousewort nodded vigorously—his life depended on it. The others nodded too, backing him up.

“Let me get this clear,” Damug continued, “they ambushed you, slew thirty of my trackers and a Rapscour, then got clean away?”

The nodding continued dumbly.

“And not one, not a single one, was slain or taken prisoner?”

More nods. The Greatrat closed his eyes and massaged their corners slowly. He was tired. Four times he had been over the same ground with them, and still they stuck firmly to their story. He glanced at the carcasses of the thirty-one vermin lying half in, half out of the stream shallows, creatures he could ill afford to lose, slow and stupid as they had been.

Turning his gaze back to Lousewort and the living, he sighed wearily. “Three hundred shrews, twenty big boats, eh? Well take my word, I’ll find the truth of all this sooner or later, and when I do, if the answer is what I think, there’ll be some here begging me for a swift death before I’m finished with them. Understood?”

The nodders’ necks were sore, but still they bobbed up and down wordlessly.

Damug indicated the slain. “You will dig a pit twelve times as deep as the length of my sword, and when you have buried these bodies you will stand in the water all night up to your necks. Nor will you eat or drink again until I give the order. Gribble, detail two officers to stand watch on them.”

*

Dying campfires burned small red blossoms into the night all around the valley, throwing slivers of scarlet across the swift-flowing stream. Stars pierced moonless skies, and a wispy breeze played about the sleeping Rapscallion camp.

Vendace gritted his teeth as the file scraped his neck. “Keep yer ’ead still,” Borumm hissed at him impatiently as he worked on the fetters binding them together. “It won’t take long now!”

Lugworm was already free—it was he who had managed to steal the file. Fearfully, the stoat whispered to the fox and the weasel, “You’ll ’ave ter work faster, we ain’t got all night!”

Borumm stifled the rattle of the neckband with both paws. The chains chinked softly as they fell from Vendace’s body. The fox massaged his neck, eyes glittering furtively in the darkness. “Shut yer snivelin’ face, stoat. C’mon, let’s get movin’. We need t’be across that stream an’ long gone by dawn.”

*

Clinging to the rocks in midstream, Lousewort and forty-odd trackers struggled to keep their chins up above water, sobbing and cursing as the cold numbed their limbs and the icy flow threatened to sweep them away. Already some of their number, the weaker ones, had been drowned by others trampling them under in their efforts to stay alive.

Two Rapmark Captains sat hunched in sleep over a small fire on the bank. A ferret ground his chattering teeth as he glared in their direction. “Look at ’em, snoozin’ all nice’n’warm there, while we’re freezin’ an’ drownin’ out ’ere. It ain’t right, I tell yer!”

Lousewort hugged a weed-covered nub of rock, coughing water from both nostrils miserably. “Er, er, mebbe they’ll let us come ashore when it’s light.”

Snorting mirthlessly, a sodden rat pulled himself higher to speak. “Who are you tryna fool, mate? ’Ow many of us d’yer think’ll be left by tomorrer? Whether ’e knew it or not, Damug sentenced us to die by pullin’ this liddle trick!”

The two sleeping Rapmark Captains were fated never to see dawn. They kicked briefly when the chains of Borumm and Vendace tightened about their necks. As the officers slumped lifeless, the escapers relieved them of their cloaks and weapons. Then, grabbing a coil of rope, Borumm plunged into the stream and waded out to where the wretched vermin clutched feebly at the rocks.

Securing the rope to a jagged rut, Borumm held it tight, and hissed, “You know me’n’ Vendace—we’re your ole Rapscours. We’re gettin’ out of ’ere, and anybeast feels like quittin’ Damug an’ his army can come along. That one ain’t the Firstblade his father was!”

A ferret took hold of the rope as Vendace and Lugworm waded up. “I’m wid yer, mate! An’ so would you lot be if y’ve got any sense. Warfang treats ’is own army worse’n ’is enemies. Lead on, Borumm!”

Vendace silenced the general murmur of approval. “Keep the noise down there. I’ll make it to the other bank wid this rope an’ lash it tight ’round a rock. Y’can grab on to it an’ make yore way over, but be quick, there’s no time ter lose!”

Pulling themselves paw over paw along the taut line, the escapers made their way to the opposite side of the stream. Borumm perched on a rock with the last few, but when it was Lugworm’s turn to take the rope, Borumm pushed him aside.

“Where d’yer think yore off to, slimeface?” he snarled.

The stoat’s voice was shrill with surprise. “It was all part o’ the plan, we escape together, mate!”

There was nowhere to run. Borumm grinned wolfishly at him. “I ain’t yore mate, an’ I just changed the plan. We don’t take no backstabbers an’ traitors wid us. You stay ’ere!”

Borumm swung the bunched chains savagely, and Lugworm fell lifeless into the stream before he even had a chance to protest about the new arrangements. Lousewort was shocked by the weasel’s action. “Ooh! Wot didyer do that for? The pore beast wasn’t doin’ you no ’arm, mate!”

Borumm was not prepared to argue. There was only himself and Lousewort left on the rock. He swung the chains once more, laying Lousewort senseless on the damp stones. Swinging off on to the rope, the weasel hauled himself along, muttering, “Sorry about that, mate, but if’n you ain’t for us yore agin us!”