Felch the fox had run, taking the blade of Sawney Rath with him. Trees, shrubs, bushes and grass merged into a green blur in the dawn rain as the fox staggered along on leaden paws. Felch had been running since midnight. He was glad of the rain, hoping that it would obliterate his tracks and throw his pursuer off the scent. Instinctively he knew that Sawney would send only one creature to hunt him down. The Taggerung. Blundering into nettlebeds and crashing through groves of fern, Felch felt a numbing terror constrict his aching chest. Who could escape the Taggerung? Now the weariness was pressing upon him; he could feel himself making stupid errors. Rain or no rain, he was leaving a trail that a one-eyed toad could follow. But the sound of a river in the distance drove him onward through north Mossflower. It was the only place where he could possibly stand a chance. Rainwater dropped from his nosetip onto his parched tongue, and he blinked away the raindrops that broke against his slitted eyelids. A fat woodpigeon, which had been feeding on the ground, whirred up in front of him. The startled fox let out a ragged yelp and tripped over an elm root. Ignoring the blood seeping from an injured footpad, he struggled upright and continued a crazily weaving course. River noise grew loud in his ears as he skirted a yew thicket, his heart rising at the sight in front of him: a high riverbank with alder and willows overhanging it. There were rocks sticking up from the water, which was deep with no shallows. Felch grabbed a leafy bough and scrabbled down. Cold swirling currents took his breath away for a moment as he landed shoulder-deep in front of a rock ledge. Pushing through the overhanging willow foliage, he wedged himself safely under the bank, out of the main current. Rain dappled the river surface, its noise making hearing difficult. The fox was bone weary, hungry, wet and miserable, but at least he was alive. His eyes flickered from side to side as he watched for any unusual movement around him, some inner sense suddenly telling him there was another creature nearby. From above, small fragments of rock and earth splashed into the water, and overhanging willow branches swayed, dipping downward into the current.

Felch held his breath, one paw inching underwater to the knife thrust in his belt. He could not see the banktop because of the jutting ledge he was hiding under, but he knew somebeast was up there, casting about in the rain for signs of him. It had to be the Taggerung! The fox brought Sawney’s blade slowly out of the water, and with his good paw held it ready for an upward thrust. Felch had never been so afraid, but he was desperate. Taggerung or not, he was prepared to sell his life dearly, rather than be dragged back to the Juska camp to face Sawney Rath’s vengeance.

His eyes flickered upward. On the bank above he could hear movement over the rain noise. A shower of pebbles hit the water, along to his right, then he caught the sound of a dead twig breaking underpaw further away. Felch, his heart pounding, remained motionless beneath the ledge for a long time, his vulpine sense stretched to the limit as he listened and watched. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally knew. The Taggerung had gone, he was sure of it. Shuddering with a mixture of relief, cold and exhilaration, Felch relaxed. He had escaped the Taggerung!

However, he knew that he would have to stay hidden until night. If the Taggerung was hiding somewhere nearby, waiting for his quarry to break cover and run, he would be disappointed. Felch was no fool. Having got this far, he was not going to betray himself with any sudden silly moves. Lowering the dagger until it was level with his face, the fox saw his breath misting the bright blade. He cursed inwardly. Maybe if Sawney’s blade had not been in question the Juska Chieftain might not have sent the Taggerung to hunt him down. Perhaps he might have let Felch desert the clan, not thinking the fox of any great importance, merely an old follower with a useless paw.

The fox’s eyes hardened as he recalled how mercilessly Sawney had ruined his paw with that same blade. A fierce determination swept over him, and he thrust the knife back into his belt. It belonged to him now! If he was no longer one of the Juskarath, he would take something with him, for all the long seasons of unrewarded service to Sawney Rath. Aye, the ferret would remember Felch the fox, every time he looked at the space in his belt where the blade used to be.

Since late spring Sawney had been harassing Antigra and her companions, as if expecting some sort of mutiny within the clan. He had come down hard on Felch, abusing and humiliating the fox at every possible opportunity. It had come to a head on the previous evening. Felch had been out foraging in the north sector of Mossflower’s sprawling woodlands, and was returning to camp with a meager offering, a small trout he had found floating dead in a stream. Sawney stood watching him trying to slink into camp unnoticed. The Juska Chieftain was tossing his knife idly, catching it by the blade, just below its tip. He looked to be in a foul mood.

Sawney’s rasping voice had stopped the fox in his tracks. “What’s that dirty piece of rubbish you’re sneaking back with?”

Felch avoided the ferret’s irate stare. “It’s a fish, a young trout I caught.”

Sawney sniggered nastily, pointing with his knife. “You must’ve had a hard battle bringing in a monster like that. Hold it up so we can all see it. Go on, hold it up.”

Felch raised the small dead fish halfheartedly, his eyes fixed on the knife Sawney was toying with. He could guess what was coming by the tone of Sawney’s voice.

“I told you to bring a bird back, a big fat woodpigeon. I know an idiot like you has trouble telling the difference between a bird and a fish. But maybe I’m wrong, perhaps you didn’t hear me right, Felch. Is it your ears?”

The fox didn’t answer. Sawney, who was more than thirty pawsteps away, raised his blade, ready to throw. “Aye, I think it must be your ears. Let’s take a look at one. Stand still, now. This shouldn’t hurt . . . much!”

Felch ducked as the blade flashed from Sawney’s paw. Even as fast as he moved, the fox could not avoid the blade’s nicking his left eartip. Zipping past him, the knife disappeared into the woodland foliage.

Grissoul, who was squatting at a nearby campfire, cackled. “A goodly throw, but thou gave him too much warning. Felch did well to avoid thy blade. Let him live.”

Sawney ran across to the cringing fox and kicked him. “If you don’t find my blade, you’ll die slowly, for ’twas you who lost it by moving when I told you not to. Find the knife, Felch, and I’ll let you live. Though I’ll still take that ear as a punishment for disobedience. Now get searching, addlebrain!” Another savage kick sent the fox scurrying off into the bushes on all fours.

It was not until nearly midnight that he discovered it, a fair distance from the camp. Rain had started to fall when the fox glimpsed a shaft of moonlight glimmering off the wet sapphire pommel stone. Felch tugged on the knife, which had buried its point deep in a sycamore trunk. He pulled it free, falling over backward in the process. Behind him the camp lay still, firelight gleaming hazily through the closed tents. Sawney and his clan lay sleeping. Felch knew his prospects were bleak. Sawney Rath would take his ear if he returned. Without thinking further, he thrust the blade into his belt and ran.

Beneath the bank ledge, with rainwater beating constantly on the river surface, Felch wedged himself tighter in. Weariness and fatigue overcame him, and despite the water’s cold embrace he fell asleep.

Throughout the day the rainfall began to slacken from downpour to drizzle. By midafternoon the skies had cleared, giving way to warm sunlight. Steam rose from the banksides, wreathing around trailing willow fronds. Small flies began hovering close to the bank where the current ran more slowly. It was one such gnat, wandering around on the fox’s nosetip, that wakened him. The first thing Felch saw was a tail rudder, decorated with two white fishbone tailrings. Fearfully he raised his eyes. Standing on a rock not a whisker-length out from the bank was a barbaric-looking young otter. His only clothing was a short barkcloth kilt, girdled by a broad eelskin belt. He wore two patterned flax wristbands and a single hooped gold earring. The eyes, piercingly dark, stared back at Felch from behind the face tattoos of the Juskarath clan. The otter carried no weapons, save for the knife, which he had removed silently from the sleeping fox’s belt. Felch did not notice when the gnat stung his nosetip. He was not even aware that the rain had stopped and the sun was out. The young otter reached out gracefully and took hold of the fox’s shoulder with his sinewy paw. Felch tried to shrink further back against the ledge. But the tremendous pawstrength wrenched him savagely forward, almost completely out of the water. He was dragged up onto the rock, his ear right next to the hunter’s mouth. The voice he heard was a gentle whisper that chilled his blood more than any rivercold.

“Nobeast escapes from me. I am the Taggerung!”