Antigra went north into Mossflower Wood, to the place where she knew that doves nested among the oak and beech trees. It was soft and mossy underpaw, dappled with sunlight and shadow, fern beds reflecting that calm translucent greenish light often found in deep woodlands. Nature’s beauties were lost upon the stoat, as crouching low in the ferns she loaded a small hard pebble into her sling. Two doves were feeding on the ground, picking among last autumn’s rotted acorns. Slowly, carefully, Antigra stood, her eye fixed upon the fatter of the pair as she began to twirl her sling. The pebble pouch she carried stuffed into her belt slipped loose and stones clacked noisily as they spilled out. The doves flew off to their nest, high up in an old oak. Still twirling the sling, Antigra cursed her bad fortune. Just then the fatter of the doves poked its head out of the nest, and she whipped the pebble off at it. The random throw was unlucky for the dove. Antigra immediately knew she had slain the bird, by the way its head flopped as the pebble struck it. Then it was her turn to have the bad luck. Instead of tumbling to the ground, the dove fell back into its nest, and its partner flew off in fright.
The stoat told herself there was nothing for it but to climb the tree and retrieve her kill. Fixing the pebble pouch firmly into her belt, she looped the sling about her neck and began climbing. It was very difficult at first, but as she went higher and the branches became more close growing her progress was easier. She reached the nest, and found two eggs in it with the dead dove. Her climb had not been in vain. Straddling the bough, Antigra settled her back against the trunk. The eggs were her bonus. The stoat sat sucking them and gazing about her, interested at how the land looked from a high vantage point. She could not see the Juskarath camp, but far over to the north a glimpse of snow-peaked mountaintops showed beyond the woodlands, bathed in early-evening sunlight. Antigra turned her attention to looking for other nests, but she saw none. She began climbing down, halting when her keen eyes spotted movement below on the woodland floor. She watched from her hiding place in the foliage. A shadow slipped from tree to tree, pausing a moment amid some ferns before hastening silently off northward. It was the Taggerung!
*
Antigra had no knowledge of what had taken place back at the camp. Instantly a plan formed in her cunning mind. She would climb down and track him. Her aim with a sling was good. Nobeast would know it was she who had slain the Taggerung. If she was careful and accurate, her son Gruven would soon become Taggerung of the Juska. She was almost halfway down when another movement below caused her to freeze. Sawney Rath came loping along, halting momentarily to inspect a bruised fern frond. He smiled grimly, pleased to have picked up the trail of his quarry. Antigra seized the moment. Fitting a large pebble to her sling, she changed her plans.
Whirring the loaded sling until it was a blur, she yelled sharply, “Sawney Rath, I’m up here!”
The Juska Chieftain looked upward, shock stamped upon his face as the stone struck him between his eyes, slaying him on the spot. With the dead dove lying forgotten halfway up the tree, Antigra scrambled down out of the boughs and dropped to the ground. Sawney lay still, one paw still gripping the spear he had been carrying, eyes open wide, staring at the sky. She circled him apprehensively, as if expecting her feared enemy to leap up at any moment. Without warning, sounds of some otherbeast traveling toward the scene reached Antigra. But this was no stealthy tracker or hunter she could hear. It was the labored, staggering noise of some wearybeast, unwittingly heading her way.
Antigra slipped quietly behind the oak tree and waited. Felch came stumbling along, gasping for breath. He ground to a halt in front of the Juskarath Chieftain’s body. Like the stoat, he too circled it warily. Antigra stepped out from behind the oak.
“He’s dead. ’Twas I who slew him,” she said flatly.
Felch exhaled loudly with relief. He knelt at the ferret’s side and inspected the wound, then looked at Antigra’s weapon. “Aye, so ye did. A slingstone took his life. The Taggerung carried only a knife when I last saw him. I was much slower than either of ’em. I hid myself an’ let ’em pass by me, first the Taggerung, then Sawney tracking him.” He broke the dead Chieftain’s grasp upon the spear and stood up. “You said you’d wait an’ get Sawney one day. Hah! The ’igh an’ mighty Sawney Rath, eh? You won’t be slingin’ yer orders ’round no more. You don’t look so tough now, ferret-faced scum!”
Felch stabbed the body with the spear. He grinned at Antigra. “Long seasons I dreamed of doin’ that. I wager you did, too.”
The stoat grinned back. “Aye. Tell me, what happened back at the camp? Why was Sawney hunting the otter?”
As the fox explained, a crafty gleam entered Antigra’s eyes. “So, we’re rid of them both, Sawney and his pet otter.”
Felch brandished the spear. “No more worries, eh? We’ll rule the clan together now, just you’n’me. Chieftains together!”
Antigra pounded the fox’s back. “Give me that spear. I want to stab him too!”
Giggling like a naughty Dibbun, Felch passed the spear over. He was still giggling as Antigra whirled and ran him through. A look of pained surprise crossed the fox’s face as he stood swaying, grasping the spear shaft with both paws. Antigra stared back at him, her eyes hard and bright as flint.
“My son will rule the clan. There’s no room anymore for you, Felch. You’ve seen and heard too much!”
*
Fresh wood had been heaped on the campfires. Grissoul sat beside the one outside Sawney’s tent, gazing into the night. She felt the spearpoint touch her back, and heard the whisper issuing from the darkness behind her.
“Sawney Rath is dead!”
Without attempting to turn, Grissoul answered, “The omens have already told me this, Antigra.”
The stoat’s breath felt hot on the back of the vixen’s neck. “And did your omens tell you who slew him? Think carefully if you wish to continue living.”
Grissoul reached behind her and pushed the spear gently aside. “My omens told me that thou would know the answer to that question. They said no more; it is not for me to guess at the answer.”
Antigra kept to the shadows where she could not be seen. “You are a wise beast, old one. I’ve had a vision that my son Gruven is Taggerung now. Do you agree? Answer me!”
Grissoul shook her head. “It cannot be. Nay, Antigra, put down thy spear and listen. I have had no vision of the Taggerung’s death. Juska law says that only he who slays a Taggerung can be called Taggerung in his place. Thy son cannot be Taggerung while the chosen one lives. But a new Chieftain can always take the place of a Chieftain who is slain. I will help thee to have thy son named Gruven Zann Juskazann, leader of this clan. Does my new vision sound fitting to thy desires?”
Antigra liked the idea immediately. “Your vision is good. Tell me what to do, Grissoul!”
The Seer closed her eyes. “Wait awhile before entering camp. Then tell thy story to all. I’ll agree with it; the Juska will not doubt my word. I will send thy son off with strong warriors to hunt down and slay the Taggerung, and together you and I will rule the clan until the day of his return.”
Antigra nodded. “It is a bargain.” She slid back into the darkness.
A short time later, Antigra roused the clan vermin. She staggered into camp, shrieking, “Sawney Rath is dead, murdered by the Taggerung!”
The crowd followed her up to the fire outside Sawney’s tent, where Grissoul was still sitting. The Seer got immediate silence by throwing a pawful of something into the flames, which caused them to send up a blue flame.
“I saw the death of Sawney Rath in my omens when he left camp today. Some of you saw me cast the stones and bones.”
The stoat Rawback spoke up. “Aye, I saw her. She clasped her head in her paws!”
Gruven sneaked up to his mother’s side and whispered, “What’s happened? Did you see Sawney get killed?”
Antigra pinched his side between her claws sharply. “Do as I say,” she muttered. “Stay out of this and keep your mouth shut until I tell you. Big things are at stake here tonight.”
Other vermin were backing Rawback up.
“Grissoul looked as though the omens were bad.”
“I saw ’er too. She looked like a creature who’d seen death!”
The Seer leapt up, her painted face taking on a blue tinge from the flames, and swirled her cloak back and forth dramatically. “Let Antigra speak! Tell thy clanbeasts what took place, Antigra!”
All eyes turned on the stoat.
“I was up a tree after birds’ eggs and I heard noises. First came Felch, then Sawney, following him. He shouted the fox’s name, Felch turned and Sawney slew him with a spear cast. I did not know that the traitor Taggerung was hiding nearby. He saw Sawney unarmed and threw the very blade that was once Sawney’s. It did not fly true, but the stone at its handletop struck Sawney ’twixt the eyes and laid him out, unconscious I think. The Taggerung could not see me, so I started climbing down from the tree to defend our Chieftain. But alas, before I reached the ground, the otter had pulled the spear from the body of Felch and murdered Sawney with it. He ran off, north toward the mountains. I could do nought but hurry back here to bring you the bad tidings. It was a treacherous and horrible sight, I’ll never forget it!” Antigra slumped on the ground, covering her eyes. “Vengeance upon the traitorous Taggerung,” she wailed. “The spirit of Sawney Rath cries for vengeance from the gates of Dark Forest!”
Grissoul’s sudden scream rent the night. She began a shuffling dance, holding both paws forth. Vermin shrank from her touch. They feared what they could not understand; it was a night of omens. The Seer’s paws finally touched Gruven’s face. He looked to his mother, and she nodded at him to stay still. Grissoul cast herself down in front of him, her voice rising to an eerie pitch.
“Is this the one to do thy will, O Sawney Rath?” A great sigh escaped her, and she touched her head to Gruven’s footpaws.
“Gruven Zann! Juskazann!
Take our name, rule our clan,
Heed the voice of the Chieftain now dead,
Bring back to this Seer the traitor’s head!”
A roar of approval came from the tribe, caught up in the hypnotic ritual. Grissoul led Gruven to the fire, where even his slightly puzzled features looked impressive in the changing hue of the flames. The Seer cast pawfuls of different powders into the blaze. Antigra, who had darted into Sawney’s tent a moment before, came dashing out to drape the dead ferret’s best cloak about her son’s shoulders. She pressed his sword into his paw, hissing in his ear, “Try to look less like a befuddled frog and more like a clan chief, can’t you? Say something to them, stir them up. Speak!” She mingled in with the crowd and yelled hoarsely, “Gruven Zann Juskazann!”
Others took up the cry until it became a deafening chant. “Gruven Zann Juskazann! Gruven Zann Juskazann!”
Gruven held up his sword and they fell silent as if by magic. He repeated every word that Grissoul, who was standing behind him, whispered in his ear.
“Warriors of the Juskazann, fear not. The coward Taggerung cannot run far or fast enough from my wrath. I vow upon this sword that the otter will pay for his treachery. Aye, I will choose from our best to accompany me, and I’ll bring back his head. We leave at dawn. I will make the name of our clan feared throughout the land. Tell me, you brave ones, what are you called?”
The clanbeasts roared, waving their weapons high. “Juskazann! Juskazann! Gruven Zann Juskazann!”
Grissoul knew then that her plan was working. The clanbeasts were in a frenzy. The Seer sprang up in front of Gruven and flung more powders into the fire. Blue, red, green, silver and purple smoke wreathed her as she cast her bones and shells on the ground. Everybeast was awed by the sight of her, an eerie multihued apparition, howling like a demon.
“Sawney Rath calls to me from beyond the Hellgates! The otter is a traitor Taggerung, a Chieftain murderer and a cowardly runaway! He is not fit to be Taggerung! Shame will fall on our clan if he lives! Gruven Zann Juskazann must slay him and take his title. My omens say that the one who slays a traitor Taggerung can then be called Taggerung by right! Go now, Gruven Zann Juskazann, bring honor to your new-named clan, avenge our fallen Chieftain, bring death to the fleeing coward and take on the name of Gruven Zann Taggerung!”
Even through the flames and smoke, Grissoul could see the fanatical burning light of satisfaction in Antigra’s eyes.
*
Far north in Mossflower Wood, Tagg surfaced from a broad stream. Shaking himself dry he sat on the bank, trying to define his present mood. He was banished from the company of the only beasts he could remember living with, a loner, an outcast from the clan. Yet he felt light-hearted, free and happy. Sometimes he had admired Sawney, his strength, leadership and determination, but he had never really liked the ferret, never called him father, never loved him. Tagg was not bothered that Sawney was hunting him. He had grown old, slower, and more prone to making mistakes because of his quick-tempered mood changes. The otter felt a shudder of joy pass through his entire body from ear to rudder. He was glad to be rid of the whole Juskarath. Life was his, to do with as he pleased. Exactly where he was going and what he intended to do had not occurred to him. Then he remembered the mountain.
Several times that day Tagg had glimpsed it as he traveled north through the woodlands, its pure white craggy cone standing out against the clear blue sky. He moved further along the bank to a higher point, and standing on tip-paw he saw it again, mysterious and cool, its snows turned soft grey by the starry night. Suddenly Tagg wanted to be there. He had never been on a mountain. Fired by the prospect, he leaped high in the air and shouted at the object of his desire. “I’m coming to see you, mountain!”
As he jumped, his head struck something in the overhanging foliage of a tree. Tagg reached up among the leaves and discovered it was a pear. The fruit was not quite ready; it was still hard, but sweet and slightly juicy. Tagg laughed aloud, shouting through a half-full mouth as he plucked another one. “Aye, you stay there, mountain, I’m coming!”
“Yeek! ’Tis a mad riverdog! Stay ’way from ’im, Krobzy!”
“Yarr, don’t fret yore snout, Prethil, I kin deal wid ’im!”
Tagg stood still, instantly alert, looking about to see where the voices were coming from. Two bankvoles were standing at the water’s edge below him. He smiled politely at them. “Hello!”
The male was a small fat fellow, clad in a homespun nightshirt. He brandished a club and stood protectively in front of the female, wiggling his nose aggressively, as bankvoles do when they are ready to fight. He pointed the club at Tagg. “Donchew ’ello me, ruddertail, or I’ll boff ye a good ’un. Wot’s yore name an’ wot’s yore business on our midden, eh, eh?”
Tagg leaned his paw against the dagger in his belt. “I wouldn’t chance trying to boff me if I were you.”
The bankvole started up the hill toward Tagg, with the female trying to pull him back. The otter’s words had roused his temper. “Hohoh, wouldn’t ye now? Lissen, streamwalloper, I’ve boffed bigger’n you many a time, don’t fret yore snout about that!”
Tagg did not want to hurt the bankvole. He tried reasoning. “Now now, what are you getting so carried away about, friend?”
Shaking the female off, the bankvole hopped excitedly about. “Carried away, me? Hoho, that’s a good ’un! Yore stannin’ up there, bawlin’ an’ shoutin’ an’ wakin’ the babies. Stealin’ an’ pinchin’ an’ scoffin’ away at our pears. Wotjer expeck me t’do, come out an’ give ye a big kiss, eh, eh?”
He hurled himself at Tagg, who moved swiftly to one side. As the bankvole went sprawling, Tagg disabled him by placing a footpaw on the back of his head and pinning his clubpaw to the ground with his strong rudderlike tail. Facedown and helpless, the angry creature snuffled his snout against the earth.
The female sat down, weeping into her nightie. “Ahoohoo hoo! I tole ye the riverdog wiz mad. Now ’e’ll murdify both of us an’ eat us all up. Oh, ’elp us, somebeast. Ahoohoohoo!”
Taking the club away from the male, Tagg picked him up and sat him down next to his blubbering partner. “Hush now, marm, I’m not going to murder or eat either of you. I wouldn’t hurt you, I’m a friend. Come on now, dry your eyes.”
She pushed his comforting paw aside. “Go ’way an’ don’t even speak t’me, ye villigan!”
The male seemed to compose his temper rapidly. He winked at Tagg before throwing a sympathetic paw around the female. “Yarr, cummon, muther, turn the waterfall off. ’E ain’t goin’ to ’urt us, are ye, sunshine? I’m Krobzy an’ this is me missus, Prethil. Wot’s yore name?”
Tagg held out his paw. “Oh, just call me Tagg. Pleased to meet you.”
Prethil scrubbed at her eyes with the nightie hem. “Pleased to meechew like . . . ler . . . hic! Ler hic! Hic! . . . wise. Hic!”
Krobzy hugged his little fat wife. “Lookit, ye’ve gone an’ gived yoreself ’iccups now wid all that cryin’. Grab ’old of yore snout an’ bang yer tail aginst the floor, that always stops the ’iccups. Are you ’ungry, Tagg? Is that why yore scoff in’ our pears, eh, eh?”
The otter helped them both up onto their paws. “Sorry, I didn’t know the pears were yours. Yes, I am hungry. I haven’t eaten since midday.”
Krobzy dusted Prethil down before attending to himself. “Well, why didn’t ye say so, ye great rudderwhacker? Come on back to the ’omestead. We’ll feed yore big famine-stricken gob!”
The homestead was actually built under the hill Tagg had been standing on, with a tunnel leading to it from a secret entrance on the bank. It was a big comfortable place with pear tree roots tracing their way across the ceiling and down the walls. There were other bankvoles living within, alongside a big family of watervoles and another family of fieldvoles. They gathered around the otter, touching the amber-hilted knife with its blue pommel-stone. Little ones rode Tagg’s tail by sitting on it, others felt his paws and strong limbs admiringly.
“Big feller, ain’t ’e!”
“Aye, fine pow’ful beastie!”
“Wouldn’t like t’meet ’im up a creek on a dark night, eh, eh?”
“Phwarr! That’n would swipe the tail offa ye wid that blade!”
“Oh aye, fine sharp blade that’n is, eh, eh?”
Prethil shooed them away and led Tagg to a table. “Will ye leave the pore beast alone? ’E’s ’ungry!”
This statement caused even more speculation from the voles.
“Bet ’e could wade through a fair bit o’ grub?”
“Yarr, so c’d you if’n you was ’is size!”
“No use givin’ ’im a small bowl an’ a liddle tankard, eh, eh?”
Krobzy pushed them aside and sat down with Tagg. A bushy male watervole joined them. Krobzy introduced him. “Tagg, this is Sekkendin. We calls ’im that ’cos ’e’s my sekkendin command ’round ’ere.”
The table moved as a pile of younger voles pushed in against it, trying to get closer to the newcomer. Sekkendin glared at them. “Goo ’way, g’wan, the lot of ye. Go an’ show Tagg ’ow youse kin dance. Rakkadoo, make some gob music for ’em, willyer!”
A kindly-looking fieldvole placed hot nutbread and a pan of vegetable stew in front of the otter, commenting, “Bowl’d be too liddle for the likes of ye, sir. Eat ’earty now.”
Krobzy poured out tankards of a fruity-tasting beer, which the voles called bankbrew. Tagg ate and drank as he witnessed the voles’ pawskills at dancing.
Two elders began twanging on jawharps and the one called Rakkadoo rattled out a curious melody. It was very fast and comprised of odd sounds interwoven with words.
“Ho rang tang rattledy battledy,
Twirl y’tails an’ kick up y’paws,
Flibberty flabberty rumple dee doo,
Which ’un’s mine an’ wot one’s yores?
Y’jump like a trout an’ y’caper about,
An’ don’t dare stamp on anybeast’s tail,
Roll like a vole playin’ toad in an ’ole,
An’ rackit an’ rampit an’ fetch the good ale!
Rubbledy dubbledy fleas never troubled me,
Fiddledee faddle an’ diddle dee doo,
Slugs never ’it me an’ bugs never bit me,
I’m far too fast so I’ll leave ’em t’you.
A rap tap tap I jump so ’igh,
There’s birds beneath me flyin’ by,
Flippin’ an’ flappin’ me paws are a-tappin’,
To beat a vole dancin’ y’never should try. Hi!”
Apart from seeing a few rats sing the odd verse around the campfire, Tagg had never known anything like the voles’ dancing. His own footpaws felt weary from rapping the floor in time with them. Even the smallest of infant voles could dance expertly, and not only that but they could somersault, backflip and perform the most amazing acrobatics without missing a beat of the gob music. They came crowding around the table again, but Prethil appeared brandishing a stone and a branch in her paws.
“Last beast a-snorin’ gets rubbed down with a rock’n’a root in the river!”
With fearful yowls the little voles fled into another chamber, where they flung themselves on the moss-strewn floor and began making small snoring noises. Krobzy smiled.
“Yarr, that’s got rid o’ the pests fer the night. Now then, Tagg me ole sunshine, tell us all about yoreself. We got all night an’ us voles do like a good yarn!”
The otter took a draft of bankbrew to moisten his throat. “Let me see, now. How did it all start . . .?”
*
Dawn broke clear and quiet. Gruven was still slumbering deep when his mother’s footpaw stirred him awake. “Gruven Zann, up now. There’s big things for you to do!”
The stoat sat up, picking at the corners of his eyes. “It’s not properly daylight yet. I’m tired!”
He rolled aside as Antigra slammed the swordpoint into the ground beside him. Bringing her face close, she hissed, “I didn’t wait all these seasons for you to be tired. You are a clan Chieftain now. Get up!”
He rose hastily and donned the cloak he had been given the previous evening. It was a dark red dyed barkcloth, a touch short for Gruven, but it added slightly to his bearing as a new Chieftain. Recalling the events of the last few days, he tugged the sword free, allowing anger and hatred to build inside him. Antigra straightened the cloak about her son. She stared into his vengeful eyes, murmuring in a low voice, so that those waiting outside could not hear, “That’s more like it. Remember this: as long as the otter lives you cannot really call yourself leader of the Juskazann. Keep that in mind, and hunt as you have never hunted before. When you do catch up with him, slay him by any means, fair or foul. Only then can you return here to claim your full title. Go now!”
Grissoul awaited Gruven outside the tent. The Seer had eight vermin with her, fully armed. She waited until Antigra came out to join her before speaking.
“Gruven Zann Juskazann! I have chosen eight of our best to go with thee. Eefera, Dagrab, Ribrow, Grobait, Milkeye, Rabbad, Rawback and Vallug Bowbeast. Command them well and bring back the head of the traitor Taggerung. Thy mother and I will go with thee as far as the spot where Sawney Rath lies slain. You will pick up the trail from there. You warriors, guard your chief with your lives. If you return here without him you will all die.”
From their open tents and around cooking fires, the clan watched as Antigra and Gruven led the hunting party out of the clearing. Through the summer-dappled trees of Mossflower they trotted, heading north for the oak tree where the murders occurred. Grissoul traveled at the rear, with one of Sawney’s most trusted lieutenants, the weasel Eefera. He was a big taciturn beast, well-versed in the art of death. Grissoul had instructed him precisely. He knew what to do should Gruven shrink from his mission or show fear. Accidents could always happen out among the woodlands.