a few sharp prods in its feathery bottom. Don't like owls myself."
The sun was up and shining brightly within an hour, but instead of clearing
the mist it seemed to make it thicker. Martin and his friends were eager to
continue the quest. Politely they refused entreaties from the bats to stay as
long as
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they wished, though with a tinge of regret because of the kindness and
hospitality shown them by the tribe of Bat Mountpit.
Lord Cayvear presented them with haversacks of fresh food and drink. The great
bat stayed inside the darkness of the exit hole with his tribe, away from the
glaring sunlight.
Martin shook him heartily by the paw. "Now, put that barrier up as soon as we
leave. Better safe than sorry, my friend."
The little bats clung to Dinny. "Fly back through the earth and visit us one
day, visit us one day," they begged.
The mole was visibly moved. "Doant 'ee fret, little bat uns. Thiz yurr mole'll
see 'ee sumtime."
Log-a-Log gave final instructions as to the care and main" tenance of the
gate. All three then stood for a moment in the awkward silence that often
marks the parting of friends. Martin was about to say that Gonff would have
composed a ballad for the occasion, but he turned away with a sigh. Adjusting
the sword hilt about his neck, he faced the outer world.
They began the sloping descent with Lord Cayvear's whispered farewell in their
ears.
"Our spirit flies with you. May you find what you quest for, what you quest
for."
The going proved not too difficult. They dug their paws into the loose scree
and shale, half-walking, half-sliding.
"If only Gonff were here," Martin could not help remarking. "He'd remember the
exact words of the Skyfurrow poem. Let me see, now. 'Land lost in mist and
gray-brown treachery1—or something like that. I can't recall it properly."
Dinny braked himself against a boulder. "Nay, nor do oi. Proper owd pudden
'eads us be, hurr hurr."
Log-a-Log took a chunk of rock and tossed it outward. It fell down into the
mist, vanishing completely.
"Usually some kind of swamp or marshland under mist like that. We'd best keep
our wits about us down there," he warned.
It was midday when they finally reached the bottomland. The mist was dense and
high above their heads. It blocked out the sky, leaving the travelers in a
world of swirling fog. Dark squelchy moss and slimy weeds carpeted the ground,
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dotted with wide areas of evil-smelling fungus. Here and there rivulets ran,
as if trying to find a way out of this oppressive region.
Dinny gazed into the mist. "Yurr, be that summat moven over yon?"
They stopped to peer. Log-a-Log rubbed his eyes. "It might be. Then again, it
might be the mist playing tricks. If you let your imagination run away with
you, ail sorts of shapes start popping up."
The travelers leaned against a large humped rock to take their noon meal.
Martin broke off some bread. "I've got the strangest feeling that we're being
watched," he said, chewing as he spoke.
Dinny tapped the rock. "Diggen claw be a-tellen oi that too, Marthen."
Suddenly, behind them, six huge toads bearing the ends of a twisted reed net
leaped from the top of the rock. Passing right over the travelers' heads, they
landed square on the ground, neatly trapping the three friends tightly
underneath the net.
One toad poked a trident at them.
"Krryoik glogflugg glumbatt. Catchincaught threehere!"
Tsarmina pushed her party hard into the fastnesses of Moss-flower. She halted
frequently to sniff the earth or trace the pawprints in soft ground.
"No mistake, this is them, all right. Look here: my traitor brother, carrying
something heavy, by these deep prints. Keep going. Dawn can't be too far off;
we'll give those woodland-ers a breakfast they won't forget.''
High in a tree above Tsarmina's force, Barklad the squirrel sat muttering to
himself, "Too many heads to count. Looks like most of Kotir has been mobilized
to track us down."
He_ vaulted off across the high green terraces to make his report.
Cludd pointed with his spear. "Blood spots, Milady." The wildcat Queen
inspected sticky dark red flecks brushed
off on the leaves of a lilac bush.
' 'Otter. That must be the one who tricked us into thinking
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he was a fox—Patchcoat. He took the arrow that was meant for Gingivere."
Cludd ground his teeth. "Patchcoat, eh? I want that one myself, wounded or
not. He's wearing my Captain's cloak."
Tsarmina pushed onward. "Take who you please, but Gingivere's mine. Leave him
to me," she ordered.
The soldiers marched forward confidently, made brave by sheer weight of
numbers.
Not far from Camp Willow, the ancient gnarled tree that was its namesake bent
lithe boughs over the clear flowing river. Beneath its branches the dawn light
filtered through onto the party who had gathered round the last resting place
of the Mask. Smooth river boulders in a cairn marked the spot; flowers and
decorated otter slings were laid on the grave in tribute to a fallen comrade.
Skipper sighed heavily, turning away to join Lady Amber, who was listening to
Barklad's report. Cold fury had overtaken the otter leader's grief; at his
insistence there would be none but otters to face the oncoming hordes of
Kotir. Lady Amber wisely acceded to her friend's wishes, but not before she
had outlined a few plans of her own.
"Do what you have to, Skipper, and good luck to you. The whole of Kotir is
abroad in Mossflower, so be careful. However, this is an opportunity we must
not miss. I have sent messengers to Brockhall. No doubt the Foremole and his
crew would welcome a chance to inspect Kotir while the cat's away. I will take
my force to make sure they get there and back in safety. Agreed?"
Skipper greased his sling with slippery bark and checked the rows of
dangerous-looking otter javelins sticking point down into the bank.
"Agreed!"
Ashleg was first to sight the river, heavily swathed in morning mist from bank
to bank.
"We've been here before, Milady," he reminded her. "This is where we lost
Gloomer. Surely this isn't where they have their headquarters?''
The Queen of the Thousand Eyes peered into the mists
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ahead. "No matter. This is where the trail leads; here is where they'll be.
What's that?"
Cludd stood forward brandishing his spear. "It's that otter, Milady. Look, the
insolent hound is still wearing my cloak. Let me at him!"
Tsarmina nodded toward the spectral figure that stood wreathed in the mists.
"Get to it, Cludd," she commanded. "Obviously they know we've been following.
I'll check around for surprises. We won't be fooled a second time. Oh and
Cludd—"
"Yes, Milady?"
"See you finish the job properly, if you want to wear that cloak as a Captain
again."
Hefting his spear Cludd advanced on the cloaked figure. "You just leave it to
me, Majesty. Right, Patchcoat, let's settle this once and for all," he
challenged.
Skipper stepped out of the tendrils of mist, shedding the cloak. "I'm ready
for you, weasel. The one you called Patch-coat was my brother. You're not fit
to lick his paws. I will give you your cloak back to take with you to the
gates of Dark Forest; they have a special place for cowards there."
Stung by the insult, Cludd bellowed with rage as he charged.
Skipper allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction. Flexing his powerful