Driftail could not believe his good fortune. Unwinding the sling from about his lean waist, he selected a few pebbles from his pouch. Crawling stealthily along on his stomach, he tried getting closer to the curlew for an easy shot. The bird froze momentarily, then began walking again, as though it sensed it was being hunted. It paced off in the opposite direction from Driftail, not yet frightened enough to leave the flat rocks where the insects lived. Driftail moved forward a little more, loading a pebble into his sling. Then he crouched and began whirling it. The curlew, immediately hearing the disturbance, did a short hop-skip and winged off into the air. The River Rat leader let the sling wrap around his paw, mentally cursing the lost breakfast. Just then, spying a white fox, he fell flat amid the scrub and watched it approach from the west, oblivious to his presence.
Driftail swiftly backshuffled to the streambank. Sliding down the side, he hissed urgently to his gang, “T’row sand onna fire quick! Arm you’selfs, a lonebeast comes diss way!”
A moment later, all mundane activities had ceased. The rat gang—armed with a motley assortment of weaponry: broken knives, sharpened sticks and stone-topped clubs—crouched below the banktop behind their leader.
Runneye, a rat with a leaking squint, peered over the rim at their intended prey. “Worra sorta beast be that ’un, Drift?”
Driftail grabbed Runneye’s tail and pulled him down. “Dat’s a foxer, funny white ’un. Gorra curvity sword anna likkle bag o’ vikkles, too!”
One of the gang ventured a peek over the banktop. “Mebbe dat foxer be good wirra sword, an’ not frykind?”
Driftail hauled the speaker down and cuffed him scornfully. “Gerraravit! On’y one foxer, they’s lots of us, we’ll lay ’im flat! Dat curvity sword an’ de nice belt wot foxer’s wearin’, dey mine, y’hear?”
He slitted his eyes, glaring fiercely at the gang until they lowered their gaze. Knowing the prizes were his without question, he loaded his sling with a rock the size of his paw. “We all shares de vikkles out.”
The white fox was close to the bankside when Driftail popped up and launched his stone, striking the fox on the side of his jaw. He did not fall but clapped a paw to his face, staggering about half stunned.
Driftail howled triumphantly, “Quicknow, gerrim!”
The gang charged out and mobbed the white fox, dragging him down. A blow from Runneye’s club finished the job, knocking the fox unconscious. They bundled him down the bank to the stream’s edge.
Driftail dashed down the slope in time to kick one of the gang who was wielding a rusty knife. “Mud’ead, not killim yet, I want words wid diss one!”
Whilst the rats fought over the fox’s small ration bag, Driftail relieved his captive of the belt and sickle sword. Grabbing some tough vines, he bound the prisoner’s paws together and slung water over the fox’s head to revive him.
It took awhile for the strange creature to come around. He struggled briefly with his bonds, then looked up at the ugly, grinning faces surrounding him.
Runneye sniggered nastily. “Heeheehee, gotcha self inna big troubles now, pretty white foxer!”
Elbowing Runneye out of the way, Driftail leaned down and drew the sickle-shaped sword. “Wot name be yer called, foxer?”
The captive glared at Driftail but maintained his silence.
The River Rat tapped the point of the blade on the fox’s chest. “Ya be dumb, or jus’ shoopid, eh? I be Chief round ’ere! When I axe question, yew answer quick, or I skin yer slow. Wherra ye commed from, foxer? Speak!”
The prisoner stared levelly, unafraid of the rat. “From the land of ice, across the great sea.”
Driftail had never heard of or seen a great sea. He kicked the fox savagely. “Ha, fibba lie! How yew comed, who yew comed wid—eh, eh?”
The white fox replied flatly, “We came in a great ship, a band of us one hundred strong, led by Gulo the Savage.”
Driftail sensed a note of contempt in his captive’s voice. He kicked the bound fox several times more. Then he strutted around the streambank, doing a bad imitation of the fox’s voice for the benefit of his gang. “Ho yes, I come onna big shippen, wid a strong band of hunnerd, an’ Glugo der Sanvage. Hah, we be scared, eh?”
Hoots of derision came from the River Rat gang, taking a cue from their chief’s disbelief of the fox’s explanation.
One of the rats began pretending that he was all of a tremble. He knelt down by the bound fox, wailing piteously, “Waaaaah, I be reel frykenned. Save me, save me!”
The fox waited for the jeering to die down before he replied, “So ye should be feared, stupid fool!”
Driftail struck him across the face with the flat of his sword. “Yew gorra smart tongue, foxer. Afore I chop it off, tell me, where be all dese hunnerd beast an’ yore big Glugo now, eh?”
For the first time since his capture, the white fox smiled. He stared over Driftail’s shoulder at the top of the bank. “Right behind you, rat!”
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Driftail and his gang whirled around at the sound. White foxes and ermine, all armed to the fangs, lined the banktop. Two of them bore a large elaborate banner between them; another two were positioned on each side of an ornate drum. Standing between them, beating the drum, stood a beast straight out of nightmare—Gulo the Savage. He exuded power and ferocity. With eyes glittering insanely and saliva dripping from his bared fangs, he struck the drum one more time. Boom! As he pointed the drumstick at the rats, his army swept down on them, chanting, “Gulo! Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!”
Petrified with fright, the small River Rat gang was swiftly surrounded. This army looked more vicious and numerous than they could imagine. Gulo stalked past them disdainfully, followed by two of his captains—a white fox, Shard, and an ermine, Dirig—and four guards. Further up the bank, they set the stolen standard up and laid the drum flat, where Gulo could sit on it.
Closely guarded, the River Rats were forced to sit on the stream edge, well away from Gulo. They were left to ponder their fate in silence. Anybeast who tried to look up, or whisper, was soundly beaten with spearbutts. After a while, Zerig, the white fox whom they had held captive, came among them.
He seized Driftail by the ears, dragging him free of the rest. Yanking the belt from the rat leader and retrieving his sword, he gestured upstream. “Lord Gulo will see thee now!”
Now that a fire had been lit for him, Gulo perched on the rim of the drum, holding a bulrush stalk over the flames. Spitted on it was the very curlew which had eluded Driftail but had not been so lucky when one of Gulo’s ermine had brought it down with a well-aimed arrow. Not bothering to have the bird plucked, Gulo was roasting it. A rank stench of burning feathers hung on the air. The wolverine savage glanced up as Zerig thrust Driftail into his presence. The four guards shoved the rat into a kneeling position within reach of Gulo, who continued his cooking as he eyed the trembling River Rat. Gulo the Savage was well aware that he created this effect in lesser beasts.
Driftail’s eyes began flicking back and forth. Betraying his fear, he almost leaped up at the sound of Gulo’s harsh, grating tones. “What are ye doing around here, rat? What name do ye go by?”
Driftail strove to keep the shrillness of panic out of his voice. “We lives onna water, fish an’ get roots to eat. I be called Driftail . . . Lord.”
The rat’s voice faltered as Gulo stared at him. Taking the curlew from the fire, Gulo tested it with a long, sharp claw. “Driftail, eh? Ye ever see one like me passing hereabouts?”