Gulo the Savage had entrusted him, as a high-ranking captain, with the flag. Urfig knew that his life was at an end. The wolverine would surely slay him for the loss of his standard—unless . . . ? Unless Urfig could think of an excuse that would satisfy his ruthless master. He tried to ignore his injured head, frantically seeking an alibi. There was no way that Gulo would accept the true explanation: his flag taken by some little woodlander? Never! Urfig wandered about distractedly until his eyes lit on the tracks Yoofus had left—scrapemarks where the swordpoint had dragged behind the vole and a blurring where the flag tassels had swept along with it. Urfig suddenly saw a ruse that might spare his life. It was a desperate chance, a wild gamble, but it had to be taken swiftly.
Gulo had becomed accustomed to the fair weather of this new land, but he was not a lover of rain, or even drizzle. On his orders, his guards had erected a canvas over a low tree limb. There he sat, gazing sourly into a smoky fire, awaiting the arrival of better conditions.
Nobeast was more surprised than the wolverine when Urfig came hurriedly staggering out of the mist. Scattering the fire, he lurched into the awning, knocking the canvas loose.
Collapsing in a heap, the captain gasped hoarsely, “Askor, it was thy brother Askor, Lord!”
Gulo sprang up. Grabbing the captain, he pulled him from the wreckage and hauled him upright. “My brother—where, when? Speak, fool!”
Urfig did not have to put on an act. Genuinely terrified, he babbled out a reply. “I was almost killed, Lord, knocked senseless. I have just awakened and come here, straight to thee! During the night, Sire, thy brother Askor came. He stole my sword and thy banner! He knocked me over the head with a pole, sire. . . .”
Gulo shook the fox like a rag, covering his face in spittle as he bellowed, “Was it really Askor? Which way did he go?”
Urfig pointed a trembling paw in the direction taken by Yoofus. “Truly, ’twas thy brother, Lord. Methinks he went that way, north.”
Dragging the captain along by his ears, Gulo yelled out orders. “Guards! Guards! To the north! Find me a trail!”
Yanking Urfig close, he brought him eye to eye. “The Walking Stone, did he have the Walking Stone?”
The hapless captain, up on tippaws, felt as though his ears were being pulled out by the roots. “Mighty One, I did not see, it happened so swiftly!”
The ermine Garfid, who was Gulo’s best tracker, was down on all fours, examining the ground. “Over here, Sire. I see marks!”
Gulo was quivering all over as he knelt beside the tracker. “What do ye see? Tell me, are they those of that brother of mine?”
Garfid glanced over the wolverine’s shoulder and caught the nod from Urfig’s frightened face. The tracker was no fool; he took the wise course, knowing death could be the result of an unfavourable answer to his ruthless chieftain. “Only mighty beasts such as thee can leave a deep clawmark, Lord. The blurring of the edges means that the creature had long-haired paws like thine. The drizzling rain has not helped this trail, but it looks very like thy brother’s marks, Sire.”
Gulo the Savage threw back his head, letting out a great screeching howl of triumph. “Yaaaaheeeeegh! I knew it, ’tis Askor! We go north, now. Now!”
14
Tam sat on the streambank with Doogy, Ferdimond and Wonwill. It was long gone dawn, and no cooking fires had been lit. They breakfasted on hard oatcakes and apples, with streamwater to wash them down.
Doogy blew rainwater off his swollen nose. “Ach, ’tis no’ much of a day tae be goin’ on with!”
Wonwill chuckled drily. “Wot, complaints already, Mister Plumm? Ye’ve not been with the Patrol more’n a day or two an’ lookit the fun you’ve ’ad. A nice liddle stroll of a march, a fight, an’ now yore moanin’ about the beautiful mornin’ an’ a free drizzlewash. Ye don’t know yore born, mate!”
Ferdimond gazed gloomily out at the prevailing mist and rain. “Lucky old us, wot. I say, Sarge, where’s the Brigadier got to?”
Wonwill cocked a paw behind him. “Saw ’im go up t’the top o’ the bank yonder. I’ve gotta feelin’ Brig Crumshaw’ll be wantin’ me shortly.”
As if in answer, the brigadier’s voice called from the banktop. “Sergeant Wonwill, d’ye mind attendin’ me, please?”
The hare’s tough features broke into a grin. “See, I told ye! C’mon, buckoes, let’s see wot the h’officer requires.”
Brigadier Crumshaw waved his swagger stick at the flatlands in front of them. “Y’see this, confounded mist an’ blinkin’ drizzle, too. Can’t abide the blitherin’ stuff. Right, Sergeant, quick’s the word an’ sharp’s the action, wot! Can’t mope around here waitin’ for gallopers all day, eh?”
The sergeant was aware of his officer’s plan. He saluted. “H’exactly, sah, just as y’say. H’I take it ye want the Patrol up an’ marchin’, sah. But wot about young Kersey an’ Dauncey, sah?”
Tam shouldered his shield. “We’ll prob’ly meet up with ’em on the march.”
Crumshaw pointed his stick at Tam. “Well said that, chap! Brisk march’ll get the miseries out of us, wot! Maybe the blinkin’ weather’ll buck up soon.”
The Long Patrol were glad to form ranks and march off, even though their paws squished on the damp grass.
Doogy trudged along looking thoughtful. “Suppose those wee gallopers—Kersey’n’Dauncey is it?—suppose they miss us in all this mist?”
Wonwill kept his eyes straight ahead. “That’s a thought, Mister Plumm. Mister De Mayne, sah, would ye oblige us with h’a song? Sing out good’n’loud so the gallopers will ’ear ye. That should do the trick.”
Ferdimond coughed and tried to look distressed. “Actually I’ve got a bit of a jolly old frog in me throat this mornin’, Sarge. Couldn’t some other chap do the singin’?”
Wonwill grinned mischievously. “Nah, nah, young Ferdimond, h’orders is h’orders, let the frog do the singin’, eh?”
The young hare had quite a fair tenor voice, which rang out nicely as he rendered an old barracks room ballad.
“When I joined the regiment my comrades said to me,
there is one beast we fear more than the foe.
An army marches on its stomach, so ’tis plain to see,
that fool we call the cook has got to go!
O the cook! O the cook!
If words could kill, or just a dirty look,
he’d have snuffed it long ago, turned his paws up doncha know,
he’d be gladly written off the record book!
What a greasy fat old toad, that assassin of the road,
we tried to hire him to the enemy.
But they smelt the stew he made, mercy on us they all prayed,
we’ll surrender, you can have him back for free!
O the cook! O the cook!
He could poison a battalion with his chuck.
I’ve seen him boilin’ cabbage, an’ the filthy little savage,
takes a bath in it to wash off all the muck!
He made a batch of scones, big grey lumpy solid ones,
the Sergeant lost four teeth at just one bite.
Then an officer ordered me, sling them at the enemy,
an’ those that we don’t slay we’ll put to flight!
O the cook! O the cook!
He’s stirring porridge with his rusty hook.
Playin’ hopscotch with the toast, he’s the one that we hate most,