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In the northeast reaches of Mossflower Wood a traveler had walked straight into trouble. Drigg Slopmouth and his brood numbered thirteen in all, nasty, vicious stoats every one. Drigg’s family loved to cheat, lie, steal, bully or murder, even among themselves; their chief hatred was honest toil. The only work they had done that day was to lie in wait for an unsuspecting wayfarer, a lanky, carefree young hare known to her friends as Dotti. She was reckless and impatient and not overfond of studying, but what she lacked in scholarly achievement she made up for in impudence, courage and a sharp wit. The realization that she was surrounded by Drigg and his band of robbers did not seem to upset her unduly.
She nodded amiably at them. “Good mornin’, chaps an’ chappesses. Not a bad old sort o’ day for the time of season, wot!”
A snigger arose from the stoats.
“Lookit wot we caught, Drigg—a posh rabbit!”
Dotti rounded on the speaker, a fat, frowsy female. “Specifically incorrect, doncha know, my old stoatess. I’m a hare, not a rabbit. Now say it correctly after me. Lookit wot we caught, Drigg—a posh hare.”
Drigg stepped between them, pointing to the traveling haversack, which resembled an outsized handbag, swinging from the young hare’s paw. “Empty yer bag on the ground!”
Dotti smiled sweetly at him. “Oh, I’d rather not, sir. It’d take me half the day to get the jolly old thing repacked, wot!”
A large, dim-looking stoat, Drigg’s eldest son, pushed forward. “Then tell us wot you got in yer bag, an’ don’t say it isn’t nothin’.”
Dotti clucked reprovingly. “You mean don’t say it isn’t anything. Dearie me, I’ll bet you never attended woodland school.”
The big stoat snarled, pawing at a long dagger he wore hanging from his belt. “Just show us wot’s in the bag, rabbit!”
The haremaid wagged a paw at him. “There you go again with that rabbit error. Did I call you a stoat? Of course I didn’t. It’s obvious to anybeast you’re an oversized toad. Oh, sorry, the bag. Here, you take it!”
Dotti swung the bag, hard. There was a cracking noise as it struck the stoat’s head, laying him out flat. She whirled upon the others, a perilous glint in her eyes. “I can forgive bad grammar and insults, but that was a good flagon of old cider, a gift for my aunt Blench, an’ that oaf has just broken it with his head. Unforgivable! Ah well, there’s only one thing I’ve got left to say to you lot . . . Eulaaaliiiaaaaaa!”
The time-honored war cry of fighting hares rang out as Dotti hurled herself upon the would-be robbers, laying about her with her bag left and right, leaping and kicking out fiercely with powerful, rangy footpaws.
From the shelter of a broad beech nearby, another traveler watched the melee. He chuckled quietly. The young hare seemed to be doing fine, despite the number of vermin she was facing. Dotti had accounted for three more stoats and was in the process of depriving the fat, frowsy one of her remaining snaggle teeth when Drigg caught her footpaws in a noose. The haremaid was yanked off balance and floored as three stoats leapt upon her back. Drigg Slopmouth drew a sharp double-edged dagger and circled his fallen victim, calling to those who had piled in on her: “Get ’er on ’er back an’ stretch ’er neck, so’s I can get a stab in. ’Old ’er still, ye blitherin’ oafs!”
From his position behind the beech tree, the watcher decided it was time to step in and help the beleaguered hare. Drigg screeched in terror as he was lifted into the air and used as a swatter to knock the other stoats willy-nilly. His flailing paws swept vermin left and right, the wind was knocked from him as his stomach connected with the back of another, and stars exploded when his head cracked against the jaw of a hefty young stoat. Dotti scrambled upright swinging her bag, but there was nobeast to strike. Vermin lay everywhere, those still conscious moaning aloud, nursing their injuries. Drigg still hung, half dazed, from the paw of a mighty male badger. The huge creature looked like one who would brook no nonsense from anybeast, from his wild dark eyes and rough, bearded muzzle to the homespun tunic and traveler’s cloak he wore. An immense double-hilted battle sword hung at his back. He tossed Drigg aside like a discarded washrag and nodded sternly at the haremaid.
“I’ve been watching you awhile from behind yon beech. For a young ’un you were doing well, until they came at you from behind. Remember, if there’s more than one enemy always get your back against a rock or a tree.”
The haremaid kicked over a stoat who was struggling to rise. She addressed the badger none too cordially. “Well you’ve got a bally nerve I must say, tellin’ a gel how t’conduct her battles, while you sit hidden on the blinkin’ sidelines watchin’. Are you sure it wasn’t too much bother, havin’ to jolly well get off your bottom an’ help me out?”
The badger shrugged noncommittally. “As I said, I thought you were doing quite well. If I’d thought you could have taken them single-pawed I wouldn’t have stepped in.”
Dotti was subject to instant mood changes. She smiled, scratching ruefully at her long ears. “Hmm, suppose you’re right. I lost my head a bit when that flagon of rare old cider got broken. Confounded stoat must have a noggin like a boulder. Never lose one’s temper, that’s what my old mum used t’say.”
The badger nodded sagely, carelessly stepping on Drigg’s tail as the stoat tried to crawl away. “She sounds like a wise creature to me. Pity you never heeded her words. By the way, my name’s Lord Brocktree.”
The haremaid clapped a paw to her cheek. “Oh my giddy aunt! I do apologize for speakin’ to you in that sharp manner, sah. I didn’t know you were a Badger Lord!”
A ghost of a smile hovered around Brocktree’s stern face. “No matter. You were upset at the time. What do they call you, miss?”
The haremaid did an elegant leg, half bow, half curtsy. “Dorothea Duckfontein Dillworthy at y’service, sah, but I’m generally called Dotti, though my papa always said you could call me anything as long as you didn’t call me late for lunch. ’Scuse me a tick . . .”
The fat, frowsy female stoat had risen and was preparing to make a run for it. Dotti reflattened her with a well-placed swing of her bag. She gestured at Drigg’s band. “What do we do with this covey of curmudgeons, m’lord?”
With a fearsome swish, Lord Brocktree drew his great battle sword. It was almost as tall as himself, with a blade wide as two dock leaves. A moan of fear arose from the stoats. Holding it single-pawed between the double hilt, Brocktree swung the huge weapon, making the air thrum like a swan taking off into flight.
Whump!
He buried the point deep in the earth, and his voice dropped to a dangerous growl as he addressed the cowed vermin.
“I save my sword for proper combat with real warriors. Scum such as you would only dishonor its blade. But I will make exceptions if any of you are still within my sight by the time I have counted to three. Remember, I always keep my word . . . One!”
Dotti was bowled over in the mad scramble. Before the Badger Lord had counted further, Drigg Slopmouth and his wicked brood had vanished. Dotti chuckled. “By gum, that’s what I should’ve done in the first place. Pity I didn’t have a sword like this one. What a smashin’ old destroyer it is!”
She tugged with both paws, unearthing the blade, then fell over backward under its colossal weight. “Flamin’ sunsets, sah! How d’you handle a weapon like this?”
For answer, the badger picked up his sword, twirled it in a warrior’s salute and stowed it one-pawed across his broad back, nodding seriously at her. “Strength, I suppose. They say I was born even stronger than my father, Lord Stonepaw.”
Dotti flopped her ears understandingly. “I know what y’mean. Beauty’s always been my curse—they say I was born more beautiful than the jolly old settin’ sun at solstice. That’s prob’ly what made those blinkin’ stoats attack me—somebeasts take beauty as a sign o’ weakness, y’know. I say, did you mention that old Lord Stonepaw was your pater?”
Brocktree retrieved his traveling bag from behind the beech and shouldered it. “I did. Why, do you know of him?”
Dotti pulled a face and scuffed the dust with her footpaw. “I should bally well say so. I’m bein’ sent to his blinkin’ old mountain, Sallawotjacallit . . .”
“Salamandastron?”
“Aye, that’s the place. My aunt Blench is the chief cook there. I believe she’s a right old battleaxe.”
Lord Brocktree sensed a story behind Dotti’s remarks. Seating himself with his back against the beech tree, he unpacked provisions from his bulky haversack. “Sit down here by me, Dotti. D’you like oatcakes, cheese and elderflower cordial?”
The haremaid plonked herself willingly on the grass. “Rather! I haven’t eaten for absolute ages—almost an hour, I think. Mmmm, that cheese looks good!”
Lord Brocktree could not help but smile at the hungry youngster. “Well, there’s plenty for two, miss. Help yourself and we’ll exchange our stories, you first. Tell me, why are you being sent to Salamandastron?”
