Struggling wildly between two stoats, the captive mouse was dragged into the bedchamber. He was secured by a long rope, which the guards tried to keep taut as he dodged and jumped, scratched and bit, first letting the rope go slack, then dashing forward so the two guards were pulled together; as they collided he leaped upon them, biting and kicking despite the rope that pinned his paws to his sides. A ferret guard from the door came running in to help. Between the three of them they managed to pin the warlike mouse upon the floor. They lay on top of him, trying to avoid the butting head and nipping teeth. The mouse was breathing heavily, his eyes flashing reckless defiance at his captors.

Verdauga sat up straight, sleep forgotten as he questioned the two stoats. “Make your report. What have we got here?”

One of the stoats freed his paw and threw a quick salute. “Lord, this one was caught within the bounds of your lands. He is a stranger, and goes armed.”

A weasel marched in and placed the traveler’s ancient rusty sword at the foot of the bed.

Verdauga looked from under hooded lids at the sword and the sturdy young mouse upon the floor. “It is against my law to carry arms or to trespass upon my domain.”

The mouse struggled against his captors, shouting out in a loud, angry voice, “I didn’t know it was your land, cat. Tell your guards to take their claws off and release me. You have no right to imprison a freeborn creature.”

Verdauga could not help but admire the obvious courage of the prisoner. He was about to speak, when Tsarmina grasped the battered sword and stood over the captive with the point at his throat. “You insolent scum! Quick now, what is your name? Where did you steal this rusty relic?”

As the guards pinned the struggling mouse down, his voice shook with fury. “My name is Martin the Warrior. That sword was once my father’s, now it is mine. I come and go as I please, cat. Is this the welcome you show travelers?”

Tsarmina forced Martin’s head back with the sword-point. “For a mouse, you have far too much to say to your betters,” she said contemptuously. “You are in Mossflower country now; all the land you can see on a clear day’s march belongs to us by right of conquest. My father’s law says that none are allowed to go armed save his soldiers. The penalty for those who break the law is death.”

She beckoned the guards with a sleek catlike movement. “Take him away and execute him.”

Lord Greeneyes’ voice halted the guards as he turned to his son. “Gingivere, have you nothing to say? What shall we do with this mouse?”

“Some say that ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Gingivere answered without raising his voice. “Even so, it would be unjust to punish Martin; he is a stranger and could not be expected to know of us or our laws. Also, it would be too easy for us to slay him. He seems an honest creature to me. If it were my decision I would have him escorted from our territory, then given his weapon. He would know better than to come back again.”

Verdauga looked from son to daughter. “Now I will give you my decision. There are enough cowards in the world without killing a brave creature for so little reason. This Martin is a true warrior. On the other side of the scales, if we were to allow him to roam free as the wind on our land, this might be read as a sign of our weakness. It is my judgment that he be put in the cells to cool his paws awhile. After a time he can be set free, provided he is never again so rash as to trespass in my domain.”

Snap!

Everyone present heard the sharp report. Furious at being overruled, Tsarmina had set the sword between the jamb of the door and the stone doorway. With a huge burst of energy she threw her weight against the venerable weapon. Suddenly it broke; the old blade rang upon the floor, leaving her holding the shorn-off handle, which she tossed to a guard.

“Here, throw him in the cells with this tied around his neck. If ever we do release him, then others will see him and realize how merciful we can be. Take the wretch away—the sight of him offends my eyes.”

As the guards tugged on the rope, Martin stood firm resisting them. For a moment his eyes met those of Tsarmina’s. His voice was clear and unafraid. “Your father made a just decision, but yours was the right one. You should have killed me when you had the chance, because I vow that I will slay you one day.”

The spell was broken. The guards hauled on the ropes, dragging Martin off to the cells. In the silence that followed, Tsarmina slumped in her chair and sniggered. “A mouse kill me, indeed! He’s not even worth worrying about.”

Verdauga coughed painfully. He lay back on the pillows. “If you think that, daughter, then you have made a grave mistake. I have seen courage before; it comes in all shapes and sizes. Just because he is a mouse does not make him less of a warrior than me. He has a fighter’s heart—I saw it in his eyes.”

Tsarmina ignored her father and called to Fortunata. “Vixen, mix Lord Greeneyes a stronger potion. He needs sleep after all the excitement. Gingivere, give father his medicine. You are the only one he will take it from.”

Fortunata gave Gingivere the beaker containing the prepared draught. Tsarmina nodded to her, and they left the room together. Outside in the corridor the wildcat gripped the fox’s paw in her powerful claws. “Well, did you fix the medicine?”

Fortunata winced in pain as the claws sank in. “Twice. Once before the mouse came in, and just now before we left. He’s taken enough poison to lay half the garrison low.”

Tsarmina pulled the vixen close, her cruel eyes burning. “Good, but if he’s still alive in the morning you had better prepare some for yourself. It would be a lot easier than facing me if you fail.”

*  *  *

The cells were deep beneath Kotir. They were ancient, smelly, dark, and dank. Martin the Warrior was hurled into his prison by the two guards who had dragged him down passage and stairway. He had fought every inch of the way and they were glad to be rid of him. Martin lay with his cheek resting on the cold stone floor where he had been flung. As the door clanged shut behind him, one of the stoats peered through the door grating, turning the key in the lock. “Thank your lucky stars, mouse. If Lady Tsarmina had had her way, you’d be in the darkest wettest cells further down the passage. It was Lord Greeneyes’ wish that you should be put in a good cell, aye, and given bread and water to eat and some dry straw to lie on. Huh, he must have taken a shine to you. He’s a strange one, old Verdauga is.”

Martin lay still, listening until the sounds of the guards’ heavy paws receded and he was alone. Standing up, he took stock of his new surroundings. At least there was light coming in from a torch that burned on the far corridor wall. Feeling a slight draught, he looked up. There was a high narrow grille slitted into the wall near the ceiling. Martin changed position, still looking upward, until he could see a star shining outside in the night sky. It was his only link with freedom and the outside world. He sat, resting his back against the wall, huddling down in his ragged cloak to gain a little warmth. The rest of his cell was just the same as any prison: four bare walls and precious little else, no comfort or cheer to be gained from anything here. He was a prisoner, alone in a strange place.

*  *  *

The warrior mouse slept, overcome by weariness. Sometime before dawn he was wakened by paws thrusting something over his head and around his neck. Still half-asleep, Martin tried to grab hold of his assailants. He was roughly kicked to one side, then the door clanged shut as the key turned in the lock again. Leaping up, Martin ran to the door. The stoat guard peered through the grating, chuckling and wagging a paw at him. “You nearly had me that time, mouse.”

The warrior mouse gave an angry snarl and leapt at the grating, but the stoat backed off, grinning at his futile attempt. “Listen, mouse, if I were you I’d keep pretty quiet down here, otherwise you might attract Lady Tsarmina’s attention—and I don’t think you’d like that. You just sit tight and behave yourself, then maybe in time somebody like Gingivere will remember you’re here and have you released.”

As the guards trooped off, Martin saw they had left a load of clean straw in one corner, also some bread and water. Instinctively he moved towards it, and felt something clunk against his chest. It was the sword handle dangling from a piece of rope around his neck. Martin held it in front of his eyes, staring at it hard and long. He would wear it, not because he had been sentenced to as a mark of shame, but to remind himself that one day he would slay the evil cat who had broken his father’s blade.

Settling down in the dry straw, he drank water and gnawed upon the stale bread hungrily. He was about to fall asleep again when shouts and commotion broke out upstairs. Pulling himself level with the door grille, Martin listened to the sounds that echoed in the silence of the cells.

“My Lord Greeneyes is dead!”

“Lady Tsarmina, come quick, it’s your father.”

There was loud stamping of spearbutts and the sounds of mailed paws dashing hither and thither, coupled with the slamming of doors.

Tsarmina’s voice could be heard in an anguished wail. “Murder, murder. My father is slain!”

Ashleg and Fortunata took up the cry. “Murder, Gingivere has poisoned Verdauga!”

A tremendous hubbub had broken out. Martin could not hear clearly what was going on. A moment later there was a sound of heavy pawsteps on the stairs; it sounded like a great number of creatures. Martin pulled to one side of the grille and saw it all. Led by Tsarmina, a mob of soldiers carrying torches marched down the corridor, Ashleg and Fortunata visible among them. As they passed the cell door, Martin glimpsed the stunned face of the gentle wildcat Gingivere. He was bound in chains. Blood trickled from a wound on his head. Their eyes met for a second, then he was swept by in the surge of angry soldiers, their faces distorted by the flickering torchlight as they chanted, “Murderer, murderer! Kill the murderer!”

Martin could no longer see them, owing to the limited range of his vision through the grille, but he could still hear all that went on. Some distance down the corridor a cell door slammed and a key turned. Tsarmina’s voice rose above the noise. “Silence! I will say what is to be done here. Even though my brother is a murderer, I cannot harm him. He will stay locked up here until he lives out his days. He is now dead to me; I never want to hear his name spoken again within the walls of Kotir.”

Martin heard Gingivere’s voice trying to say something, but it was immediately drowned out by Ashleg and Fortunata starting a chant that the soldiers took up at full pitch. “Long live Queen Tsarmina. Long live Queen Tsarmina!”

As the mob passed by Martin’s cell again, he drew back. Above the roars he heard Tsarmina, close by the door, speaking to Ashleg. “Bring October ale and elderberry wine from the storerooms. See that there is plenty for everyone.”

Shutting his ears against the sounds of the revelers, Martin lay upon the straw with the sword handle pressing against his chest. Now that his last hopes were gone, it looked like being a long hard winter.