Nobeast in living memory could recall a winter as long and harsh as the one that followed the brief, hot autumn, though some had predicted it earlier, judging by the great number of berries that were seen on tree and bush at harvest time. Shrieking northeast winds drove the snow into deep drifts, and great, ancient trees were riven, split from root to tip, felled by ice that sought out any weakness in their trunks. Overnight, the west-flowing river stood still, frozen solid. Bushes lining both banks poked bare skeletal twigs at the hostile sky, as if pleading for the release of spring. Bitter and intense, the cruel season took savage toll of anybeast weakened by its ravages. It was a winter of death, hunger, and despair.

The great horde of the Warlord was held prisoner, trapped amid a freezing world of whiteness. They erected crude shelters in the woodland surrounding the riverbank. Sustenance and morale were at their lowest, stifling any ideas of desertion or mutiny as effectively as the snows that shrouded the earth. Bluefen, daughter of Bowfleg and wife of Swartt, gave birth to a ferretbabe, after which she faded and died, like a delicate spring flower suddenly embraced by severe frost, though it was said that she had never been a strong creature. Unlike the babe, a young male, tough as a deep-rooted weed and marked with the legacy of his father Swartt, six tiny claws showing on the left forepaw. The Warlord lived up to his title the Pitiless One, neither grieving after his wife nor caring for his son. Bluefen was buried with scant ceremony in a shallow hole hacked into the stone-hard earth, while the babe was given to an old female rat to nurse and guard. Swartt acted as though the whole thing was no concern of his.

Nightshade, the vixen seer and healer, had erected a separate shelter as far from the vicious-tempered Warlord as she dared, though she was constantly on call, applying heated poultices and nostrums to her master’s damaged six-clawed paw, which pained him agonizingly in cold weather. Hordebeasts crouched and trembled in their own meager dwellings, listening at night to Swartt’s anguished cries as winter tortured his withered paw. Any horde soldier with a grain of sense kept clear of the Warlord when he was like this, for the ferret’s temper was unpredictable. Once the pains had subsided, Swartt would sit in his fir-bough lean-to, staring into the fire, sleepless, cursing the name of Sunflash the Mace. Revenge was what kept Swartt Sixclaw alive through that winter. The thought of vengeance upon his foe was like food, drink, and sleep to him, as he planned what he would do on the day he had the badger at his mercy. And so the horde existed through that long winter, starving, freezing, and waiting for spring.

*   *   *

Skarlath spent his winter among friends. Snug in the warmth and good cheer of the Lingl-Dubbo cave, the kestrel enjoyed himself hugely. Knowing Sunflash was safe inside the mountain of his heart’s desire and that no horde could march in such a terrible season, the faithful bird had no worries. His time was spent making cheese with the help of the molewife Lully, playing with the young ones, brewing ale with Uncle Blunn, helping Tirry and his wife, Dearie, cook wonderful meals with the food they had stored in their supply chamber, and eating, always eating. The fierce bird even learned to sing a few songs and dance to the gurdelstick, though as one of the little molemaids remarked, “Hurr, you’m a gettin’ so gurtly fattinged ’twill be a wunner if ee be able to fly cumms ee spring toime, hurr hurr hurr!”

Skarlath chased her twice round the cave. “Kreeh! Impudent little rip, if I am too fat to fly then I’ll fall right out of the sky on top of you!”

The old squirrel Elmjak bustled in, carrying two pails of snow to be melted down on the fire. He stamped his paws as Aunt Ummer unwound a long heavy scarf from his neck. “Yurr, zurr Ellumjakky, ’ow be et owt thurr today?” she enquired.

Elmjak seated himself by the fire, allowing the molemaids Nilly and Podd to towel the snowdamp from his bush and back. “Well, let me tell thee, good friends, I think winter has now done its worst, and spring will soon be here.”

Tirry Lingl looked up from a bowl of barley broth. “What makes you say that? Have you seen a sign, Elmjak?”

Opening his paw, the squirrel presented two tiny flowers to the delighted molemaids. “See, little missies, the best sign of all—two new snowdrops. I found them right outside the cave in a bare patch sheltered by the rock, mayhap the cave’s warmth must have helped ’em a bit, but there they are, two tiny beauties, just like you pair.”

Dearie Lingl poured water into a small jug. “Ooh, ain’t they just about the prettiest, most welcome sight after a long winter, snowdrops! Put ’em in the jug ’ere, it’ll please our eyes t’watch ’em open. Come on, Auntie Ummer, out wi’ yore gurdelstick an’ sing of spring to the liddle flowers!”

Skarlath preened his wing feathers, a bit selfconsciously. “Er, er, I’ve thought up a springsong. If I sing it could you manage to pick up the tune, Auntie Ummer?”

The fat old mole winked as she twanged her gurdelstick’s string. “You’m sing et, zurr ’awkburd, oi’ll catch ee up!”

The kestrel had often joined in choruses, but this was his first solo attempt, and he clacked his curved beak nervously.

Skarlath buried his head modestly in his wing feathers as he bowed, and they cheered him to the echo, encouraging him to sing his song twice over. The small hoglets and molemaids danced as the gurdelstick kept rhythm with the singing kestrel.

In the days that followed, Elmjak’s prediction proved true. The sun showed itself, weakly at first, then the cheeping of the hardy birds, who had borne winter’s brunt, began. Warmth started to pervade the land, unlocking the streams to chuckle over the stones with gladness, causing the icicles to weep tears and shorten their lives, melting the crusted white from limb and bough, lengthening the happy hours of daylight.

*   *   *

For the first time in many moons, Swartt felt the lancing pains recede from his paw. He repainted his face and teeth, put a new edge on his sword, and emerged from the crude pine-bough shelter roaring, “Up on yer stumps, you lousy layabouts! Nightshade, take six scouts an’ see what it’s like up ahead! Aggal, Scraw, Muggra, kick some life into this skinny slobjawed mess! We break camp now! Westward with the river! Keep up or be slain!”

Like a single great beast the horde moved west, churning up mud on the banks of the racing river, grabbing anything that came to paw in their hunger: grass, green twigs, withered roots, worms, dead frogs, and any insect that moved. Somewhere at the rear of the marchers, the ferretbabe whom nobeast had bothered to name tore greedily at a pawful of dead grass as it bobbed and swayed in a bark sling on the old rat’s back. Tiny sharp teeth gnawing, quick sly eyes darting to and fro, making never a sound as it watched for the opportunity of its next meal.

Four days later, Skarlath sighted the horde below as he ranged the northeastern skies. His brief sojourn with old friends cut short by the arrival of spring, the kestrel was once more soaring the breeze, searching, watching, nothing below missing his keen gaze. He had gone in search of the enemy and, unerringly, he had found them. The horde had arrived at a place where a wide, well-trodden path intersected the river. The path ran from north to south; there was a ford at the river junction.

Perched low down in a horse chestnut tree, the kestrel kept himself well hidden and listened to a dispute that had sprung up between the Warlord and his Captains.

The weasel Muggra was all for following the river. “You said yerself, foller the river west, that way we don’t go gittin’ lost again.”

Swartt’s hand was straying dangerously close to his sword hilt. “Lost? Who ever said that I got me own army lost? Well, speak up, fatmouth—was it you?”

Muggra wanted to back down. He wished he had never spoken, but Swartt was not letting him off easily. Muggra shrugged. “I never said you got us lost, not me, all’s I said is why go down that path when you said t’foller the river.”

Swartt drew his sword casually, glancing at the other Captains. “What d’you lot say, foller the river with Muggra, or go south down the path with me? Or would you like to go and find that traitor Balefur and see if he survived the winter?”

All silent, they directed their eyes at the ground. Rumors of Balefur’s coming to a horrible end had been circulating.

The Warlord smiled nastily at his weasel Captain. “Not much support from yer mates there. Righto, let me settle this argument. I’m Warlord, I command you all, an’ I say we go south down the path. Is that all right wid you, Muggra?”

The weasel was nodding dumbly when Swartt struck, slashing him across his footpaw with the curved sword. Muggra screamed and sat down, hugging his injured footpaw.

Swartt lifted the chin of the Captain on his sword point until their eyes met. “So you win. If yore against marchin’ down the path, then you don’t ’ave to, mate, y’can hop! Now up on yer paw an’ let’s see yer hoppin’ out front there. I’d hop fast if I was you, ’cos if y’don’t I’ll use me blade agin, but next time it won’t be on yer paw!”

Without further argument the entire horde started marching south down the path. Swartt shot a glare in the direction of Nightshade, whose face was the picture of disapproval, and snarled, “Now don’t you start, vixen. One word from you an’ y’can join ole Muggra fer a hop!”

Skarlath had seen and heard enough. In time he would report the horde’s movement to Sunflash, but first he felt it important to warn others, particularly the occupants of the big redstone building he had sighted some days back as he was searching for signs of Swartt. It was a large construction and looked newly built, a fine dwelling-place for whatever creatures chose to live there. Unfortunately it stood square on the pathside. Swartt Sixclaw and his horde could not possibly miss it if they marched four days south down the path.