Gruven was in trouble. However, like all liars and cowards he kept on convincing himself that he could wriggle out of it and end up on top. The fact that Ruggan Bor had slain his mother meant little to him. Antigra had always been too pushy, constantly berating and nagging at him. Gruven was glad she was out of the way. What really rankled was the golden fox’s taking over his clan, but he could think of no way to reverse their positions. He was wholly frightened of Ruggan, an inscrutable creature, unlike anybeast Gruven had ever met. Ruggan Bor never showed any extremes of wrath or joy, never smiled or snarled. His fascinating golden eyes seemed to detect untruths without a single blink. Gruven could not face him for more than a moment. Every Juskabeast under his command knew Ruggan Bor to be highly intelligent, a redoubtable warrior Chieftain, and a ruthless killer. Gruven was gradually coming to realize this, and it made his blood run cold.

Double time was the order of the long trek back to the old camp. All the vermin kept up the pace without question or complaint. They slept little, ate frugally and went heavily armed. Ruggan Bor strode out at the head of his clan, talking to nobeast save to give orders or consult his Seers. At first, Gruven tried to establish some authority over the six Juska who were detailed to guard him. His efforts went unrewarded. When he complained of the marching speed, a tough lean vixen looped a rope about his waist and growled, “Keep up or we’ll drag ye the rest o’ the way!”

Gruven was forced to suffer the indignity. His blustering fell upon unsympathetic ears. “You dare to do this to a Taggerung? Hah, I could snap this rope with a single bite! My teeth are like knives!”

A big scar-faced rat prodded his bottom with a lance. “Yew start chewing that rope an’ ye’ll be wearin’ this lance fer a spine. Shut yer mouth an’ keep movin’, stoat!”

Gruven turned and spat at the rat’s footpaws, trying to act tough. “I won’t ferget yore face, rat. Remember this: my name’s Gruven Zann Taggerung. I use lances like that as toothpicks!”

A muscular ferret marching alongside Gruven jabbed an elbow hard into his ribs, grinning at Gruven’s wince of pain. “Ye won’t ’ave no teeth t’pick if’n I land a kick in yer mouth. Now stow the gab an quit slackin’!”

Gruven dragged on the rope, halting the vixen who was pulling him. “I’m not takin’ any more o’ this. I demand to speak with Ruggan Bor!”

He did not see the blow coming. The vixen belted him across the jaw with her carved spearbutt, snarling nastily, “Do ye, now? Well, ’e don’t want ter speak with you. Get marchin’!”

When they stopped for the night, Gruven was set apart from the rest, tied to a tree, with all six guards circling, watching his every move. The scar-faced rat thrust a bowl at him. It contained only water, with a stale crust of barley bread floating in it. The rat eyed him contemptuously. “Get that down ye an’ then sleep. We’ll be on the move agin soon as ’tis dawn!”

Gruven ate and drank swiftly, then huddled down to rest. His mind was still racing, rehearsing explanations. Where was the imaginary head of the slain Taggerung? Oh, it probably landed in the stream when he threw it away, it would be washed to the sea by now. Then what happened to the body? Ruggan Bor was no fool, he was certain to pose the question. The body? He would have to think about that one, and think fast too. They were covering ground at a rate three times quicker than his laggardly pace. It would not be long before they arrived at the old campsite. Gruven closed his eyes tightly. Think . . . think. Of course! He threw the body into the swamp. Yes, that was the place, the swamp where he sent Rawback to his death. Hahaha! Let them try to search a swamp. Ruggan Bor, huh, the pan-faced fox, aye, him and all his thick-headed lackeys. None of them were a match for Gruven Zann Taggerung. They couldn’t find their tails if they grew out of their noses! He would outthink them, he would outsmart them, the same way he had defeated Eefera and Vallug Bowbeast and the rest.

Gruven did not realize he had fallen asleep and was murmuring aloud, “What d’yer mean, never slew ’em? They’re all dead, ain’t they, an’ I’m the only one who’s left alive. Oh, I slew ’em right enough!”

The vixen leaned on her spear, watching Gruven. “Wot d’yer suppose that ’un’s babblin’ about?”

The muscular ferret scoffed. “Sez ’e’s slaying all kinds o’ beasts.”

Looking up from the lancepoint he was sharpening against a stone, the scar-faced rat commented dryly, “Aye, in ’is sleep. That’s the only time that ’un’s slayed beasts. Got a coward’s streak, wider’n an oak trunk, from tip ter tail!”

Only one fire burned in the vermin’s makeshift camp, that of Ruggan Bor. He needed it for his Seers to predict. The golden fox sat watching the two old vixens casting shells and stones, burning feathers until the air smelled rank, and mumbling, always mumbling as they tried to read the omens. Which invariably had to be in the Juska Chieftain’s favor. He listened awhile, then stretched out, his saber close to paw. “Tell me that last bit again.”

Ermath’s toothless face looked ghastly in the firelight. “Is the fox not related to the wolf, lord? There is none among vermin who can equal the fox for stealth, guile and ferocity. He alone carries the blood of the Great Vulpuz, Ruler of Hellgates!”

Ruggan ignored his old soothsayer. He had heard all that before. “No, you, Grissoul, what did you say?”

Sawney Rath’s former Seer stared at the bones she had cast down.

Ruggan’s golden eyes reflected the dancing flames. “What does all that mean? Tell me!”

Grissoul remained hunched over the scattered bones, unmoving. Ruggan Bor had witnessed Seers in a trance before, and he repeated the command. “Say the lines again and explain to me what they mean.”

Ermath was not overfond of Grissoul. The other vixen had been slowly usurping her position since Ruggan took over her clan. Ermath scuffled across to Grissoul and shook her roughly. “Answer the question. Speak when my lord commands ye!”

Grissoul did not respond. She slumped forward until her muzzle touched the ground. There was shock in Ermath’s voice. “Lord, she is dead!”

Ruggan Bor used the flat of his saber blade to lift Grissoul’s head. He inspected the dead vixen and let her head drop down again. “She was old. Creatures die when they grow too old. Did you understand what she said? Can you remember the lines?”

Ermath cringed back into the shadows. “Nay, lord, ’tis not for me to read the omens of another Seer. Who knows what anybeast sees at the sight of Hellgates, where rules the—”

Ruggan cut her short as he lay down to rest. “Get my guards to bury her. ’Tis of no matter, the ramblings of a dying vixen. Leave me now, I will rest.”

Any dreams of bells, Taggerungs or Seers that crossed Ruggan Bor’s trails of sleep were forgotten when the impressive fox woke at dawn’s misty light.

Four days later, on a morning dampened by fine warm drizzle, the Juskabor clan reached the old campsite. Fires were lighted in the lee of sheltering dunes, and cooks began preparing the first hot meal they had eaten in a while. Ruggan Bor stared around. Pacing the ground, he unsheathed his saber. “Bring the stoat Gruven here to me.”

Gruven was hauled forward on his rope by the six guards. He knew it was no good blustering to the golden fox, so he put on a casual air, as if he was in command of the situation.

“Ah, Ruggan, the very beast I’ve been wanting to see. Well, here we are at last, eh. You know, I left this camp a simple warrior and returned as the Taggerung . . .” His voice trailed off under Ruggan Bor’s unblinking stare.

“The head, Gruven. Where did you leave the head?”

Again Gruven changed his attitude, drawing himself up regally. “My name is Gruven Zann Taggerung. I protest at your treatment of me. I will not speak until this rope is taken from me!”

The saber whipped through the air, slicing the whiskers from the left side of Gruven’s muzzle. Ruggan Bor’s expression had not changed. “My next stroke will take off your ears, then I’ll start working down your body, bit by bit. Where is the Taggerung’s head?”

Gruven sat down on the sand and wept like a babe. “I threw it in the stream.”

“What stream? There’s no stream around here.”

“The stream! The stream! It’s back there in the woodlands!”

“Which woodlands? Those northeast of here?”

“Yes, yes! Over that way, that’s them!”

“So, what did you do with the body?”

Unexpectedly, Gruven began to laugh. He looked straight up into the fox’s golden eyes, giggling and sobbing. “In the swamp! I threw it in the swamp! Heehee, the head too, all in the swamp, gone forever, heeheehee!”

Ruggan nodded to the guards. “Get him up on his paws. Let’s go and find this swamp.”

Birds were singing, drizzle slackened off and the sun broke through as they entered the woodlands. Ruggan gave orders for his Juskabeasts to fan out and search for the boglands, whilst he and the six guards rested close to the tree fringe, with Gruven in their midst. Halfway through the afternoon a youngish fox came loping back to report.

“Sire, we found the swamp, it’s a big ’un. First we thought there was nothin’ about ’cept a few frogs’n’lizards. But then we caught this crazy stoat. The rest are bringin’ ’im. Be ’ere soon, sire.”

“That’s two crazy stoats we’ll ’ave now, hawhaw!” the scarred rat whispered to the muscular ferret. He went silent as the golden eyes swept by him and came to rest on Gruven.

“Do you know of a crazy stoat hereabouts?”

Gruven’s mood had changed. He looked completely mournful. “They’re dead, all dead, I killed ’em. All dead an’ gone!”

Ruggan heard the party bringing the prisoner in. He did not turn, keeping his eyes fixed on Gruven. Behind him a weasel called out, “Lord, this is the stoat, but ’e’s right off’n ’is skull, mad as a toad with a tail!”

The stoat was thrust forward, tightly bound. Ruggan saw Gruven’s eyes go wide in horror, his voice screeching hoarsely, “Rawback? Go ’way! Yore dead! Dead, I tell ye!”

Rawback looked plump and well, owing to a plentiful diet of frogs, lizards and other swamp inhabitants, but his eyes burned feverishly, and it was obvious his sanity had snapped at some point of his swampland sojourn. He put his head on one side and poked his tongue out at Gruven, then he turned to Ruggan Bor, as if sharing a confidential secret.

“That’n there thought ’e’d done fer me, y’know. Aye, thought ’e’d sunk ole Rawback in the swamp. Hohoho! Right up ter me nose ’twas, but I ain’t no fool, I got out. Big branch, luvly branch, growin’ right over me ’ead. I grabbed it. Two days! Two days I was, pullin’ meself out, liddle diddy bit by liddle diddy bit. Hohoho! Fooled yer, didn’t I, Gruven? You ain’t no mate o’ mine no more. You wouldn’t push nobeast in a swamp, would ye, sir?”

Ruggan signaled the guards to untie Rawback. “Of course I wouldn’t, my friend. Sit down here by me. Bring him food and some blackberry wine, we’re going to talk together.”

Rawback clutched Ruggan’s paw and kissed it. “Blackberry wine an’ real vittles! Seasons smile on ye, sir. Ye don’t know wot this means t’me. Talk? I’ll talk to ye, me good sir. Wot d’you want ter know? Ole Rawback’ll tell ye!”

Gruven thought of making a dash for freedom, but the scar-faced rat’s lance tickled the nape of his neck and the muscular ferret’s spearpoint was a hairsbreadth from his stomach.

Rawback ate like a ravening wolf, ripping into warm ryebread and a roasted woodpigeon, guzzling blackberry wine until it dripped down his chin. Ruggan patted his back. “You’re one of the old clan, I can tell by your tattoos. Eat up, there’s plenty more where that came from. I want you to tell me about Gruven. Did he slay the Taggerung?”

Half-chewed food and wine sprayed from Rawback’s mouth. “Wot, you mean Gruven? Hohohoho, d’ye think ’e killed the Taggerung?”

Gruven tried to drown Rawback out by shouting, “Don’t lissen to that crazybeast! He’s mad! You wouldn’t believe anythin’ that fool says, would ye?”

The tough lean vixen grabbed Gruven in a headlock. She stuffed his mouth with a sod of earth and grass, holding it shut whilst the scar-faced rat bound the stoat’s muzzle shut with his own belt. Ruggan pushed more wine at Rawback. “He won’t disturb us, friend. Now tell me everything, right from the start when you left camp.”

The blackberry wine swiftly loosened the stoat’s tongue, and it seemed to restore his powers of recall also. Rawback related the full tale of the hunt for the Taggerung. Ruggan Bor listened carefully to it all, particularly the episode of what took place at Redwall. For a madbeast, Rawback had an excellent memory.

“Well, there we was, see, all in the ditch outside o’ Redwall Abbey’s front gate. Eefera an’ Vallug’s shoutin’ fer them to bring out the Taggerung. Then this mouse we was ’oldin’ prisoner breaks loose, an’ it all goes wrong. Vallug slays an ole blind stripedog with an arrer, an’ the mouse grabs a battle-axe an’ goes after Dagrab. Nobeast’s watchin’ me’n’Gruven, so ’e snatches ’is sword an’ runs off north up the ditch. That’s when I escaped too. I follered Gruven. I chanced to look back to see if we was bein’ chased. I saw Vallug Bowbeast lyin’ dead, an’ I saw the Taggerung too. But ’e was chasin’ Eefera westward o’er the plain. It was the Taggerung, though; I’d know ’im anywheres. There was an arrer stickin’ out of ’im, but a bowshaft wound wouldn’t stop a warrior like ’im. Redwall beasts was floodin’ out the gates, yellin’ an’ shoutin’. I knew it was all over then. So I kept me ’ead down an’ ran north along the bottom o’ that ditch after Gruven, fast as I could. Next thing, we leaves the ditch—”

Ruggan Bor had heard enough. “Finish your vittles now and rest, Rawback. You can join my clan as a Juskabor.”

Unused to so much food and wine, Rawback was soon snoring. Gruven was ungagged and brought before Ruggan Bor. The golden fox stared implacably at him. “You heard him. What have you got to say now?”

Gruven spat out soil and grit. He had recovered from his hysteria, and had his story ready. “Rawback’s mad. Even you must be able to see that. His mind is fuddled. That was the Taggerung he saw lyin’ slain in the ditch, not Vallug. His head was severed from his body. I know, I chopped it off with my own sword!”

Sipping from a flask of blackberry wine, the Juskabor Chieftain thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Why didn’t you tell me this at first, instead of making up a lot of foolish lies?”

Gruven went into another of his acts. This time he was the honest warrior, rough and ready, but a little embarrassed. “Sire, I did not want you to know that I fled in the midst of a battle. But I had to, we were greatly outnumbered. I give you my word of honor, though, I slew the Taggerung outside Redwall’s gates. There you have it, the truth!” He stood trembling, averting his gaze from Ruggan Bor.

A long silence followed before the Juskabor leader spoke. “I am always prepared to listen to the truth. Since you were first brought to my camp you have wriggled and lied your way all around it, Gruven. I believe Rawback. He had nothing to lose by telling the truth. My Juska warriors are wondering why I haven’t slain you before now; they’ve seen me deal with liars and cowards before. But if you are really the Taggerung, I must allow you every chance to prove it. A Taggerung is a mighty legend among Juska clans, one to be respected and honored. I must tell you that when I first heard an otter was the chosen one I was very disappointed. My clan and I always wanted to see a fox as Taggerung. If you slew him as you say, then a lot of creatures must have witnessed the deed. We will find out the real truth, Gruven . . . when we reach the gates of Redwall!”