At dusk, both Typhoon and Zenith sat with their back to the stone wall of the compound. They waited for the fennec, with the whole group of other slaves who sat around or beside them, watching. New travels fast around the compound, and word of the fruit and fennec reached the ears of even the shyest slave. They were all grateful for the food.

There was a rustling of leaves and a small figure crawled painstakingly onto the branch overhanging the compound. Typhoon could see that it was trembling with fright.

"Are ye Typhoon Skye?" came the voice, quite shaky but of medium tone.

"Aye. I take it ye are Goldstryk Desertchyp?" Typhoon called softly up.

"Yes, 'tis me. Wot do ye want of me?"

Zenith stood up. "We want freedom, my friend."

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a panicked squeal. "A guard's comin'!"

"When will we see ye agin, Goldstryk?" Zenith said hurriedly.

"I don't know. Mayhaps at midnight?"

"Zenith! Hurry!" Typhoon's urgent whisper reached Zenith's pointed ears. The squirrel gave Goldstryk a nod before hurling himself onto his mattress.

The bermin guard, Spitsnout, opened the gate and barked into the compound. "Wot's all this noise, eh? Shut yore slimy faces an' stay quiet!"

The fennec clung to the branch, not daring to move. Goldstryk hoped that Spitsnout would not look up.

"I'll cut that scurvy branch off meself. Gives yew slaves too much shade anyways." Spitsnout growled as he stormed off, frustrated because he could not pick on any of the slaves this time.

Zenith snorted. "Too much shade? Huh, that's a good 'un. Th' vermin jus' wants somethin' ter do!"

"Well, can't blame th' scum. They don't have any trouble to get into." Typhoon lay back down, before calling up to the fennec. "Goldstryk, are ya there, matey?"

"Yes. just. I s'pose I'll have to get down now...yon vermin shall lop this 'ere branch off soon!" The fennec dragged himself off the branch and disappeared into the foilage.

Spitsnout balanced perilously on the battlement, as he took a saw and started cutting through the branch. Suddenly, a rock flew out from nowhere, and knocked the rat squealing from the battlement. Skye looked up.

"Looks like Goldstryk's helpin' out there!"

"Sure thing, laddie buck! Oh, er, sorry, I stand corrected. I meant lassie doe, wot!" A hare said, grinning from her place in the corner. "I say, a jolly ol' escape? Spiffin' stuff!"

Zenith chuckled. "I hope Goldstryk's got a plan, mate."

Standing up, the lanky hare strode over to them. She was shorter than most, and had sparkling bround eyes. "Forestwood Penlock Garrowford at y'service, wot! Y'can call me Forest, 'tis a lot shorter."

"Me name's Zenith Vertigo, an' me otter friend here is Typhoon Skye." The young squirrel could not help but like the talkative hare.

"Say, how did ye get here, matey?" Typhoon asked.

"I was on Patrol, me firs' 'un, actually. Fourscore o' th' blighters came an' charged us! Most o' th' patrol fought well, but were brought down. Some o' th' other chaps were captured, like yores truly."

"Wot 'appened t' them?" Zenith said.

"They managed ta escape. I was caught again. Poor ole me, wot." Forest's ears drooped. Zenith grasped her paw fiercely.

"We'll get ye free -- id's stake my life on it!"

Forest took one look at the squirrel's fierce eyes and said, "I don't doubt a word o' that, m'lud! Not a blinkin' word!"