At breakfast the next morning, the Skipper of Otters rubbed his eyes thoroughly and stared at the glowing otter seated on the opposite side of the table.

"I must be dreamin'! Goody gracious! Waterback Streamfleet, is that really you?"

Waterback seemed to have metamorphasized overnight. She no longer appeared as though she had endured seasons upon seasons of trekking through strange lands and hostile kingdoms. The weather-beaten face had been washed away by an extra-studious bath early in the morning, a luxury she'd not enjoyed for a long while. Upon this examination, she seemed to have shed age: Waterback now showed how old she really was; about five or six seasons younger than Skipper himself, who was no ancient himself. She had unpacked some of the fine clothes she'd been given at Castle Floret at long-ago Southsward, and unbeknownst to the rest of the abbey, Fiona and Merril had spent an hour or two deciding on which of her as-yet unworn dresses to present herself to Skipper in the next morning.

Presently she sat clad in a modest garment, colored a soft yellow famed throughout the Southlands. She smiled winningly and replied to the star-struck otter, "It may be no dream, but a nightmare, yet here I am, Skip, just like I said I would. A sight t'make sore eyes sorer, eh?"

Skipper drew himself up, a youthful smirk on his face. "If'n this is wot sore eyes feels like, by all means make 'em sorer! Where've you been all these seasons? Last time I saw ye you were saddlin' yer liddle tyke in yore arms just as I was mine!"

She laughed, and put a paw around her son's shoulder on her right. "How time passes! This here's my little Leith, all growed up and takin' care 'o me in my infirm condition!"

The shy young otter blushed, and quietly said, " 'Tis a true chore lookin' after this'n, so it is. A real wildcat she is, no mistakin' that."

Waterback punched him affectionately. "I'm a kitten compared to your grandpa. Creekben Sheercliffe, now there's a fighter! Dunno if 'e lives or not, but the ol' pickle's still probably throwin' those soldjers around hard as ever."

Skipper leaned back in his chair, crossing his brawny arms in front of his chest. "Leith, eh? Aptly named, I'm sure."

"Oh really?" Merril asked casually. She'd been eying the handsome newcomer ever since she'd spotted him sleeping this morning as his mother had asked her to help chose outfits.

"Aye, he is," Waterback agreed. "Leith Elginspere. Named 'im for th'greatest warrior and th'greatest waterfall in the Far Northlands."

"Who's this warrior he's named after?"

"Leith the Suresighted was an ancient fighter who is the patron figure for all archers and slingers," Skipper explained. "He lead a small force of rebels against an army of oppressive wolverines, which are quite possibly one of the most fearsome nightmares to inhabit the isolated tundras and such. They were at the high tide of a decisive battle, which would determine the fate of the land for years after it. Leith's army was almost to the point of defeat when Leith stood up from the spot where he'd been cut down and wounded, and slew the wolverines' chief with a single arrow. He survived long after that and helped set up the city of Manchester, where this was pretty fought at." He looked wryly at Waterback. "Or so me friend Waterback tells me, as she's occasionally given t'be a fearful liar."

Further on down the table, Calvin Chestnut the cellarhog and Fivespike Pintips, Waterback's Southsward companion, had discovered that they were related.

"Y'know, you look an awful lot like drawin's of my great-great-great-great-great aunt's uncle Tragglo Spearback's step-grandad," Calvin remarked casually.

"Would that happen to be Jubilation Spike, rescued from slav'ry from the old kingdom of Malkariss?" Fivespike asked, munching on a raspberry tart.

"I think it would be! Lessee, um, just fer a checker, have ye got a distant relative somewhere in y'past called Bowly Pintips?"

"Certainly, hence me name! He was our fam'ly founder. Settled us Pintips near the south-eastern coast long way back, an' we've all been there ever since, 'till ole Waterback came along and had 'er great big hulkin' son carry me off."

Calvin raised his beaker of milk. "Here's to abductions and fam'ly trees!"

Fivespike toasted to that. "Aye, I'll drink t'that! Er, d'ye have any o' that famous October ale I been hearin 'bout?"

* * *

On the whole, Hoarfrost was usually the silent type, but at the sight of the flatlands stretching out before him from the top of the last of the foothills, with nothing greeting him as a landmark but the glimmer of the Dartmouth River in the setting sunlight, a smile touched his ugly features.

" 'Tis a fair nice sight t'see clear ahead of ye, 'stead o' those blasted mountains, eh Gila?"

His companion, a dusty-colored coyote, nodded neutrally. "Yah gawt that raht, frind Horfrawst, buht gimme thuh sunny dry playns o'er this any day. Too wet, these."

The fox grinned dumbly. "Ain't you th'picky one today?" He turned the conversation back toward himself. "I'm as glad as any to get away from that mess, though. I always knew Shang'd do it: she always does."

Actually, quite to the contrary, Hoarfrost had thought of attending Shaftclaw's nightly gripe session that evening, but after the fearsome example Shang had made, he'd wisely, as had many others, kept his jaws tightly shut.

Up from the front of the column, strains of howling from the Coldhearted's two daughters reached their ears. Behind Gila, an old, grizzled stoat called Greenwedge muttered grumpily, "Dang noise they're always makin'! Why d'they always have t'carry on like blasted wolves? Shang hates 'em so much, why try an' be like 'em?"

Ahead of him, the tall coyote chuckled to himself. For that was a story the whole army knew by heart.

* * *

Shang Widowmaker had been born to Kraken Icenclaw and Harpie Silvertongue, the tribal leaders of a tiny nomadic band of foxes who remained white all year round. The only of five pups that survived their first year, early on she exhibited a ferocity and ruthlessness that her parents laughed gleefully at.

One morning during their wandering, Harpie's sharp, greedy eye caught sight of a small hamlet just inside the northern border of the Forest of Dale. It was the furthest south they had ever traveled, and the sunny, wooded summer condition in which they stumbled onto it in made it seem an ideal eden for the tundra-dwellers. Harpie slyly talked her mate into giving her half of their twenty or so beasts, and, posing as poor, honest traders, they conned their way into shelter for the night.

The village of Torran, as it happened to be, was only inhabited by the remnants of a once-proud tribe of warriors. There were few able-bodied creatures living there, and besides that smattering of wolves and otters were mostly the aged and very young ones. As fate would have it, two members of Tundralake royalty were also spending a few days with them. Colvin Eagleye, as he had a few seasons till he assumed the title of Wolflord of Tundralake, and Derynai Fioraja, a princess of the tiny but prosperous merchant's town of Havenharbor, were resting in the settlement as part of their Journeying. Journeying was originally only a way for thronal heirs to see what the world beyond their palace walls was like, and what their people would benefit from, had, in recent seasons, expanded to ordinary citizens sending out their children for however long they chose to wander and see something besides the streets of home. Occasionally they would have a specific destination in mind, but more often than not it was haphazard.

Harpie and her few minions, at night, ransacked what they could of the village and tried to kill Raminica, the Elder. They escaped into the forest, on their way back to Kraken and the rest of the nomads, laden with what little they'd stolen. Unawares, as they ran they were followed by swift Derynai, trailed closely by Colvin. Armed with arrows both, Derynai slew most of the raiders as she chased them, including Harpie, and Colvin made his way to their camp, rendering most of the rest of the foxes dead. Shang, Kraken, and two others barely escaped with their lives.

The four renegades naturally fled the area. Shang shed no tears for her dead mother, but a malicious hatred of the wolves and all they stood for began to burn, and she finally understood why her parents had taught her all wolves were evil.

Seasons later, when her tribe's retaliators had been married and enthroned, the Widowmaker had been beyond furious when they announced the name of the heir to the ruler's seat at Tyne Palace: Tori, in honor of the village where they met. Shang had immediately begun teaching her toddler daughter Tatyanna and the newly-speaking Anastasia the time-honored calls, howls, and songs that wolves used to communicate over long distances, in hopes of one day being able to use them to able to break into and destroy Leedsdown, which was the very symbol of all her built-up rancor.

* * *

The fall of evening forced the horde to stop, against all of Shang's boundless desire to press on. Tatyanna talked some form of reason into her, and now the large white fox reclined lazily in her tent, studying the polar bear skin with boredom, as her grateful troops slept. She played with the edge of the hide with a footpaw, a paw leaned on the arm of the chair, supporting her head. An unusual energy seemed to emanate from her, a restlessness that was uncharacteristic.

She knew now that they were following the great river of the far northlands, the Dartmouth. Having never been this far south, she had no knowledge of which way it flowed. In the mountains, she had encountered its source, but being totally disoriented by the massive stones surrounding her, she had not bothered to figure out its course of direction. But tomorrow, tomorrow....would they follow the river if it went north? It seemed the only way she knew to go. The horde had encountered no inhabitants as yet...why did this seem so unreal?! She leaned back in the chair and let go of a massive sigh. Sometimes she wished sleep lasted much longer than it did.

* * *

Gila smiled as the soft breeze blew from the west onto his face. He poked his well-sized fire with a spear handle, thanking his cunning and knowledge that he'd been wiser than those numskull foxes by avoiding the pine trees for kindles.

"Yah gonna tend that big ole fayah all bah yo'self, compadre?"

Gila looked up over his sandy shoulder: a small band of other coyotes from the army stood behind him. He stood up, and bowed in a gentlemanly manner.

"Southun hospitahlity would compel me t'do uthahwaze. Do have a seat, confed'rets."

"Minny thanks indeed, friend," their leader replied, and gestured for his fifteen companions to take their seats before him. Knowingly, however, they left the seat next to Gila open, for Corbann had some bargaining to do.

Corbann Coalgen was dark and swarthy for a coyote: he had a dashing air that some would call the ease of a plantation owner. His laughter-creased eyes always seemed happy and welcoming. But he had the heart of a pirate and a clever tongue, and all knew of his ruthless fighting and unparalleled swordsmanship.

The following conversation was surprisingly civil to the passing ear, but the thick honeyed accents of the coyotes obscured the fact that the matter of discussion was life or death in this horde lead by a not-so paranoid commander.

"Ah heyuh from sum annonimuhs sawces that you, Gila, are thankin' of a-comin' wid me and mah uthah idealists."

Gila blanched visibly at the information. Corbann chuckled, propping an arm on his knee. "Guess ye ain't got much of a choice naow that it's owt, eh? Wayll, heyuh's th'plan. Now I ain't tole ennyone else this: first tahm this is owt in th'open." He leaned forward and whispered confidentially. "Uz coyotes is gonna assemble t'morrer all tagethuh-like. Ayt a signul frum me, an' onleh me, we'll brayk off frum thuh hawd, an' Ah'll till ennyone who stawps uz that we got awduhs t'go a-scoutin'. 'Tis practically fool-proof, an' as for thuh practically pawt, we c'n fight well enuff. Cool with y'all?"

The other coyotes grinned evilly.

"Yah have me, Corb'n."

"With yeh all th'way, frind."

"Raht! We don't need no foxes'n'ferrets leadin' us in circles!"

Corbann spread his paw wide and asked innocently, "Gila, how 'bout you, partner? Y'in?"

Gila had gone quite pale, and was shaking uncontrollably. He looked at the fifteen faces around him, turned malicious and skull-like by the shadows of the firelight. Corbann, too, was smiling in an altogether too friendly manner. In the darkness, Gila could see he was stroking a knife blade. A fearful gurgle arose in his throat.

"Yah gawt it all wrawng! I nevah said nothin', Ah swear Ah did!!"

"No, honeybunch, this is where yawr rawng!" Corbann hissed, and dug the knife into his neighbor. "Ah'll hayve no spahs an' traitors in mah owtfit! Fancy spyin' fer Shang Wid'makah, phah! Yew culda dun bettuh than that!" He withdrew the blade from Gila's stomach, and spat on the spot contemptuously. "Sumthin' f'you t'ponder on, frind Gila. Sweet dreams." He stood up, and motioned to the others casually as the hunched coyote looked after him blearily, quivering and in too much pain to speak. "C'mon, fellas," he said smoothly, "let's go leave this pore beast t'sleep. He's fearful tired, wouldn't y'say? B'sides, we got sum bidness t'attend to." He winked, and patted Gila heavily on the back before exiting to laughter. "Packin' an' suchlike."

* * *

Tori squinted as she lay flat against the bluffs, peering out toward the snake of Shang Widowmaker's horde. She shielded her eyes against the glaring sunlight from behind them to better see the hated emblems waving on the tattered flags the wind ripped at below them. She wriggled backwards, and, not even looking at Adia beside her, she asked in Gaelic, "Are those the ones?"

"Aye, th'very same," she answered. "Without a doubt. I'd recognize those gaudy imitators anywhere."

Tori sighed grimly, never taking her eyes off the army. "They may be gaudy, but they will pillage and destroy as cruelly as any vermin."

Adia looked apologetically at her. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me, Tori."

"Never you mind that, Gnodfe. Forgiven and forgotten," she replied levelly. Rolling awkwardly over the rocks, she faced another Gael who'd joined them. "Think you can hit one near Shang?"

The white wolf nodded confidently, licking her lips and shouldering her massive bow and arrow. "Aye, miss, sure as there's a nose on yer pretty face." Tori smiled, and checked the letter tied and waxed to the shaft one last time.

"You're sure this'll stay on? I mean, it won't fly off and get lost in the midlands?"

"Nay, Tori. We Gaels're experts at this sort o'thing."

"Raven, you're sure you won't be seen?" Her face creased with worry. Raven, as the white wolf was called, giggled and patted Tori on the back.

"Miss, my mother had a sense of humor when she named me, but none atall when she showed me our fam'ly honor. Don't you fret, us Lagleths are th'best archers in Aiyar!" Without another word, she half-stood, bent double, and scuttled to a launching position within range.

* * *

Ripwing had never really liked coyotes, but he had to admit, they were useful as fighters, and they sure could keep the troops entertained. His suspicions arose from the beginning of the day, however, that something was up. Although there were about a hundred of them in the army, they tended to stick together in little groups of only two or three at a time. When he discovered that a band of sixteen, including that devil Corbann, who could be hard to handle at times, were marching behind his command, the weasel captain made a note to himself to keep an eye out for them. He snorted to himself: huh, the rogues. They'll probably start a fight in the ranks, and of course they could talk their way out of anything. Shang'd hold him responsible, and......uggghhh, he didn't care to think on it.

So when Corbann made his first slip, Ripwing kept a careful eye on him for the day's march. Mistakenly reporting to him instead of Captain Ghifgur, he gave himself away as being in a stranger's company. Odd, but not unheard of. The horde was so large soldiers tended to get lost sometimes.

But the charcoaled coyote wasn't the type to do that! He'd have thought it out five steps ago in whatever he was trying to achieve.

Now he approached Ripwing, saluting smartly, which roused even more wariness from the weasel.

"Captain Ripwang, sah, Ah've just received awduhs from Poe 'erself t'do a liddle scoutin' hereabouts with my group o'troops. Shang don't trust this country: could be en'mies stalkin' those bluffs raht ovah theyah." He pointed over Ripwing's shoulder: Ripwing was reluctant to look, for fear the coyote would pull something on him.

But he didn't. Corbann stood innocently, looking the very picture of duty. Ripwing began to wonder if he'd been misjudging him. Relaxing, he casually asked for Poe's written orders. He saw Corbann curse to himself mentally, betrayed by the slight flicker of his sooty face. But he kept his cool: he replied that Poe had been so agitated she'd forgotten to write them out.

"Poe's fastidious," he said distrustfully. "I'm afraid I can't let you go without some proof."

"Ahh, what use 'ave ye ennyway fer writin'?" Corbann snarled. "Ye couldn't read a lick if yer muthah 'ad a knife t'yaw throat!" He quickly buffeted Ripwing over the head, and sped away from the troops, calling to his accomplices to follow him. The group broke away from the main horde, racing after Corbann, who called aloud for posterity, "Get it afore it gits away! Group o'dang wolves, guerilla-in' on us!"

* * *

Ripwing pulled himself up a few minutes later, his head aching and throbbing from Corbann's blow. It took a second or so for him to realize what had just happened: by then, the speedy coyotes were far away, or hidden in the very bluffs they were pretending to be protecting the horde from. Cursing himself, he began a stumbling, halting run toward the head of the column, toward Shang and her commanders.

* * *

Raven sat perched behind some rocks, scanning the scene below for possible targets. Her quick black eyes darted around the front of the host of vermin and enemies.

"Lessee, now, that one perhaps?" she murmured to herself, "or you, ferret, up at th'front? Ahh, doesn't matter, yer all th'same to me: bad." She smiled slowly as a perfect messenger ran into view. A moving target, not too hard. "For yer all bright white against this dark, spring land!" she said aloud, and drew back the monstrous weapon.

* * *

"Shang! Shaaaang! Mutiny! Traitors! Help!"

Shang Widowmaker turned impatiently at one of her buffoon captains screeching her name. She sighed disparagingly.

"No need to tell the whole world, idiot, they know we're coming. Poe, tell me, who is that imbecile?"

The ferret squinted at the approaching figure. "Weasel, m'lady. Looks t'be Ripwing. Must've been some run, poor fool commands the very back of the army."

Ripwing was wildly waving his paws in the air, drawing stares and sniggers from the troops. He ignored them, or else didn't hear, and ploughed on toward the three foxes at the head.

"Mother, why can't you find some captains with sense? If they're all as dumb as this one, what hopes have we of conquering the southlands?" Tatyanna questioned, boredom and sarcasm heavy on her voice.

Shang was about to rebuke her uppity daughter when they heard a scream from one of the troops. In the blink of an eye, Ripwing lay slain before them, an arrow only a giant could have shot protruding through his back. He had been not twenty feet away from them. The vixen immediately took command.

"Get that arrow out of him before the whole army sees it and goes into fear-shock!" she yelled to a fox behind her amid the sudden consternation. "I don't care what you do with the body, but remove that!" She threw the unfortunate beast toward to carcass and contemptuously watched him pry out the shaft. "Here, fool, let me!" she snapped, and swiftly pulled the arrow out of the body and kicked it aside. She was about to snap it in half when she noticed that the middle was covered in wax: beneath it was some sort of paper. Pretending to make nothing of it, she concealed it in her dress and decided to open it when the episode had been quickly forgotten.

* * *

Tori almost leapt up with excitement. "Did she receive it? I can hardly tell! Oh, Adia, you must have better eyes than I do. Tell me what you see!"

Adia chuckled. "Other than young Raven beamin' through those rocks, I spy a very thrown-off Shang Wid'maker tryin' t'hide that arrow under her dress! Silly thing, I s'pose she keeps all 'er recovered weaponry there as well!"

Raven came panting up through the boulders. Tori was upon her immediately. "Did she get it?"

"Aye, yes, she got it, Tori lass: that an' a pretty unexpectin' look on 'er face when it were delivered!" The trio was soon heaving up and down with stifled laughter: a huge weight had been lifted from Tori's shoulders. Now she knew she would get to avenge her family. She recalled what she had written to Shang in the challenge.

"Funny, you are such a great conqueror, yet you know not enough
to slay all your enemies when you are done! Here I am, Shang. Tori
Rubyhaer, who will continue my parents' dynasty and rebuild
Leedsdown once again! Do you wish to defend yourself on the boast
you made when you pushed me off the Welshentie Cliffs? Then be
at the ruins in two moons time. I will be waiting to see you once again.

Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer, daughter of
Colvin and Derynai, heir to their legacy,
never to equal it."

"Well, we'd best be headin' back. We've done what we came for, and it's a day's march back to the others," Raven reminded them. "I hope they're still waitin' for us when we get back."

"Aye, yer right, child. Mayhaps my Aelfwald has seen a fight nearby coming without us! Fancy him leaving us out!"

* * *

The seething vixen crumbled the waxen message angrily and pitched it into the fire. A tempestuous rage began building inside her. She flung the curtains of her tent aside and stormed away from the camp. Racing to the edge of the sentry line, she shook her fist at the full moon and screamed, "Aye, foolish child! Look upon this moon shining down upon ye now, it will be one of the last ones you'll see!"

The horde began heading north again the next morning.