The lame rabbit's laboured breathing was suddenly very loud in the silence. From several fields away came the song of an evening blackbird. Then Mustard raised a paw, claws extended, to strike - and Corporal Moss placed himself squarely between his officer and the blow. He was growling.
"Corporal Moss," Feverfew said gently. Moss found his eyes drawn, despite himself, to the Councillor's hypnotic gaze. He had never spoken with Feverfew before. But he knew him, as did everyone in Efrafa, by reputation.
Councillor Feverfew was white - not a true albino, for his eyes, far from being pink and short-sighted, were of the palest and most piercing blue imaginable - and in the normal Efrafan way of doing things he would have been killed at birth. But Woundwort had spared him, recognising something, perhaps, in the squirming, malevolent scrap of fur which clawed and bit at its litter-siblings with baby teeth. And in a short time he had become one of the General's few favourites. He was young for his Council rank and, unusually, had never served in the Owsla. Nevertheless, when he spoke both Mustard and Moss, older and stronger than he, deferred to the soft voice and begrudgingly backed down. Mustard lowered his paw.
"You have your orders," Feverfew told Moss. And Moss, who was the bravest of rabbits, who had not liked that order when it was given, and liked Mustard telling him how to carry it out even less, who was fit to turn his ears inside out at the thought of leaving Captain Campion half-fainting and helpless before these two... Moss hesitated almost a full three seconds while the blackbird sang, then ducked his chin to the ground in salute and bounded away.
Feverfew waited until he was out of ear-shot. He felt excited, sensing something close at hand like the smell of carrots lying on a path. In a moment he would be around the corner and able to see what it was, and then all he would have to do to take it would be to stretch out his neck...
"What happened, Captain?" he asked.
"We were routed." Campion spoke low, exhaustion dragging at his voice. "There was a dog. Most of us - most of us broke, Sir. I'm sorry. I... tried to bring them home."
He was greeted with a numb silence. Council or no, not a rabbit among them had thought to hear such a report from an Efrafan officer. Their warren was all-powerful, their Owsla invincible, Campion himself a hero second only to the General in popular esteem. What he was saying was beyond their understanding. Those able to grasp that the defeat had happened, at first felt nothing beyond an outraged betrayal, and contempt for its survivors. Then slowly, rabbit by rabbit, they began to sniff at the implications.
Feverfew could have capered like a hare in the Spring to watch them. To him at least it was obvious. A general had led the attack. It had been left to a captain to salvage the retreat. But the Council were uncomfortable, entertaining thoughts it was treason to think. One of two of them were already scuffling in the dust with their forefeet, as if they would have liked to get underground.
In the end it was Stonecrop, that most level-headed of veterans, who asked the question. "Where's Woundwort?"
"The General - " but Campion couldn't say it. If some of the Council were halfway tharn at the prospect of hearing the news, how much worse was it to be the one delivering it. Added to which, Campion was spent. He was trembling, showing the whites of his eyes, and after a moment he fell back, coward-like, on the rabbits' most common euphemism for death. "The General stopped running," he said steadily. And then, duty done, Campion passed out.