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*****

The next sensation I had was being poked gently in my shoulder. I awoke to find the sled-driver using the butt of his riding crop on me.

"Sorry t'wake yer, mate, but yer only a 'ero once, right?" He gestured in front of him. "No parade, but there'll be furs t'greet yer."

I woke up Meadow, who had been fast asleep against me, and we looked around the sled-driver. The ground in front of us ceased to be snow, but was a churned-up mass of mud, ashes, pieces of broken equipment and assorted shrouded remains, which were being sorted and catalogued by a pair of priestesses of Fuma. They were going about their work with stoic efficiency.

Of Flourford itself, not one of the wooden buildings I had seen when I had arrived (how long ago was it?) was still standing, and even the brick buildings showed scorch marks; that is, where the buildings had not collapsed altogether. There was a heavy, sickly sweet smell in the air, the source of which could easily be guessed.

While we waited for the sleds carrying the rest of Thorn Platoon to catch up, we watched a long trail of carts, coaches and carriages come trundling by, moving toward the north. Toward the border, and ultimately Sainted Oaks. The furs seated in the open carts wore trim tunics, and their swords and spears were neatly stacked. Their banners proclaimed them to be the 9th Regiment.

As the rest of the sleds from Mossford arrived, a Red Cap on traffic duty approached us and spoke to the sled-driver. I then saw that rarity: a Red Cap actually being deferential and helpful. He strolled into traffic, and raised a long paddle with a red face. The flow of fresh soldiers slowed, and then stopped. We were beckoned to proceed.

Turning into Flourford produced a sobering and awe-inspiring sight. On both sides of the road leading into and through Flourford were hundreds of squaddies and NCOs. A few stood. Many sat on their haunches and watched the passing parade. Some were looking with an unseeing gaze, especially those who had bandages wrapped around their heads. Others lay on blankets facing the sky, some of which were missing arms or legs. Perhaps the luckiest were the dozens of furs who managed to figure out a way to curl up in a feral fashion and get some sleep, even on a piece of scorched blanket or a discarded door.

The ones that were alert looked up in curiousity, and when they saw Thorn Platoon's pennon, there was a tired, ragged, but heartfelt cheer. Those of us still in the sleds cheered and waved back. It was slow going through the awful, churned-up roads, but at least it did give us a chance to shake paws with the more energetic of our mates that had defended Flourford, obviously successfully. From the standpoint that they still held the village.

The centre of the village had been cleaned up somewhat, in the sense that there was a clear path running through it. The side streets were still choked with all types of debris and wreckage. It was fairly quiet, except where you could hear the clack-clack-clack of the semaphore signals working. They had four lines working constantly, three of which terminated at the one building in Flourford that seemed to still have its roof. A badly scorched Royal Standard hung limply next to an equally badly scorched Royal Cipher that had been haphazardly fixed above a doorway. The previous sign that had indicated this was the Corn Exchange was mostly covered over by a variety of temporary wooden signs that indicated where the HQ, the hospital, the artillery park, and most importantly, the FAFI. It was at the ex-Corn Exchange, though, that Meadow and I were let off. Captain Chitterleigh was to be brought to the temporary hospital that was just on the other side of the village.

It was not difficult to spot which part of the building had the RHQ for our 37thRegiment. Most of the furs in the building were bustling about, transcribing messages from the VB semaphore, accepting and sending deliveries, and holding meetings. They were full of purpose and energy.

In a corner of the main room, there was a soot-covered officer slumped in a chair. He certainly was alive, as every so often, he lifted a chipped enamel mug of tea to his lips. But you could tell his feelings by the way he paused every so often to run a bandaged paw through his head fur. Meadow and I walked up to the sable, and saluted him.

"Corporal Winterbough and Miss Grainmaster reporting in, sir, from Mossford."

It took a few seconds for this to register on his face, but when it did, there was a mixture of relief and pleasure.

"By Fuma, so you did make it! Jolly good! Why don't you...err..." He looked around his area and sighed. "Sorry. Would offer you a chair, but, you know, circumstances."

"When were you relieved?"

"Technically, we haven't been. The 40thcame whistling in here before dawn this morning, and the last we saw of 'em, they were giving chase to our little canine friends. The lot you see over there," he pointed with his bloodied paw, "belong to Corps. Three regiment operation, it is. The lads that relieved you, the 40th, and the 9thcoming through, now. A few more regiments coming through tonight and tomorrow, they say."

"How bad's the list?"

The sable looked grim. "I'm the only officer still more or less on his footpads. The Colonel and both Majors are dead. I'll say this for them: not a skiver among them. When the Grand Duke's lads made their big push two nights ago, they fought just like a squaddie. Damned close run thing, too. They came as close as across the street from here before we shoved 'em out."

I reflected. The Major who had been so helpful was gone, and I'd not had the chance to thank him for his helpfulness. Happens in armies, but still, disheartening.

"How many did you have at your end, Corporal?"

"This morning, sir, about a thousand. The Grand Duke was throwing units piecemeal at us all during the battle. Didn't really have a coherent attack plan, I think."

"Ye-e-s, wonder where his cavalry was. Saw some of 'em, of course, skirmishing around here, but his first team never showed up."

"Oh, they showed up at Mossford. If you're talking about the fellows in the great helms and the big battle-ants." I explained what had happened. The captain looked astounded.

"Fuma bless us! All three hundred?!"

"Well, they'll have to dredge the lake to get a final count."

He shook his head in wonder. "Bloody glad, Corporal, you lot handled 'em. If they'd been facing us, we'd have been done for."

He summoned a few of the Corps messengers, and Meadow dictated a brief report on our operation in Sainted Oaks, and a summary of what had happened in Mossford. I contented myself with a few mugs of hot tea, followed by staring out of the window as the 9th continued to roll through on its way to the United Cities.

"Sir? What happened to the chipmunk, you know, Mr. Chestnut, the Burgomaster?"

"Eh? Oh, back there somewhere," the sable indicated by waving a paw generally in the direction of Persoc Tor, far to the west. "That King's Messenger was a brave one, all right. Slipped through here, and gave us the head's-up. Got maybe a day's warning, and the same head-start back there," he pointed toward Persoc Tor again, "to get moving. Mark you, I think the Marshal had been inching the reinforcements forward for weeks, but I'll wager that was an all-night do to get 'em here."

Meadow finished dictating her reports, and the efficient Corps messengers went off to transmit them. In a few hours, they would likely be in the Marshal's paws. Top-priority message and all.

"Any orders for us, sir?"

"I think you two should sit tight. Most likely, something will come through once they know you're here. It'll probably be evening, though." He looked a little concerned. "Don't know what in Fuma's Holy Name we're going to do about messing, though. Doubt many of us even have our mess-kits, still. I know I don't. I hope they've got something in the works. Would hate to have the lads pop off because they didn't get a hot meal, after all this."

A loud and angry babble of voices from outside in the passageway erupted, and the captain cupped his paws to his mouth and yelled.

"Stop that bloody row, you lot! The bloody Netherhells do you think this is, a produce market?!"

"Please, sir, 'eeve caught a spy, sir."

This remark was loudly disputed in a voice that was very familiar to both Meadow and myself. We looked at each other, startled, while the captain yelled in irritation to bring things into the orderly room (i.e., his corner of the large room).

The voice was familiar for a very good reason. Both Meadow and I had at various times been able to listen to the voice of Lord Twelveoaks on different occasions. This was not, however, the fur who had been a Minister of the Crown in attendance on his King, when Meadow saw him, or a smoothly confident noblefur at his country retreat, when I saw him. Or, for that matter, the bullying blot I saw in Captain Chitterleigh's bungalow.

He was in the last-named form now, chittering shrilly as a pair of soot-blackened, bandaged squaddies led him in by the elbows. They deposited Lord Twelveoaks, none too gently, against the large packing crate that served as the main article of furniture for the 37thRegiment.

The sable looked at the squirrel with some distance, and then turned to the pair of felines standing at attention.

"What in blazes d'ye mean, a spy?"

"I'm not a spy, damn you idiots!"

"I wasn't talking to you, my Lord."

"Well, I'm telling you now..."

"I said, I'm not talking to you, my Lord, so shut your blasted acorn-hole and let me get a report."

The squirrel fumed, as the two cats reported. Apparently, they had been, as they said, "'aving a slash" against a bush in the midst of a patrol, when they encountered Lord Twelveoaks, who had been occupying the bush at the time of their activities.

Meadow sniffed, and immediately wrinkled her nose. It was quite evident that at least that part of the story had been true.

"An' when we b'ought th' prisoner..."

"PRISONER?!! NOW LOOK..."

"SHUT UP! Continue, you."

"An' when we b'ought th' prisoner hout of th' bush, we asks 'im, whut was you doin' in a bush, we says. An' he calls th' two of us a lot of..."

"You can skip that, Private. Get to the essentials. Did he say what he was doing way the hell out here?"

"'ee refused t'say, sir. 'ee says t'my mate an' me 'at it were none of our affair whut 'ee was doin'. So me an' my mate, 'ere, we thinks, 'ere, it's bloody odd you see a chap from Civvy Street out 'ere in th' nowhere, what af'er a bat'le an' all. So I says to th' prisoner, I says, 'ere, you gotter come wif us an' talks wit' our Captain."

"And then what happened?"

"'ee reaches into 'is pocket, see, an' he offers us a few coins, like these."

The cat making the report dug a grimy paw into an equally grimy pocket of a grimy tunic, and pulled out three brilliantly shiny coins, placing the three figures of King Adler neatly side by side on the packing-case.

"Nothing of the bloody sort! Offer, fiddlesticks! I was emptying my pockets."

The second cat, who had previously not spoken, scowled, and spat at the floor right at Lord Twelveoaks' foot-claws. Leaning in, he glared at the much shorter squirrel.

"Call me an' me mate 'ere liars, chum, I'll do yer."

"Right, that's enough, Private. Did the prisoner...SHUT UP...did the prisoner have anything on him that was suspicious?"

The first cat nodded. "'at 'ee did, sir. 'ee were carryin' this on 'is person when me an' me mate collared 'im."

He placed on the packing case a sheathed sword. Immediately, Lord Twelveoaks bristled.

"You mind that, that's a family heirloom."

The sable glared at him. "Heirloom or not, what's a civilian EX-Minister of the Crown doing wandering around a combat zone armed?"

"You've got no cause to ask me questions, Captain, and I refuse to answer any without my legal counsel being present."

The sable hissed in irritation, and muttered that the last thing he needed was pain in the arse tree rats making his life a martyrdom. A comment that set off a fresh storm of indignation from said tree rat, which at least had the benefit of allowing me to pick up the sword and examine it closely.

"Put that down, damn you. I don't want your grubby paws putting marks all over it."

I had withdrawn the sword from its scabbard, and had examined it closely. When Lord Twelveoaks barked at me, I shrugged my shoulders and re-sheathed it, placing it on the packing-case again.

"For what it's worth, Captain, I know there's one statement my Lord Twelveoaks has said that's the truth. This is, in fact, an heirloom of his family."

I got a questioning look from the Captain, two puzzled looks from the privates, a suspicious look from the squirrel, and a sudden snap look of comprehension from Meadow, who started to reach into a pocket.

"Well, that's all well and good, Corporal. So we have my Lord, here, walking around a combat zone with his sword..."

"Excuse me, sir. But it's not his sword. Heirloom of the family, yes. But the property of somefur else. Namely, his son, Captain Sir Jasper Chitterleigh."

The sable spluttered an indication of disbelief. Lord Twelveoaks remained obdurately silent.

"Now see here, Corporal, how could you..."

"I was Captain Chitterleigh's batman for a period of time last year, sir. I had cause many times to see his possessions closely. In fact, when I first entered his service, I had to pull this very sword out of the disorder of his possessions. It's a very distinctive sword, sir, and I'll swear in court that this is one and the same."

The sable rubbed his chin. "Well, that's very interesting, Corporal, but..."

Meadow stepped forward, and pointed to the sword as well. "I served Captain Chitterleigh's mate, sir. I've seen the Captain's sword in their personal quarters a number of times, and there's no doubt about it. I've seen that scabbard before, and I saw the sword when Corporal Winterbough, here, unsheathed it."

A look of concern and growing suspicion clouded the sable's face. "Well, if this is his son's sword...and let's take that as a given, considering my Lord's silence...what does that show?"

I turned to Twelveoaks. "Where did you get your son's sword, my Lord?"

He crossed his arms, and glared at me defiantly. I turned back to the Captain.

"Sir, when Miss Grainmaster and I rescued Captain Chitterleigh from Sainted Oaks, he had lost all of his possessions. He did not have his sword with him."

The sable raised a finger. "Ah, but did he have the sword with him in the United Cities?"

Meadow nodded vigorously. "I was part of the retinue that left Persoc Tor along with Captain Chitterleigh. He had this sword with him when he arrived in the United Cities."

She turned to the squirrel, and there crossed her face a look of cold fury. "There's only one place you could have obtained this sword, my Lord. In Sainted Oaks. And given that this area has only been relieved this morning, there's only one place you could have been recently, given that you were captured here. In Sainted Oaks. And you know, I'm sure that the Marshal and his staff having been looking over those documents, the ones we captured when we rescued your son, the ones we sent back just before the battle. I'm sure that there's quite a few allusions...none by name of course...but quite a few allusions to who was going to run the United Cities when the Grand Duke overran it. Isn't there, my Lord?"

The brief look of fear that crossed Lord Twelveoaks' face before he resumed his obstinate silence told us all. Certainly, it said enough to the Captain, who threw his enamel mug across the room and began to scream at the squirrel angrily, shaking a fist in his face. It took both of the cats and myself to pull him away before he assaulted the squirrel.

His violent struggles were silenced by a light-green flash and a three-tone chime. I noticed that Lord Twelveoaks, for his part, turned away from the image of the crown that shone out just above Meadow's paw.

"Augustus Chitterleigh, styled Lord Twelveoaks, by the authority vested in me by His Majesty the King and His Royal Highness Roland, Marshal of Faerie, I hereby place you under arrest. The charges are conspiring with the enemies of the King and giving aid and comfort to the enemies of the King in time of war, sufficient to be treason."

She turned to the sable, who was still seething in the grip of his subordinates.

"You are to place this fur in close custody, and you are to take all measures to ensure that he is transported alive to a place at His Majesty's pleasure, to be dealt with by the operation of the laws of the Kingdom. Do you understand this order?"

The Captain shook off his escorts, straightened his tunic, and nodded. He was not finished with Lord Twelveoaks, however. He spat juicily in the latter's face, and snarled.

"Your own son. Your own damned son! You bastard!"

The saliva ran down the squirrel's cheek as the two cats seized him by his arms, and began to carry him away.