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or yore both deadrats. Now get out o’ my sight!”
    Glimbo and Blowfly scuttled off, relieved to be still among the living, after having brought their murderous captain such bad news. Hunching against the bleak cold at his back, Raga Bol sat silent. His eyes roved between the silver hook and the roaring, wind-driven fire.
    Blowfly whispered to Glimbo, “I reckon dat giant stripedog must still be alive, mate!”
    The fat Searat’s hushed whisper was barely audible, but Raga Bol heard it. He stood slowly and faced them both. With lightning swiftness his hook shot out, latching on toBlowfly’s broad belt. The Searat was dragged forward to find himself facing Bol’s upraised blade and threatening snarl.
    â€œDid ye ever see a beast alive after I’d struck ’im wid me blade? Well, did ye?”
    Blowfly watched the heavy scimitar poised, one stroke away from his quivering double chins. The rat’s voice went squeaky with panic. “N . . . no, Cap’n!”
    Raga Bol bared his gold-plated teeth in a wolfish grin. “Shall I prove it to ye, Blowfly?”
    The rat sobbed brokenly. “Aw, don’t do it, Cap’n Bol, please. Nobeast ever lived after yew ’it ’em wid yore sword!”
    The captain’s pale eyes lighted on Glimbo. “You should know, mate, tell ’im!”
    Glimbo loved life too much to remain silent. Words poured from his mouth like running water. “Dat stripedog’s kinbeasts must’ve carried ’im off, fer a fancy buryin’. I bet they buried the old ’un where he fell, ’cos they couldn’t haul two carcasses. Mark me words, Blowfly, it don’t matter ’ow big the stripedog was, he’s deader’n any doornail now. Once Cap’n Bol’s sword swipes ’em, they’re well slayed. I’d take me affydavy on it!”
    Blowfly fell to the ground as the hook pulled loose from his belt. Bol ground the scimitar and leaned on it.
    â€œThere’s yore answer, mate, the stripedog’s dead. I don’t want to ’ear no more talk of such beasts from my crew. Now set four guards around me, so I can sleep.”
    The sentries crouched miserably in the darkness, waiting for the dawn. Wrapped in his cloak, Raga Bol lay alongside a roaring fire. But sleep did not come easily, and, when it did, his dreams were troubled by visions of the giant stripedog coming slowly but surely after him with the light of vengeance burning in his eyes.
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    Abruc the sea otter, his wife Marinu and their son Stugg sat on the streamside, beneath an overhanging bank canopy. They enjoyed their evening meal outside, away from the bustling noise of the holt. Stugg sucked noisily at the contents of his bowl.
    Abruc patted his stomach and winked at the young creature. “Now that’s wot I calls a sea otter chowder. Nobeast can make it like yore mamma does, ain’t that right, me ’eart?”
    Marinu refilled her husband’s bowl. “I wager you used to say that about yore own mamma’s chowder. All it takes is clams, mussels an’ shrimps, with some beans, chestnut flour, seaweed, carrots an’ a few pawfuls of sea salt an’ hotroot pepper. ’Tis simple to cook up.”
    Young Stugg held out his bowl for a refill. “But you make it da best, ’cos yore our mamma!”
    Marinu dipped her ladle into the pot they had brought out. “You’ll soon be as big a flatterer as yore dad! Wipe that chin, you’ve got chowder all over it.”
    Abruc looked over the rim of his bowl at Marinu. “So, how are you an’ old Sork gettin’ along with our big badger? D’ye reckon he’ll live?”
    Marinu wiped Stugg’s chin with her apron hem as she spoke. “It looks like he will, though whether or not he’ll waken fully we don’t know. He might just fade away, after one of those death sleeps that last a few seasons. I never thought