voice but a strong one.
There was a touch on his shoulder. Inhaling sharply, he
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Alan Dean Foster
rolled and reached for his short sword, then relaxed. It was
Jon-Tom, with Roseroar close behind.
“What’s happening?”
“Nothin’, mate. None o’ our business, wot? Let’s leave
it be. I’m ready for breakfast.”
“Is that all you ever think of? Food, money, and sex?”
“You do me a wrong, guv’nor. Sometimes ’tis sex,
food, and money. Then again at times ’tis—”
“Never mind,” said the exasperated Jon-Tom.
“Foah against one,” muttered Roseroar angrily, “and
the one looks none too strong. Not very gallant.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Jon-Tom murmured.
“Mudge, you sneak around behind the trees off to the left
and cover them from there. I’ll make a frontal assault from
here. Roseroar, you…” But the tigress was already over
the hill and charging down the slope on the other side.
So much for careful tactics and strategy, Jon-Tom thought.
“Come on, Mudge!”
“Now wait a minim, mate.” The otter watched Jon-
Tom follow in Roseroar’s wake, waving his staff and
yelling at the top of his lungs. “Bloody fools!” He
notched an arrow into his bow and followed.
But there was to be no fight. The assailants turned to see
all seven feet and five hundred pounds of white tigress bear-
ing down on them, waving twin swords and bellowing fit
to shake the leaves off the nearby trees. There was a
concerted rush for the boat.
The four paddled like fiends and were out of sword
range before she entered the water in angry pursuit, throw-
ing insults and challenges after them. Mudge might have