Begin The General’s Human

Chapter 1

Oliver had meant to put the river away before his mother came upstairs. The trouble was the bridge. He had spent most of the afternoon making it stand, and now that it stood he could not see why bedtime should be allowed to knock it down.

The river was a blue towel between his bed and the chest of drawers. There had been water earlier, in the garden, but the cardboard boats had not liked it. Two survivors were drying on the windowsill. One had a curled bow. The other still held a dark patch where Oliver had tried to mend it with wet sticky tape.

Cotton sat beside the bridge, her long white ears down and a strip of towel caught beneath one foot. He told her she could stay there; he would go round. Then he stepped over the river, caught the bridge with his pyjama leg and brought the middle span down.

For a moment he stood with his foot in it. He had been careful. He had lifted his leg much higher than he usually did. He kicked the fallen piece beneath the bed, not hard, but hard enough that he would have to crawl after it.

“It wasn’t even touching.”

Cotton had tipped sideways against a support. He picked her up and set her on the bed. One ear folded over her eye. He left her there while he knelt to find the cardboard, then reached up and straightened her ear.

Under the bed were a sock, a drawing he had forgotten making, and the span. The drawing was of a dog with six legs because he had changed his mind about where the back ones went. He looked at it for a while before remembering the bridge.

His mother found him with his head beneath the bed. When she asked about his teeth, he said he had done them. There was a pause in which he could hear her putting his shoes together beside the chair.

“All of them, Oliver.”

He had mostly done the front. He collected Cotton and went to the bathroom, where he sat her beyond the wet part of the basin. There was toothpaste on his sleeve already, a white streak across a red rocket. He turned it under before beginning again.

In the mirror, Cotton’s pink nose was just above the rim of the basin. Oliver leaned sideways until their reflections touched. The fur at the end of her ear was still rough from the garden; he had wiped it with a flannel after she fell near the muddy water, but it had dried in little points. He smoothed them with his thumb. They sprang up again. Tomorrow he would find her brush, if it was still in the drawer where things went when his mother tidied.

Back in his room, the towel was gone. The bridge lay in three pieces along the wall, clear of where he walked. He checked that his mother had kept the middle span the right way up, then fetched the less damaged boat from the windowsill.

“This one stayed up for ages,” he told her. “The other one would have, too. If I hadn’t put the stone in.”

She was folding back his blanket. “It was quite a big stone.”

“It needed a passenger.”

He set the boat on the bed and climbed in carefully beside it. The cardboard had dried crooked, but the fold at the back had held. That bit had taken three goes. He ran a finger along it, remembering how the boat had gone right across the tub without turning over, and grinned. He held Cotton up for another look. There would have to be a place for her, and something to stop the water coming over the sides.

His mother kissed him, then kissed the top of Cotton’s head. “You can work that out tomorrow. Boat on the table before you settle down.”

He waited until she had gone before trying Cotton beside it. Her feet reached past the bow. A bigger box would do, perhaps the one with the old birthday paper in. He had wanted to put her on the water that afternoon. When his mother said no, he had said he wasn’t going to anyway, although he had already been looking for something to wrap round her middle. He was glad now that he hadn’t. The little stone was still at the bottom of the garden tub.

Downstairs, the biscuit cupboard opened. Oliver listened to find out whether it would open twice; sometimes that meant someone was bringing a plate up. This time the kettle went on, and the television, very low. He put the boat on the bedside table.

Easter had slid into the gap between the bed and the wall. Oliver could reach the enormous brown rabbit’s upright ears, but pulling them only wedged the body more firmly. He had to get out and haul Easter up with both arms. He left him sitting beside the bed, his head above the blanket and one soft foot pointing at the bridge.

“You can’t come in the boat,” Oliver told him. “You can be the harbour.”

That seemed satisfactory. He climbed in again and pulled the blanket over himself and Cotton, folding the edge down when it covered her face. She fitted beneath his chin with one ear across a yellow rocket on his bright blue sleeve. He moved her a little closer, away from the cold place where he had got out.

He took off his glasses and folded the chunky black frames beside the boat. Across the room, the edges of the bridge supports softened a little. He told Cotton about the bigger boat, and the roof it would need in case of rain, until thinking about cardboard began to feel like too much work. Reaching for the lamp, he nudged his glasses farther from the edge of the table.

“Good night, Cotton. Love you.”

He tucked his hand under the blanket again.

“We’ll finish it tomorrow.”

Cotton woke with the blanket against her nose.

She pushed it down and reached for Oliver. Her paw found the sheet, then the edge of his pillow. She moved towards the hollow beneath it, where his shoulder should have been.

The curtain lifted away from the window. Cotton went still. It did not do that at night. Oliver slept with the window shut.

Pale light spread over the bed and withdrew as the curtain fell back. When it lifted again, she saw the window standing open behind it. Cold air reached her face.

There was no one beside her.

“Oliver?”

She sat up. The blanket had folded across the place where his legs should have been, and for a moment she thought he was beneath it. She crawled down the bed, pushing at the folds until she reached the weight holding them flat. It was the rest of the blanket, hanging over the edge. She pulled it towards her. The mound collapsed.

At the foot of the bed she stopped to listen. Sometimes he got up for water. He came back with the cup too full and held it away from her while he climbed in. She looked towards the door, expecting the handle to move.

It did not.

Another draught stirred the fur along her back. Beyond the bed, Easter sat with his upright ears against the wall. She could see his brown head and the top of one shoulder. Oliver was not in the gap beside him.

She went back to the pillow. Perhaps he had called her and she had not heard. She pressed both paws into the place where his head had lain, then raised her face towards the door again.

“Oliver.”

The blanket hung almost to the floor. Cotton backed over the edge of the mattress, holding a fold between her soft paws. Her feet sought the wood beneath the bed and found nothing. For a moment she hung with her belly against the mattress. Then the blanket slipped towards her, and she fell with it.

She landed on her side. A fold came down over her head. She pushed out from beneath it, one ear dragging after her, and got up.

Under the bed were a sock and a white corner of paper. Cotton went in far enough to see the empty floor beyond them, then backed out.

His shoes stood by the chair, both slippers beneath it. She searched behind the furniture, even the spaces too narrow for him, then put her face to the gap beneath the door. The landing was dark.

“Oliver? Are you there?”

She pushed. The door moved a little against its latch and stopped. Standing against it, she could not reach even halfway to the handle. She struck the wood with the rounded ends of her paws. The blows made a soft, close sound.

“Please. Come upstairs.”

She waited with one paw still against the door. There had been voices below, and the cupboard, and water running. Now she could hear only the curtain sliding across the sill behind her. She called again, more loudly, until the effort bent her forward.

No footsteps came.

From the floor she could not see the top of the bedside table. His glasses were not beneath it.

She crossed to Easter and pressed his broad brown foot.

“I can’t find him.”

The enormous rabbit sat as Oliver had left him, one foot pointing towards the dismantled bridge. Cotton kept her paw there a moment, then went to the blanket.

When she tried to climb the blanket, more of it slid off the bed. She stopped, then found a corner caught beneath the mattress. That held her weight. She climbed it, bunching the cloth between her paws.

She rolled onto the mattress and lay with her face in the sheet.

Oliver would have picked her up. Even when his hands were full, he would have caught her against himself with one arm. She raised her head. The boat stood on the table, the bent cardboard rim just visible above the mattress.

She crossed the bed and leaned out, bracing herself against the edge of the table. His glasses lay behind the boat.

Both lenses were whole. One broad black arm rested over the other, folded as he left them when he meant to sleep. Cotton touched the frame. She had wanted to find them. Now she kept looking from them to the door.

He could see well enough to find the bathroom. But his parents had told him to wear his glasses whenever he was up, to keep his eyesight steady, and he obeyed. Even when he only wanted water, his hand went to the table first.

She pushed the boat aside and climbed onto the table.

The curtain came towards her. Its hem brushed her face, then drew back through the open window. Beneath the edge of it, something smaller fluttered and stopped.

Cotton stretched towards the sill. Twice her paws slipped on the smooth paint. Then she found room for one foot behind the lamp and pushed herself up.

The curtain folded over her back. She crawled clear of it.

A strip of bright blue cloth was caught beneath the window latch. Most of it hung outside. Part of a red rocket showed beside the metal, its nose missing beyond the torn edge. Cotton pressed it against the sill to keep it still.

Oliver’s pyjamas.

She knew the cloth under her paw. She had lain against it beneath his chin. The tear had cut across the rocket’s body. Loose blue threads drew taut when the wind took the hanging end.

She looked out.

The garden lay below. She could see the pale rim of the tub and the darkness of the hedge behind it. There was no Oliver beside the water. She leaned farther, looking along the wall as much as the frame allowed. Below the window a sloping tiled roof ran towards the garden. Its lower edge disappeared from view.

“Oliver!”

Her voice went out over the tiles. Leaves moved against one another somewhere beyond them.

She waited, keeping the cloth pinned down. If he was near the house, he might hear. She called again and listened so hard that the curtain brushing her back made her turn.

The room was empty behind her.

Cotton pulled gently at the strip. It would not come. The latch had caught it close to the torn edge, and the threads tightened when she tried again. She stopped. With one paw against the metal, she pushed the cloth backwards, towards the place where it had snagged. A loop loosened. She worked it over the corner of the latch and gathered the strip against herself as the wind took it.

It was longer than she had thought. She laid it along the sill and smoothed it with both paws. There was no piece here large enough to tell her where it had torn from his pyjamas. She could not see blood. She looked again to be sure.

Then she drew the cloth round her neck, crossed the ends and worked one beneath the other. It took several attempts to push the soft end through without pulling the rest loose. When it held, she flattened the knot against her chest and tucked the longer end beneath it. She would need both paws outside.

The glasses remained behind the boat. She went to the inner edge of the sill and looked down at them. They were too wide to carry while she climbed. She could leave them here, where he knew to look. She would bring him back to them.

The tiles were farther below than the bed had been. She lay along the sill and lowered one foot, then the other, pressing her paws around its edge. Her feet touched the outer wall. She tried to find a ledge there, but the rough surface gave her nothing she could stand on.

She could still pull herself back. She held on, her ears hanging beside her face, and looked between her feet. A little way down, a tile had tipped crookedly over its neighbour, leaving one corner raised. If she landed above it, it might stop her sliding.

She shifted sideways until it was beneath her.

For a moment she pressed her face against the sill, against the wood Oliver had leaned over to set his boats in the sun. Then she let go.

The roof struck her feet and tipped her forward. She fell against the tiles and slid, trying to hold the hard ridges beneath her paws. One foot caught against the crooked tile. She stopped with her belly flat to the roof.

The cloth was still at her neck. She pressed it once, then eased herself round to look towards the garden.

Above her, the curtain lifted through the open window. Cotton began to climb down.

Chapter 2

At the edge of the roof, Cotton could see the trellis fastened to the wall below. Its upper crosspiece lay just beneath the gutter. She lowered herself into the gutter, found the wood with one foot and went down through the climbing stems. Leaves brushed her face. By the time she reached the soil, damp grit had worked into the fur of her paws.

She stepped clear and looked up. Oliver’s window was still open. From here she could see only the curtain and a little of the ceiling beyond it. He could have been standing beside the bed and she would not have known. She called once more, looking for him to come to the window, then turned towards the tub.

The grass was wet enough to leave dark marks on her feet. She went round the tub, checking between its curved side and the wall. The paving beside it was empty. There was the place where Oliver had sat with his legs spread round the boats, keeping the smallest pieces of cardboard on his knees so they would not blow away. He had put her on the dry side of his leg. She went to that spot and stood there, looking across the lawn.

Something pale lay near the hedge. She hurried towards it, grass catching beneath her feet and bending without breaking. Before she reached it, she knew it was too small. A fallen leaf had turned its underside upwards. She pushed past it to look along the hedge.

The garden gate was farther down. If Oliver had gone that way, he would have followed the path beside the flowerbed. Cotton found its edge beneath the grass and turned along it. She watched for bright blue cloth, for a bare foot among the stems. His slippers were under the chair.

At first the stones were easy to follow. Their pale tops showed between the weeds, and she could keep one paw against them when the ground was uneven. The hedge hung low across the path. She ducked beneath it, protecting the cloth at her neck with her arm.

A few drops of rain struck the leaves overhead. The smell of the flowerbed rose from the wet soil, familiar from the dirt Oliver had brushed off his knees.

She stopped where a branch crossed the path. On the other side, the stones continued into darkness. She could not see the gate. There had been room here for Oliver to pass with her under one arm, though he had to turn sideways when he carried the watering can. Now she had to crawl.

She pressed her ears close and went beneath the branch.

Beyond it, the stones rose almost to her waist.

Cotton put a paw on the nearest. Water lay in a deep split across its surface. She looked back at the smaller stones she had been following, but the branch and its leaves hid them. Perhaps she had come away from the path. She went along the stone until she could see round its end.

Roots filled the ground beyond it. They ran over one another and entered the bank beneath a trunk too thick for her to reach round. The flowerbed smell had gone. Beneath the wet leaves was something sour and deep that grew stronger when she disturbed them. Far above her, branches moved against a narrow strip of sky.

She had seen the whole garden from Oliver’s arms. She knew where the hedge ended. She turned back, searching for the branch she had crawled beneath. There were several low enough. She went to one and looked through, but there was no line of pale stones on its other side. Rain pattered on the leaves. She climbed onto a root, trying to see above the undergrowth.

The house should have been behind her, with its roof against the sky. There was only a slope crowded with trees.

“Oliver?”

She waited for an answer, for a door opening somewhere behind the trees. Rain tapped on leaves at different heights, near her and far above. A drop fell from the end of her ear.

Cotton got down from the root and searched for the path. She found a strip of bare earth between the trunks, narrow and dark with water. It ran downhill. She followed it a little way, stopping at each turn to look back, until she heard running water below her.

There was no stream in the garden.

She stood with both paws against a wet trunk. The bark was rough beneath her fur. She could hear the water passing over stones, too much of it for the trickle that sometimes ran along the paving after rain. When she looked up, she could no longer see even the strip of sky. Branches met overhead, and below them the darkness was full of smaller movements she could not locate.

The stones on the slope had sharp edges. If Oliver had come this way without his slippers, he might have hurt his feet. She looked beneath the branches for somewhere he could have sat down.

The cloth at her neck had come loose at one end. She tucked it back beneath the knot, the piece of red rocket against her white fur. The scrap had been caught at the window. She had found this place below it. She did not know where else to look.

She went down towards the water.

The bank grew steep near the bottom. Cotton turned sideways and used the roots to keep from slipping. Water ran round her feet. Below her, a stream shone in broken patches between the trees. The nearer bank was narrow, with ferns hanging over it. Across the water, a shallow hollow climbed between the trees.

She stopped calling his name so she could listen. At first there was only water. Then a gust moved through the branches, carrying a smell she knew: wood smoke. A fire meant someone was there. She raised her face. The smell faded, and she went a few steps along the bank to find it again.

She followed the stream until fallen branches bridged its narrowest part. One was thick enough to take her weight. She went across low to the wood, her ears brushing the water before she caught them against her chest. On the far bank she stood and waited for the smell to return.

Something cracked behind her.

Cotton turned. Across the stream, the ferns moved and settled. She could not see what had disturbed them. She waited long enough to hear the water again, then went up the hollow.

The smoke grew stronger. She could smell something cooking beneath it. A dull orange light showed between the trunks ahead, vanished when the ground dipped, and appeared again as she climbed. She hurried towards it until a bramble caught the scrap at her neck.

She stopped at once. The blue cloth stretched between her and the thorn. She pushed it back along the point, working close to the stem until it came free. Only then did she notice the white fur caught on the next thorn. She left it there.

A voice came from beyond the rise. She could not make out the words. Another answered, nearer the fire. Cotton climbed the last stretch with the cloth pressed beneath her chin, and a fern swung against her as she stepped into the light.

The mouse between her and the fire held a long yellow pencil upright in both paws. Its pink eraser was planted in the earth, the metal collar dulled with dirt. The shaft rose far above his head, its paint worn to bare wood where he gripped it. At the upper end, a long taper of shaved wood narrowed to a black graphite point. Rain had darkened the grey fur along his shoulders. He shifted his paws along the shaft and lowered that point towards Cotton.

“Stay there, rabbit.”

She stopped with the point held steady in front of her. She had been ready to call out as soon as she found someone. Now she had to make herself speak.

“I’m looking for a boy. His name is Oliver. Have you seen him?”

The sentry looked past her into the trees. He asked whether she was alone, then called for his sergeant without leaving his place. Cotton waited, pressing the scrap at her neck against her chest. The red rocket was folded out of sight. She loosened her paw enough to show it.

The sergeant came out of the firelight with his pencil resting along his shoulder. His dark blue beret was low behind his ears. He asked which way she had come. When she pointed towards the hollow, he wanted to know about the water at the bottom and whether anything had followed her.

“I heard a branch break. I couldn’t see.”

He sent the warning along the posts and waited for the next sentry to answer.

“This boy. Was he with you?”

“At home. Someone took him. His window was open.” She held the torn cloth out from her chest. “This was caught there. He wouldn’t have gone without his glasses.”

The sergeant’s eyes moved from the cloth to her face. “Come and tell the captain. Mind that rope.”

It ran from a canvas shelter to a root at ankle height. Cotton stepped over it into a camp smaller than she had imagined from the smell of cooking. The fire was banked between stones. Most of the soldiers sat facing outwards, with long yellow pencils against the trunks beside them and pink erasers planted in the earth. A mouse slept with both paws round an empty bowl. Beneath the shelter, another lay with his foot on a rolled blanket while an officer worked at its bandage.

“Captain. Someone’s taken her boy.”

The officer looked up. A black bicorne lay beside his open pack. He asked Cotton’s name, gave his own as Captain Holt, and shifted his knee to make room beside him.

Cotton stayed standing. She told him Oliver was eight, that he was human, and that she had looked through the garden before the trees grew so thick she could no longer see the house. Holt’s paw stopped on the bandage at the word human.

“Human?”

Cotton looked at him.

“What is that?” Holt asked.

“It’s what Oliver is. His kind. He’s a boy.” She searched for the parts that would matter if someone saw him on a road. “No fur. No muzzle. Small ears at the sides. You’d know he wasn’t a mouse.”

Holt looked towards the sergeant. “Fell. Either watch seen anyone pass?”

“Nothing before her.”

Holt listened while Cotton described the hollow. He knew it, and the stream below it. He did not know her house. None of his soldiers had seen a child like Oliver.

She looked beyond him at the sleepers. He could not have asked all of them.

“If someone had brought him through here, the watch would have told me,” Holt said.

Cotton folded the scrap back against her neck. “Where else could they go?”

“There’s a path beyond the ridge. We’re taking it to a village in the morning. We’ve been sent to protect it. Someone there may know more.”

“Show me where it starts.”

Before Holt could answer, the wounded mouse tried to draw his foot away. A wet patch had spread through the underside of the bandage. Holt supported the heel while Fell eased the cloth free. Cotton moved out of their light.

The soldier watched their paws. He said he could still walk. Neither officer answered immediately.

“Patches, will that strap hold his foot?” Holt asked.

A mouse sewing beside the pack tested her seam and shook her head. She had a notch near the rim of one ear. A younger soldier was holding the torn ends for her; now he worked a sound loop loose and laid it across the split. She tried the overlap, then took a short knife from among her thread and trimmed the frayed edge.

Cotton knelt near them while Holt dressed the foot again. A square of cloth lay warming on the stones. The young mouse pushed it towards her with his free paw, and she held it against the wet end of one ear. She kept Holt in sight. As soon as he had tied the bandage, she would ask him where the path left the stream.

Fell took the injured soldier off the watch list. Holt offered to take the duty himself; the sergeant showed him where his name already stood. After a moment over the paper, Holt divided the extra watch between himself and Fell. The wounded mouse turned his face towards the canvas.

Holt lowered the foot onto its blanket and came to Cotton. He crouched so she would not have to look up so far.

“I can show you the ridge. Beyond it you’ll lose the path in the dark. There are other things in these woods.”

“He’s out there.”

“I know.” Holt glanced at the cloth she held. “Fell knows where it leaves the stream. Stay within our posts until you’ve heard him. Then you can decide.”

Cotton looked towards the hollow she had climbed. From this side of the fire she could no longer distinguish its entrance. She put the drying cloth back on the stones. She would hear Fell out, and make him describe the turns.

A shout came from the hollow.

Fell was on his feet. The sewing fell beside the pack as the two soldiers reached for their pencils. Holt put on the bicorne. The sentry stumbled into the edge of the light, calling that Orcs were coming. An arrow struck the tree beside him with a hard wooden knock.

“Pencils down,” Fell ordered.

The young mouse planted the eraser butt behind his foot and braced the long shaft in both paws. Across the fire the other points lowered with his, a row of sharpened graphite coming level above the stones.

The first Orc came out of the hollow behind a shield of hacked planks. Branches scraped over the jagged black iron strapped across his shoulders and sprang free of his matted hair. He was squat and heavy through the chest, his bare arms thick with olive-grey flesh. His eyes moved along the pencil points. He kept his axe low, its crooked edge almost touching the leaves.

Then he drove the shield into them.

A pencil point struck the wood below his chin and held him there. His lips drew back from uneven tusks as he shoved harder. The mouse behind the pencil skidded backwards until another soldier braced him. The Orc stamped forward, axe lifting towards their heads, and a second point slid past his shield and entered his thigh.

Cotton heard the sound he made. She had never heard pain come out of anything so large.

The Orc stumbled against his shield. Fell called the two mice forward, and they moved together, driving him back towards the hollow.

Behind him, more shields were coming through the trees.

Chapter 3

The next Orc pushed past the wounded one, driving his shield across the lowered points. Fell caught a mouse by the shoulder and brought him back level with his neighbours. For a moment the pencils held the newcomers at the mouth of the hollow.

An axe hooked a pencil and dragged it down. The mouse holding it went with it, and the next Orc struck over the shield rim. Cotton saw the mouse’s beret fall. His paws remained closed on the yellow shaft as the others pulled him back.

Holt caught Cotton against his leg before she could move towards the fallen mouse. He pushed her behind the nearest tree and went back to the line. Something hit the bark where her head had been. She pressed herself into the roots, one ear caught beneath her arm, while splinters dropped through the fur of her neck. A soldier running past kicked the sewing mouse’s repair things into the roots beside her. A short knife slid under the loose thread.

The cooking fire lay between the attackers and the shelter. Behind Cotton, the canvas roof sloped from a tall front pole to a line between two trees, high enough for mice to pass beneath its rear edge. Bedrolls filled the dry space under it. To her left the ground rose into a bank thick with bracken; on the right, the mice were crowded against the trees. There was no room to spread farther. Each time someone fell, another pencil had to cover the gap.

The mouse with the notched ear and her young helper were lifting the soldier with the bandaged foot out from beneath the shelter. He tried to reach a pencil as they carried him, but they kept going. They laid him beyond its left end, behind the roots of a beech, and turned back for the others.

Cotton left the tree to help them.

The wounded mouse nearest the fire was the one who had been asleep round his bowl. She caught the edge of his blanket beneath her paws and pulled. It moved a little, then snagged. His open mouth was wet. She could not tell what he was trying to say over the clash of wood and iron.

An Orc shoved through the gap above him. Cotton saw the underside of the shield, the dark nails bent flat through its boards. She let go and fell backwards. The shield passed over her. Before the axe could follow, the young soldier thrust into the Orc’s exposed side. His companion caught the wounded mouse under the arms and dragged him towards the beech.

Cotton scrambled after them, dragging one end of the blanket. She had been in the young soldier’s way. If he had hesitated, the axe would have reached her.

At the tree, the older mouse settled the wounded soldier beside the first. Her companion was already turning back towards the fire.

“Your name?” Cotton asked him.

“Perrin.” He brought his pencil up and hurried past her.

Two more soldiers arrived carrying another between them. They had left their pencils against the trunk. Now their paws went to the shafts and their faces turned towards the failing line.

Cotton looked past them. Behind the bank, the bracken ran towards the hollow. She could see the tops of the Orcs’ heads above it; every face was turned towards Holt. The soldiers beside her could reach their side from there. But the mice at the fire were already giving ground, and the two carriers were hurrying back to them.

“Patches, right?”

The veteran stopped and nodded.

“Take them behind the bank. Those shields are all facing Holt.”

Cotton pointed towards the hollow, then across to the shelter. Its front pole had shifted when Perrin struck against it. The canvas sagged and lifted again, heavy with rain.

“Wait for the roof to fall.”

Patches looked up at the swaying pole, then moved left until she could see along the bank herself. She caught one carrier by the shoulder and turned him. The three of them went low through the bracken, keeping their pencils along the ground. Cotton watched the last yellow shaft disappear. She had sent them away when Holt needed them. She had to bring his line back beneath the shelter before it broke open.

The line struck the stones of the fire. A mouse stumbled over the cooking pot, spilling broth into the embers. Steam rose between the shields. Holt hauled the soldier upright while Fell brought the others back level with him.

Cotton ran to the captain, calling until he looked down. The axe blows were so loud she could scarcely hear herself.

“Back through the shelter. Let them come under it.”

She pointed at the front pole. A rope ran from its head to the tree where Holt had put her, holding it upright against the backward pull of the wet roof. Holt looked along it, then towards the trees behind the shelter. He shouted the withdrawal to Fell.

The sergeant took them back a step at a time. Their pencils kept the shields away while they crossed the bedding. Perrin came last on Cotton’s side, blood darkening the exposed wood behind his pencil point. An Orc struck the shaft and forced it against the pole. The whole roof lurched.

Cotton ran along the shelter’s left edge to the tree that held the rope. Patches’ knife lay among the spilled thread where she had first taken cover. She compressed both paws round its handle and brought the edge against the rope.

The first cut scraped fibres loose. The rope did not give. She pulled the blade across it again, harder, and lost her footing. Above her, the roof shook as shields struck the pole. Each blow jerked the rope beneath her blade; she had to find the cut again. The Orcs were pushing beneath it, stooping to follow the retreating mice.

Perrin was still beside the front pole. His pencil had caught between it and a shield. He pulled once, twice. The Orc reached over the shield with his axe, and Cotton stopped cutting.

“Perrin! Leave it!”

Perrin turned towards her but kept both paws on the shaft, tugging once more. The axe was coming over the shield. He let go and threw himself backwards. The axe struck the pole. Cotton saw a pale split open in the wood, then the shield turned towards her.

She put the knife against the frayed rope and leaned with all her weight.

It parted beneath her paws. The pole tipped back, striking an Orc across the shoulder, and the wet roof folded over the Orcs beneath it. One thrust his shield above his head to lift the canvas clear of his face. Another drove into his back. Canvas stretched over the axe blades and jerked tight between struggling bodies.

Cotton fell against the root. For a moment she could see neither Holt nor the mice beyond the shelter. She had brought it down too soon. She had caught them with the Orcs.

Then a yellow point thrust over the fallen edge.

“Now!” she called. “Patches!”

Bracken broke along the bank. Patches came through with the two carriers at her shoulders, their pencils level beneath the raised shields. One Orc tore clear of the canvas and turned into their points. Holt’s mice came back at the Orcs from between the trees before the others could face the new attack.

The roof dragged across Cotton’s legs. She pulled free and crawled behind the root as an axe cut through the fabric above her. Boots stamped past. A shield fell flat beside her, hard enough to shake the knife from her paws. Beyond it she saw Perrin retrieve a pencil from the ground and put himself beside Fell.

The Orc nearest them backed towards the fire. Another struck him in his haste to get clear. Their shields turned outwards, each seeking room to move, and the mice pressed into the spaces between. Those still beyond the fallen roof began to run for the hollow.

Holt called his soldiers back when they reached the trees. Patches stopped the carriers from following farther. Cotton stayed against the root until the last yellow shaft had ceased moving past her face.

At the beech, the mouse whose blanket she had pulled was no longer trying to speak. Cotton went to him. One paw lay open on the damp leaves. She put it back beneath the blanket, clear of the feet moving round them, and kept her own paw against his shoulder until Fell knelt beside her.

The sergeant bent close to the mouse’s face. Cotton watched him, waiting for him to look up. The blanket rose a little beneath her paw, then sank.

“Stay with him,” Fell said. “Keep that over him.”

He went to the next soldier. Cotton drew the blanket higher and freed the corner trapped beneath her knee.

Beyond the fire, Holt was setting the watch again. One mouse went towards the hollow while another took his place farther round the trees. The pencils stayed level until they had passed out of the light. Cotton tried to see where they stopped. There was no sound from the hollow now, only rain striking leaves.

The mouse beneath her paw moved his head. His lips parted. She bent closer, but he shut his mouth again and kept his eyes closed.

“They’re gone,” she told him.

She looked towards the hollow as soon as she had said it.

Patches came back with a roll of cloth under her arm. She knelt opposite Cotton and opened the blanket far enough to reach the wound. Cotton shifted to give her room.

“Hold this.”

The veteran set Cotton’s paw on a folded pad. Cotton pressed it down while Patches worked. She kept her eyes on the paw, on the white fur above it. It would not stay still. She put her other paw over it, and Patches drew the bandage beneath the mouse’s shoulder.

Perrin stood nearby with a pencil he had taken from the ground. He was turning it slowly, examining the shaft. A long pale split ran down from the sharpened end. He put it aside and went to retrieve another.

The two soldiers who had followed Patches through the bracken came back carrying a third. They laid him on the other side of the beech. One stayed kneeling with him while the other stood again, looking towards the fire.

Cotton had heard the mouse they had carried in speak before the attack. She could not remember what he had said.

Patches finished the bandage and eased Cotton’s paws away. Blood had darkened the pad. Cotton tried to rub a spot from the fur at the end of one arm, then stopped when it spread.

“Can he walk?” she asked.

“We’ll carry him.”

Patches settled the blanket and went to the soldier who had just been brought in. Cotton stayed until Perrin returned. He knelt where Patches had been and tucked his sound pencil within reach against the root.

“I’ve got him,” he said.

Cotton stood. She had to steady herself against the beech before she could walk away from it.

The shelter lay across the ground in wet folds. An axe had opened it from the middle almost to the edge. Where the front pole had stood, a broken length of wood leaned against a shield. Cotton found the short knife near the root and picked it up with both paws.

Holt was beside the fire. He had set the cooking pot upright, but most of the broth was in the earth. Steam rose from the stones as he moved them back into place with the butt of his pencil.

“The village,” Cotton said. “How far is it?”

“Several hours by the ridge. Longer with wounded to carry.”

Cotton looked beyond him. Soldiers were retrieving packs from under the fallen canvas. Some had not been near the fire when she had asked about Oliver. They might have come from a different road.

“Has anyone seen a human boy?” she called to them. “His name is Oliver. He’s eight.”

A mouse straightened with a bedroll under his arm. He shook his head. Another asked how long the boy had been missing.

“He was with me when he went to sleep.”

She could not say how long ago that had been. The mouse waited, then shook his head too. Those still working slowed to listen, but no one came forward.

Cotton held the knife tighter. She had forgotten she was carrying it.

“People come into the village from the outlying farms,” Holt said. “Foragers use these woods. We can ask them.”

“They might have seen him?”

“They might.”

She looked towards the dark ground beyond the shelter. There was a ridge there somewhere. If she could reach its path, she could begin asking before the soldiers arrived.

Holt followed her look. “Fell’s checking the way out. Wait until he’s back.”

She took the knife to Patches. The veteran looked up from a strap she was fastening, accepted it and wiped the blade on a scrap of ruined canvas. Beside her, Perrin was helping to roll a blanket round two straight branches. They left enough wood bare at either end for the carriers. Cotton watched them test it. The branches bent when Perrin leaned his weight into the blanket, and Patches pulled one binding tighter before having him try again.

The mouse lying at their feet watched too.

Fell came back through the trees and reported to Holt.

“Thirty of us. Six off the watch. Two of those on stretchers.”

Holt looked round the camp as the sergeant named the wounded. Cotton followed his gaze, counting those who could still take a pencil: twenty-four, with Holt and Fell among them. At the beech, a soldier was trying to sit up. Fell went to support his back.

Cotton went to the captain.

“Which way?”

Holt pointed past the two trees that had held the roof. “Keep climbing until you reach the ridge. The path runs along the top. We turn left for the village.”

She looked where he pointed, fixing the two trunks in her mind.

“Thank you.”

She took a step towards them.

“Cotton.”

Holt had taken off the bicorne. He held it by the brim, turning it until he found a tear near one end. He smoothed it flat and came to her.

“I’d like you to come with us.”

“I can’t wait until morning.”

“We’re leaving now. The raiders know where we are, and we’ve nothing left to shelter under.” He glanced towards the beech. “It will be slow. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

Cotton could see Perrin and Patches lifting the injured mouse onto their stretcher. He made a sound when they moved him. They stopped, changed their hold and tried again.

“I need you with us,” Holt said.

She turned back to him.

“You brought the flank and the line together. I couldn’t see what was happening beyond that bank.” He held the hat against his chest. “Perrin told me why the roof didn’t fall sooner. You stopped cutting while he was still there.”

“I couldn’t leave him.”

“You could have cut. You were under the axes too.” Holt looked towards the torn canvas. “I want you choosing where we put this company. You’ll need us to tell you what the ground and the company will bear.”

“You’re their captain.”

“I remain their captain. I answer for them. This is me asking you to lead us, and standing beside you if you will.”

“I thought I’d caught you under the roof.”

“It was close. Fell got the last of us clear.”

Fell had heard. He left the stretcher and came to Holt.

“She doesn’t know the company.”

“I know.”

The sergeant looked at Cotton. “Before you divide us again, ask what each soldier is doing. Those carriers have wounded depending on them.”

Cotton looked towards the beech. “You’ll tell me?”

“If you can spare someone. And if you can’t.”

She nodded. Fell stayed beside Holt, his pencil butt in the mud.

Holt offered her the hat.

Cotton took it in both paws. Rain lay along the brim. She had seen him put it on when the sentry shouted, before he went to stand in front of the shields.

“Third Spears,” Holt called.

The soldiers looked towards him. One with a pack half lifted waited until his neighbour put hers down. Fell brought his pencil upright beside the captain.

Holt settled the bicorne on Cotton’s head. Its lining pressed into the wet fur between her ears. She raised one paw to steady it.

The captain stepped back and saluted.

“We are yours to command, General.”

Cotton looked from him to the mice behind him. Patches stood beside Perrin at the head of the stretcher. Farther back, another soldier leaned against his companion, one foot held clear of the ground. Beyond them lay the two trees and the way towards the village.

She could have gone between those trees already. Now they were waiting for her.

Cotton lowered her paw from the hat. The blue cloth lay against her chest, its torn rocket dark with rain.

“Fall in.”