The Moth's Return: Leaving the Lake

They all stood on the shore and skipped rocks and the lake sipped the sun like hot chocolate - when it was gone, there was a lingering sweetness at the edge of things that the Moth would never forget. Warmth went west over the water and they sent pebbles that way, too, for the soft splashes between each skimming arc, and for the thought of sinking stones settling in the blue and fluid dark.

Even a cool and misty morning found them reluctant to head to bed. Sir Ontzlake stood with his hands in his armor-pockets, squinting at the tendrils of fog creeping from the lake to the circling trees. He had a bad case of helmet hair. The Owl's feathers were rumpled and out of place. Icarus' antennae were frazzled. Except for the Cat, they were exhausted, but while full daylight was blocked out by darkness or clouds or fog, it was the kind of place that one could look at and look at forever.

"Mangelwurzel!" swore the Cat, and everyone jumped.

"Cat, must you insist on-" snapped the Owl, but he was interrupted by Ontzlake.

"No, look! Hordlings!" He was pointing to the north end of the beach, where figures were emerging from the mist. They stood frozen for a few seconds, and then the noise of voices and clinking metal reached them. Several more hordlings appeared, and then all at once a pack of them, and then, to their horror, a monstrous champion who towered over the rest of them. And they were all sprinting straight at the Moth and his friends.