Crenshaw pulled ahead of the caravan. The individually slow moving cockroaches all came together to create an electric combined forward movement.

His chicken had no trouble keeping up with the roaches, however and despite stopping frequently to eat a tick or flea, the chickens easily matched the pace. On either side of him the riderless chickens followed.

Any other beasts he would have put on a leash, or a collar. These ones, they moved on their own accord. Something about working with River and Freya for so long made them more sapient. Crenshaw wasn't bothered by smarter beasts, so long as they were on his side. The thought of a smarter bear would probably have kept him up at night.

The woodlands had less trees and tree cover the more west they'd traveled. The poor roaches were going to be working for most of the day after only breaking in the morning. Already the mid-afternoon breeze showed a large sway ahead of him. There was more forest ahead, and if the convoy commander was any indication, the pathway would get worse before it got better.

Ahead of them, two bluejays rose out of a pile of leaves. Both wore dark brown and green cloaks, embroidered with the sigil of the Ball of Yarn on the breast. The free chickens made a beeline for them, and Crenshaw found the two saddling up before he knew it.

"It's as bad as you think, but it's only four, for now," Freya said.

"Tell me what you saw."

Crenshaw waited as Freya related the story of the trackers behind them. When he was quite certain that she finished, he nodded to River.

"Beatrice, you seem awfully quiet."

"She's of a mind to hold her tongue about these kinds of things."

"Ah, an old aviary trick, eh?"

Crenshaw played along for anyone listening.

"We need to talk to Sergeant Yates."

"Very well, will Miss Beatrice be alright on her own, er, Kayli?"

"That she will. She will be her own counsel in this."

Crenshaw looked down the line for the convoy commander. Sergeant Yates was already heading in their direction. She was riding behind Woda. He always had all the luck that Crenshaw didn't.

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"Good, good. I'll make the report. I suppose Woda and Stone need to know as well because it will affect them."

Sergeant Yates, Woda and the chicken they rode on approached.

"Good day to you Sergeant, I have a matter of great importance for your ears. Perhaps you might stay awhile while we formulate a response?"

"Very well, tell me what you have learned."

“We have unwanted guests. There are but four.”

“Four could change the war. Can your…team take care of this?”

“I’ll confer with them, but it’s within our wheelhouse.”

“Four, whiskered friends?” Woda asked.

Crenshaw knew that he was calculating his odds on an even footing against all four. They wouldn’t give the cats a chance to do that. It would be a poor Swordmaster that let his opponent have any available advantage.

“You’re correct.”

Woda smiled for the first time that Crenshaw could recall.

“Our team of experts can take care of this,” Woda said.

Sergeant Yates and Woda turned to look at each other. Woda, in front, carried the reins of his chicken, while the Sergeant dipped to the right so they could both stare each other down.

“You’re certain about that? I wouldn’t want such an illustrious career to end because you wanted to die a hero's death.”

The elder mouse sighed. The contempt in his voice was at a low roar. Crenshaw knew that he’d still have a lot of his ability, if not the strength of his youth.

“I said that I was retired, not dead. And I have no plans to die a hero's death. I’d rather do that to the enemy.”

"Some sort of trap, then?" Sergeant Yates replied, bemused, "Officially we're not supposed to engage, but also unofficially there are some cussers that your engineers can borrow for the good of the cause."

Crenshaw nodded approvingly. He’d never been allowed to play with the temperamental bolts, but it filled him with a bit of joy to know that it would be available for others. Then he frowned, remembering who would be handling the explosives.

"I can handle the cussers, just give me a shot," Stone said by way of arrival," They’re a bit heavy and are they otter design? Good good."

Sergeant Yates nodded to the otter.

"Solid otter boots, nothing like the flying beaver arrows,"Sergeant Yates replied.

"They go far, unlike their hierarchical relationships," Stone said.

Crenshaw groaned.

"If you want to hear a lecture about the benefits of polygamy, Stone here will be glad to explain why the beavers do it worse than the otters at length, but perhaps another time?"

"Over mead when all is said and done, I have one request for you," Sergeant Yates said,"A special one, I hear that some of the cats have excellent crafted knives, so if you find one, I'd be much obliged. I have someone I'm trying to…impress."

The chickens continued tromping on for a while.

"Why Sergeant, I didn't have you pegged as the romantic type," Crenshaw said after a good bit.

He could tell that Woda was doing his three hundred and sixty degree sweep, and Sergeant Yates must have been asking him questions.

"Cussers are at the end to keep the rest of the convoy safe, and if you’ll drop me off, swordmaster…"

Sergeant Yates gestured with her left ear to the middle of the convoy.

"Naturally. We'll be back before you know it," Woda replied.

The bluejays fell in behind the otter as they trailed two mice to the end of the convoy.

"This will be a counter ambush, I assume we will leave Miss Beatrice in reserve?" Crenshaw asked.

"Her countenance could not stand the interaction," Freya said.

Indeed, River looked about as pale as a blue jay could be.

"Very well. Let's set it up."