The wind teased at the leaf-covered ground, threatening to lift up the debris that lay strewn upon the forest floor and blow them back at a cheetah as he started sweeping them into a small pile by his front door.  A small sigh escaped his lips as he looked up at the sky and saw the golden brown colour of the leaves in the trees still yet to fall.  The area outside his home may be small, but it was going to be a daily task keeping it clean.

Shaking the thought from his mind, he took the brush to the ground again.  The bristles rasped against the stone path hidden under the leaves and made a pleasing sound.  It was the sound of progress being made.  Every stroke meant that the task was another step closer to being complete, and he would be a few moments closer to going back indoors and out of the cold autumn wind.  Once inside he would sit by the fire and entertain his lady friend with poems and romantic literature, and with the views of the forest visible from the rear windows of his house.  He would, however, have to stop daydreaming and actually finish the sweeping though.

Again he set to his task, drawing his brush along the ground and gathering the summer's waste products behind the head of his brush.  This time he gave the task his full attention, making sure he captured every leaf or piece of dirt large enough to be gathered by the stiff bristles.  Time was moving on, and the bright autumn sun was starting to set.  The cheetah knew it would not be long before it would be too dark to see well enough to complete the sweeping, and he had promised to have the job done before sunset.

The strength of the wind increased, making the pile of leaf litter jiggle around a little.  The cheetah sighed with a little more force.  He had not expected the weather to conspire against him like this.  Overhead he heard a flock of birds battling through the wind, and he chuckled to himself.  At least he could stay in one place year in, year out.  The thought of leaving the country of Denia every few months to a second home somewhere in the south did not appeal to him in the slightest.  His home was in the fine village of Tobbac and that was where he would stay.

Shaking the mental distraction from his head again, the cheetah bundled up the pile by his door and threw it in a cloth sack.  A short walk away was a communal shed, used for storing gardening material.  His bags of leaf mulch would make a good source of compost for the growing season.  The small metal drawbar used to lock the shed protested as it was pulled aside, and the wooden door creaked open.  Without a further thought, the sack was thrown inside and the shed closed and locked again.  The cheetah almost heard the soft cry of pain as the sack landed, but his mind was on romance now he had finished his chore, and small noises were far from being registered in his brain.

“Your eyes are like the morning dew," he said aloud to himself as he walked back to his home, practising for his lover.  “For, like the dew, they sparkle with the sun…  No, that sounds terrible.  Maybe I should leave the poetry to the professionals.  Hopefully I can sway her with romantic gestures instead of romantic words, I do better with them.  Damn it, I'm getting too old for this."  Laughing, the cheetah opened his front door and went inside for a night of romance and passion.  If he played his cards right tonight, he would soon have a mate.

***

“Stuff and nonsense, fox," shouted the barkeep at Tobbac's tavern.  “You and your kind have always been tricksters and scoundrels.  Why should we believe you now?"  The bear slammed his fists down on the bar as he finished his statement.  The customers of the tavern were silent in fear.

“You don't," the fox replied with a wretched smile as he thrust his paws into his tunic pockets.  “You can take your stupid life, and live in blissful ignorance for the rest of your days.  Good luck to you."  With that the fox turned on his heels and marched out of the tavern, and was soon lost to the evening.

“Stupid fox," the bear growled.  He took a few deep breaths to calm himself before picking up a cloth and wiping the bar down.  “How dare he come in, spreading tales of conquest and scaring my customers?"

“What if he's right though?"  The voice came from an old goat sitting in a dark corner, illuminated only by a single candle, which had been stuffed into the neck of an ale bottle.  “We all know that Brockwood forest was recently taken in a bloody battle.  That badger now lies under the ground and the land is up for the taking.  Who's to say that the fox's warning isn't of a new tyrant looking to overthrow the new rulers and take the land for himself?"

“That fight was a rebellion," called a small ocelot from the other side of the tavern.  “Brock was the worst ruler that forest had ever seen.  To call himself a lord when he had no noble blood was a joke."

“WoodClaw's calling himself a lord, though," shouted a bull from near the goat.  “He's not a noble either."

“He'll make a better lord than Brock did," the ocelot countered.  “Besides, the woodlanders are the ones to call WoodClaw a lord.  Don't you think it's for them to decide who rules over the forest?  Brockwood Forest will be a better place now that despot has been dealt with."

“Rubbish," the bull argued, nearly knocking over his glass of ale as he beat his fist down on his table.  “Brock may not have been a great leader, but his blacksmith was my main customer.  You may have noticed that since the rebellion their local smith hasn't been so overworked, and my blacksmith's yard has become almost silent as a result.  The trade of making weapons for export has died in these parts, and if the situation doesn't improve soon I shall be forced to shut up shop and return to farming."

A red squirrel dressed in a fine blue tunic burst into the tavern, breaking the argument.  Every beast stopped and looked at him as he tried to get his breath back.  The bear left the bar and handed the newcomer a glass of water, which the squirrel gratefully gulped between breaths.

“Denizens of Tobbac," he called once he regained his composure.  “I come bearing important news."

“We're under attack," the goat muttered under his breath but loudly enough for others to hear.  The barkeep threw him a dirty look as he took the empty glass back behind the bar.

“I come from the court of Lord WoodClaw," the squirrel continued, not hearing the goat's comment.  “From this day on, the forest of Brockwood is no longer to be called as such."

“What?"  The patrons of the tavern gasped in surprise.  They had never heard of anyone ever demanding that the name of a location should be changed.

“Brockwood used to mean Forest of the Badger, but the former lord, Lord Brock, has defiled that name.  Now Brockwood instils fear and resentment in those who have suffered under Lord Brock's rule.  In honour of Lord WoodClaw's successful coup, it has been decided to rename the area to Riverbridge Forest, and to create the village of Riverbridge alongside it, on the opposing side of the River Brock."

“Riverbridge?  Where did that name come from?" asked the bull.

“The forest and village will take their name from a new bridge being constructed over the River Brock, eliminating the need to journey to Souford in order to cross the river."

“Finally," said a mink from behind a bottle of mead.  “Doing trade with anyone over the river was a nightmare."

“See blacksmith," the bear called from behind the bar, “looks like your export trade may improve after all."

“Your smith is here too?"  The squirrel breathed a large sigh of relief.  “When I went to the blacksmiths I was dismayed to find it shut for the night and no one appeared to be home."

“Well, you've found me squirrel, what do you need?"

“Tools," replied the squirrel.  “As many tools to clear land as you can make, and if you're able to produce anything to help us build the new village we'll gladly take those too.  If we can retire to the smithy I would like to discuss terms and payment."

“Let me finish my drink, and we'll go," the bull said, smiling as wide as he could and picking his jacket from the stool next to his.

“Take it with you, just bring back the glass in the morning," laughed the bear in good humour.  “I would hate to be the one to stand between the smith and his precious exports."  A good natured, yet dirty, look was flashed at the barkeep as the bull got up.  He knew he deserved the comment and he knew the bear meant no malice.  It was just typical bar banter, and neither was unaccustomed to it.

The squirrel had never left the door of the tavern throughout the conversation.  When he saw the bull was ready, he turned and pushed the heavy door open and together the pair left the establishment to the surprise of the other customers.

“Well, blow me down," remarked the ocelot once the shock had passed and a good few more mouthfuls of ale had been consumed.  “I don't think I've seen him so happy in a good many seasons."

“So Brockwood is now Riverbridge," mused the goat aloud, making sure to be heard by anyone who would listen.  “I give it ten seasons before it has been invaded again."

The bear growled a warning at the goat to shut up.  The fox had started the fear mongering with news of another fox establishing an army near the mouth of the River Brock.  The last thing the village of Tobbac needed was a mass panic thanks to a goat that cried wolf.

“Well," the mink said as he finished his mead, gathered his cloak together and rose from his stool.  “I'm heading to Souford in the morning to stay with some friends over the cold seasons and to do some trade over the river.  If I see or hear of this army, I'll send a swallow to warn you all.  Does that placate you, old goat?"

“I'll be long gone by then" came the shrivelled response.  “My time grows shorter as the days grow colder."

“So you said yesterday," said the ocelot.

“And the day before," the bear followed as he left his bar to collect the empty glasses from the tables of the customers who had opted not to include themselves in the conversation.  The mink pushed the door open and walked out into the cold night air.  He shivered and pulled his cloak over his shoulders to protect himself against the bitter chill.

The patrons of the tavern had no idea they would never hear from him again.