But the moor is a harsh mistress, and time is the hunter that never tires.
The rivalry began on a crisp October morning. The air hummed with the baying of the pack and the sharp, brassy notes of the hunting horn. Leading the chase was Asher, the Huntsman, a man whose soul was etched with the lines of a thousand miles of pursuit. Beside him ran Merlin, the lead hound, a creature of pure instinct and iron lungs. The Belstone Fox
Tag looked at the hounds, then at the distant silhouette of the Huntsman. With a final, defiant yip that echoed off the stones, he didn't run. He simply stepped back into the mist. But the moor is a harsh mistress, and
The morning mist clung to the valley of Dartmoor like a burial shroud, thick and tasting of damp peat. Within the jagged shadows of the granite tors, a cub was born. He was Tag, the fox who would become a legend, though at the moment, he was nothing more than a wet scrap of copper fur. Leading the chase was Asher, the Huntsman, a