The Long Patrol

The Long Patrol

Redwall, Book 10

Brian Jacques

V2.0 There were lots of scanning errors. Many doubtless remain.

Book One: The Runaway Recruit

1?

Melting snowdrifts with grassy knolls poking through made a patchwork of the far east lands as winter surrendered

its icy grip of the earth to oncoming spring. Snowdrop, chickweed, and shepherd’s purse nodded gratefully beneath a

bright mid-morning sun, which beamed through small islands of breeze-chased clouds. Carrying half-melted icicles

along, a tinkling, chuckling stream bounded from rocky cliff ledges, meandering around fir and pine groves toward

broad open plains. Already a few hardy wood ants and honeybees were abroad in the copse fringes. Clamoring and

gaggling, a skein of barnacle geese in wavering formation winged their way overhead toward the coastline. All around,

the land was wakening to springtime, and it promised to be a fair season.

It is often said that a madness takes possession of certain hares in spring, and anybeast watching the performance of

one such creature would have had his worst fears confirmed. Ta-mello De Fformelo Tussock, to give this young hare

his full title, was doing battle with imaginary enemies. Armed with stick and slingshot, he flung himself recklessly

from a rock ledge, whirling the stone-loaded sling and thwacking left and right with his stick, yelling, “Eulaliaaaa!

Have at you, villainous vermin, ’tis m’self, Captain Tammo of the Long Patrol! Take that, y’wicked weasel! Hah!

Thought you’d sneak up behind a chap, eh? Well, have some o’ this, you ratten rot, beg pardon, rotten rat!”

Hurling himself down in the snow, he lashed out powerfully with his long back legs. “What ho! That’ll give you a

bellyache to last out the season, m’laddo. Want some more? Hahah! Thought y’didn’t, go on, run f’your lives, you

cowardly crew! It’d take more’n five hundred of you t’bring down Cap’n Tammo, by the left it would!”

Satisfied that he had given a justly deserved thrashing to half a thousand fictitious foebeasts, Tammo sat up in the

snow, eating a few pawfuls to cool himself down.

“Just let ’em come back, I’ll show the blighters, wot! There ain’t a foebeast in the blinkin’ land can defeat me ...

Yaaagh, gerroff!” He felt himself hauled roughly upright by both ears. Lynum and Saithe, Tammo’s elder brother and

sister, had sneaked up and grabbed him.

“Playing soldiers again?” Lynum’s firm grip indicated that there would be no chance of escape.

Tammo’s embarrassment at being caught at his game made him even more indignant. “Unhand me at once,

m’laddo, if you know what’s good for you,” he said, struggling. “I can walk by myself.”

Saithe gave Tammo’s ear an extra tweak as she admonished him: “Colonel wants a word with you, wretch, about

his battle-ax!”

Tammo finally struggled free and reluctantly marched off between the two hulking hares, muttering rebelliously to

himself, “Huh! I can tell you what he’s goin’ t’say, same thing as usual.”

The young hare imitated his father perfectly, bowing his legs, sticking out his stomach, puffing both cheeks up, and

pulling his lips down at the corners as he spoke: “Wot wot, stap me whiskers, if it ain’t the bold Tammo. Now then,

laddie buck, what’ve y’got to say for y’self, eh? Speak up, sah!”

Lynum cuffed Tammo lightly to silence him. “Enough of that. Colonel’d have your tail if he saw you makin’ mock

of him. Step lively now!”

2?

Entering the largest of the conifer groves, they headed for a telltale spiral of smoke that denoted Camp Tussock. It

was a rambling stockade, the outer walls fashioned from tree trunks with a big dwelling house built of rock, timber,

moss, and mud chinking. This was known as the Barracks. Motes, squirrels, hedgehogs, and a few wood mice

wandered in and out of the homely place, living there by kind permission of the Colonel and his wife, Mem Divinia.

Some of them shook their heads and tuttutted at the sight of Tammo being led in to answer for his latest escapade.

Seated close to the fire in his armchair, Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock was a formidable sight. He was

immaculately attired in a buff-colored campaign jacket covered with rows of jangling medals, his heavy-jowled face

shadowed by the peak of a brown-bark forage helmet. The Colonel had one eye permanently closed, while the other

glared through a monocle of polished crystal with a silken cord dangling from it. His wattled throat wobbled

pendulously as he jabbed his pace stick pointedly at the miscreant standing before him.

“Wot wot, stap me whiskers, if it ain’t the bold Tammo. Now then, laddie buck, what’ve y’got to say for y’self,

eh? Speak up, sah!”

Tammo remained silent, staring at the floor as if to find inspiration there. Grunting laboriously, the Colonel leaned

forward, lifting Tammo’s chin with the pace stick until they were eye to eye.

“‘S matter, sah, frogs got y’tongue? C’mon now, speak y’piece, somethin’ about me battle-ax, wot wot?”

Tammo did what was expected of him and came smartly to attention. Chin up, chest out, he gazed fixedly at a

point above his father’s head and barked out in true military fashion: “Colonel, sah! ’Pologies about y’baltle-ax, only

used it to play with. Promise upon me honor, won’t do it again. Sah!”

The old hare’s great head quivered with furious disbelief, and the monocle fell from his eye to dangle upon its

string. He lifted the pace stick, and for a moment it looked as though he were about to strike his son. When the colonel

could find it, his voice rose several octaves to shrill indignation.

“Playin’? You’ve got the brass nerve t’stand there an’ tell me you’ve been usin’ my battle-ax as a toy! Outrage, sir,

outrage! Y’re a pollywoggle and a ripscutt! Hah, that’s it, a scruff-furred, lollop-eared, blather-pawed, doodle-tailed,

jumped-up-never-t’come-down bogwhumper! What are yen?”

Tammo’s mother, Mem Divinia, had been hovering in the background, tending a batch of barleyscones on the

griddle. Wiping floury paws upon an apron corner, she bustled forward, placing herself firmly between husband and

son.

“That’s quite enough o’ that, Corney Fformelo, I’ll not have language like that under my roof. Where d’you think

y’are, in the middle of a battlefield? I won’t have you roaring at my Tammo in such a manner.”

Instead of calming the Colonel’s wrath, his wife’s remarks had the opposite effect. Suffused with blood, his ears

went bright pink and stood up like spearpoints. He flung down the pace stick and stamped so hard upon it that he hurt

his foot-paw.

“Eulalia’n’blood’n’fur’n’vinegar, marm!”

Mem countered by drawing herself up regally as she grabbed Tammo’s head and buried it in the floury folds of her

apron. “Keep y’voice down, sir, no sense in settin’ a bad example to your son an’ makin’ yourself ill over some battle-

ax!”

The Colonel knew better than to ignore his wife. Rubbing ruefully at his footpaw, he retrieved the pace stick. Then,

fixing his monocle straight, he sat upright, struggling to moderate his tone.

“Some battle-ax indeed, m’dear! I’m discussin’ one particular weapon. My battle-ax! This battle-ax! D’y’know,

that young rip took a chip out o’ the blade, prob’ly hackin’ away at some boulder. A chip off my blade, marm! The

same battle-ax that was the pride of the old Fifty-first Paw’n’fur Platoon of the Long Patrol. ’Twas a blade that

separated Searats from their gizzards’n’ garters, flayed ferrets out o’ their fur, whacked weasels, an’ shortened stoats

into stumps! An’ who was it chipped the blade? That layabout of a leveret, that’s who. Hmph!”

Tammo struggled free of Mem’s apron, his face thickened with white flour dust. He sneezed twice before speaking.

“I ain’t a leveret any longer, sir. If y’let me join the jolly ol’

Long Patrol, then I wouldn’t have t’get up to all sorts o’ mischief, ’specially with your ax, sah.”

The Colonel sighed and shook his head, the monocle falling to one side as he settled back wearily into his

armchair. “I’ve told you a hundred times, m’laddo, you’re far too young, too wild’n’wayward, not got the seasons

under y’belt yet. You speak to him, Mem, m’dear, the rogue’s got me worn out. Join the Long Patrol indeed. Hmph!

No self-respectin’ Badger Lord would tolerate a green b’hind the ears little pestilence like you, laddie buck. Run along

an’ play now, you’ve given me enough gray fur, go an’ bother some otherbeast. Be off, you’re dismissed, sah. Matter

closed!”

Tammo saluted smartly and hurried off, blinking back unshed tears at his father’s brusque command. Mem took

the pace stick from her husband’s lap and slapped it down hard into his paw.

“Shame on you, Cornspurrey,” she cried, “you’re nought but a heartless old bodger. How could y’talk to your own

son like that?”

The Colonel replaced his monocle and squinted challeng-ingly. “Bodger y’self, marm! I’d give me permission for

Lynum or Saithe t’join up with the Long Patrol, they’re both of a right age. Stap me, though, neither of ’em’s

interested, both want t’be bally soil-pawed farmbeasts, I think.” He smiled slightly and stroked his curled mustache.

“Young Tammo, now, there’s a wild ’un, full of fire’n’vinegar like I was in me green seasons. Hah! He’ll grow t’be a

dangerous an’ perilous beast one day, mark m’words, Mem!”

Mem Divinia spoke up on Tammo’s behalf: “Then why not let him join up? You know ’tis all he’s wanted since he

was a babe listenin’ to your tales around the fire. Poor Tammo, he lives, eats, an’ breathes Long Patrol. Let him go,

Corney, give him his chance.”

But the Colonel was resolute; he never went back on a decision. “Tammo’s far too young by half. Said all I’m

goin’ t’say, m’dear. Matter closed!”

Popping out his monocle with a wink, Comspurrey De Fformelo Tussock settled back into the armchair and closed

his good eye, indicating that this was his prelunch naptime. Mem Divinia knew further talk was pointless. She sighed

wearily and went back to her friend Osmunda the molewife, who was assisting with the cooking.

Osmunda shook her head knowingly, muttering away in the curious molespeech, “Burr aye, you’m roight, Mem,

ee be nought but an ole bodger. Oi wuddent be surproised if’ n mais-ter Tamm up’n runned a ways one mom. Hurr

hurt, ee faither can’t stop Tamm furrever.”

Mem added sprigs of young mint to the golden crust of a carrot, mushroom, and onion hotpot she had taken from

the oven. “That’s true, Osmunda, Tammo will run away, same as his father did at his age. He was a wayward one too,

y’know. His father never forgave him for running away, called him a deserter and never spoke his name again—but I

think he was secretly very proud of Comspurrey and the reputation he gained as a fighting hare with the Long Patrol.

He died long before his son retired from service and brought me back here to Camp Tussock. I was always very sorry

that they were never reconciled. I hope the Colonel isn’t as stubborn as his father, for Tammo’s sake.”

Osmunda was spooning honey into the scooped-out tops of the hot barley scones. She blinked curiously at Mem.

“Whoi do ee say that?”

Mem Divinia began mixing a batter of greensap milk, ha-zelnut, and almond flour to make pancakes. She kept her

eyes on the mix as she explained: “Because I’m going to help Tammo to run away and join the Long Patrol. If I don’t

he’ll only hang around here gettin’ into trouble an’ arguin’ with his father until they become enemies. Now don’t

mention what I’ve just said to anybeast, Osmunda.”

The faithful mole wife’s friendly face crinkled into a deep grin. “Moi snout be sealed, Mem! Ee be a doin’ the

roight thing, oi knows et, even tho’ ee Colonel won’t ’ave ’is temper improved boi et an’ you’ll miss maister Tamm

gurtly.”

A tear fell into the pancake mix. Tammo’s mother wiped her eyes hastily on her apron hem. “Oh, I’ll miss the

rascal, all right, never you fear, Osmunda. But Tammo will do well away from here. He’s got a good heart, he’s not

short of courage, and, like the Colonel said, he’ll grow to be a wild an’ perilous beast. What more could any creature

say of a hare? One day my son will make us proud of him!”

3?

Several leagues away from Camp Tussock, down the far southeast coast, Damug Warfang turned his face to the

wind. Before him on the tide line of a shingled beach lay the wave-washed and tattered remnants of a battered ship

fleet. Behind him sprawled myriad crazy hovels, built from dunnage and flotsam. Black and gray smoke wisped off the

cooking fires among them.

The drums began to beat. Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was dying.

The drums beat louder, making the very air thrum to their deep insistent throbbing. Damug Warfang watched the

sea, pounding, hissing among the pebbles as it clawed its way up the shore. Soon Gormad Tunn’s spirit would be at the

gates of Dark Forest.

Only a Greatrat could become Firstblade of all Rapscallions. Damug cast a sideways glance at Byral standing

farther along the beach, and smiled thinly. Gormad would have company at Dark Forest gates before the sun set.

Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was close to death. Greatrats were a strange breed, twice the size of

any normal rat. Gormad had been the greatest. Now his sun was setting, and one of his two sons would rule as

Firstblade when he was gone. The two sons, Damug Warfang and Byral Fleetclaw, stood with their backs to the death

tent where their father lay, in accordance with the Law of the Rapscallion vermin. Neither would rest, eat, or drink

until the great Firstblade breathed his last. Then would come the combat between them. Only one would remain alive

as Firstblade of the mighty army.

The day wore on; Gormad Tunn’s flame burned lower.

A small pebble struck Damug lightly on his back. “Lug-worm, is everything ready?” he whispered, lips scarcely

moving.

The stoat murmured low from his hiding place behind a rock, “Never readier ... O Firstblade.”

Damug kept his eyes riveted on the sea as he replied, “Don’t call me Firstblade yet, ’tis bad luck!”

A confident chuckle came from the stoat. “Luck has nothin’ to do with it. Everythin’ has been taken care of.”

The drums began to pound louder, booming and banging, small drums competing with larger ones until the entire

shoreline reverberated to their beat.

Gormad Tunn’s eyelids flickered once, and a harsh rattle of breath escaped from his dry lips. The Firstblade was

dead!

An old ferret who had been attending Gormad left the death tent. He threw up his paws and howled in a high

keening tone:

“Gormad has left us for Dark Forest’s shade, And the wind cannot lead Rapscallions. Let the beast stand forth who

would be Firstblade, To rule alt these wild battalions!”

The drums stopped. Silence flooded the coast like a sudden tide. Both brothers turned to face the speaker,

answering the challenge.

“I, Byral Fleetclaw, claim the right. The blood of Greatrats runs in my veins, and I would fight to the death him

who opposes me!”

“I, Damug Warfang, challenge that right. My blood is pure Greatrat, and I will prove it over your dead carcass!”

A mighty roar arose from the Rapscallion army, then the hordes rushed forward like autumn leaves upon the gale,

surrounding the two brothers as they strode to the place of combat.

A ring had been marked out higher up on the shore. There the contestants stood, facing each other. Damug smiled

wolf-ishly at his brother, Byral, who smirked and spat upon the ground between them. Wagers of food and weapons,

plunder and strong drink were being yelled out between supporters of one or the other.

Two seconds entered the circle and prepared both brothers for the strange combat that would settle the leadership

of the Rapscallion hordes. A short length of tough vinerope was tied around both rats’ left footpaws, attaching them

one to the other, so they could not run away. They were issued their weapons: a short, stout hardwood club and a cord

apiece. The cords were about two swordblades’ length, each with a boulder twice the size of a good apple attached to

its end.

Damug and Byral drew back from each other, stretching the footpaw rope tight. Gripping their clubs firmly, they

glared fiercely at each other, winding the cords around their paws a few turns so they would not lose them.

Now all eyes were on the old ferret who had announced Gormad Tunn’s death, as he drew forth a scrap of red silk

and threw it upward. Caught on the breeze for a moment, it seemed to float in midair, then it dropped to the floor of

the ring. A wild cheer arose from a thousand throats as the fight started. Brandishing their clubs and whirling the

boulder-laden cords, the two Greatrats circled, each seeking an opening, while the bloodthirsty onlookers roared

encouragement.

“Crack ’is skull, Byral—go on, you kin do it!”

“Go fer ’is ribs wid yer club, Damug! Belt ’im a good ’un!”

“Swing up wid yer stone, smash ’is jaw!”

“Fling the club straight betwixt ’is eyes!”

Being fairly equally matched, each gave as good as he got. Soon Byral and Damug were both aching from hefty

blows dealt by their clubs, but as yet neither had room to bring cord and boulder into play. Circling, tugging, tripping,

and stumbling, they scattered sand and pebbles widespread, biting and kicking when they got the opportunity, each

knowing that only one would walk away alive from the encounter. Then Byral saw his chance. Hopping nimbly back,

he stretched the foot-paw rope to its limits and swung at Damug’s head with the boulder-loaded cord. It was just what

Damug was waiting for. Grabbing his club in both paws, he ducked, allowing the cord to twirl itself around his club

until the rock clacked against it. Then Damug gave a sharp tug and the cord snapped off short close to Byral’s paw.

A gasp went up from the spectators. Nobeast had expected the cord to snap—except Lugworm. Byral hesitated a

fatal second, gaping at the broken cord—and that was all Damug needed. He let go of his club, tossed a swift pawful

of sand into his opponent’s face, and swung hard with his cord and boulder. The noise was like a bar of iron smacking

into a wet side of meat. Byral looked surprised before his eyes rolled backward and he sank slowly onto all fours.

Damug swung twice more, though there was little need to; he had slain his brother with the first blow.

A silence descended on the watchers. Damug held out his paw, and Lugworm passed him a knife. With one quick

slash he severed the rope holding his footpaw to Byral’s. Without a word he strode through the crowd, and the massed

ranks fell apart before him. Straight into his father’s death tent he went, emerging a moment later holding aloft a

sword. It had a curious blade: one edge was wavy, the other straight, representing land and sea.

The drums beat out loud and frenzied as the vast Rapscallion army roared their tribute to a new Leader: “Damug

War-fang! Firstblade! Firstblade! Firstblade!”

4?

Some creatures said that Russa came from the deep south, others thought she was from the west coast, but even

Russa could not say with any degree of certainty where she had come from. The red female squirrel had neither family

nor tribe, nor any place to call home: she was a wanderer who just loved to travel. Russa Nodrey, she was often called,

owing to the fact that squirrels’ homes were called dreys and she did not have one, hence, no drey.

Nobeast knew more about country ways than Russa. She could live where others would starve, she knew the way

in woods and field when many would be hopelessly lost. Neither old—nor young-looking, quite small and lean, Russa

carried no great traveler’s haversack or intricate equipment. A small pouch at the back of the rough green tunic she

always wore was sufficient for her needs. The only other thing she possessed was a stick, which she had picked up

from the flotsam of a tide line. It was about walking-stick size and must have come from far away, because it was hard

and dark and had a luster of its own—even seawater could not rot or warp it.

Russa liked her stick. There was no piece of wood like it in all the land, nor any tree that produced such wood. It

was also a good weapon, because besides being a lone wanderer, Russa Nodrey was also an expert fighter and a very

dangerous warrior, in her own quiet way.

Off again on her latest odyssey, Russa stopped to rest among the cliff ledges not far from Camp Tussock. Happy

with her own company, she sat by the stream’s edge, drank her fill of the sweet cold water, and settled down to enjoy

the late-afternoon sun in a nook protected from the wind. The sound of another creature nearby did not bother Russa

unduly; she knew it was a mole and therefore friendly. With both eyes closed, as if napping, Russa waited until the

creature was right up close, then she spoke in perfect molespeech to it.

“Hurr, gudd day to ee, zurr, wot you’m be a doin’ yurra-bouts?”

Roolee, the husband of Osmunda, was taken aback, though he did not show it. He sat down next to Russa and

raised a hefty digging claw in greeting. “Gudd day to ee, marm, noice weather us’n’s be ’avin’, burr aye!”

Russa answered in normal speech, “Aye, a pity that some-beasts blunder along to disturb a body’s rest when all

she craves is peace an’ quiet.”

“Yurr, so ’tis, marm, so ’tis.” Roolee nodded agreement. “Tho’ if ee be who oi think ee be, marm Mem at Camp

Tussock will be pleased to see ee. May’ap you’m koindly drop boi furr vittles?”

Russa was up on her paws immediately. “Why didn’t you just say that instead of yappin’ about the weather? I’d

travel three rough leagues ’fore breakfast if I knew me old friend Mem Divinia was still cookin’ those pancakes an’

hotpots of hers!”

Roolee led the way, his velvety head nodding. “Burr aye, marm, ee Mem still be ee gurtest cook yurrabouts, she’m

doin’ pannycakes, ottenpots, an’ all manner o’ gudd vittles!”

Russa ran several steps ahead of Roolee coming into Camp Tussock. Lynum was doing sentry duty at the stockade

entrance. In the fading twilight he saw the strange squirrel approaching and decided to exercise his authority.

Barring the way with a long oak quarterstaff, he called officiously, “Halt an’ be recognized, who goes there,

stranger at the gate!”

Russa was hungry, and she had little time for such foolishness. She gave the husky hare a smart rap across his

footpaw with her stick. “Hmm, you’ve grown since I last saw ye,” she commented as she stepped over him. “Y’were

only a fuzzy babe then—fine big hare now though, eh? Pity your wits never grew up like your limbs, y’were far nicer

as a little ’un.”

Mem Divinia wiped floury paws on her apron hem and rushed to meet the visitor, her face alight with joy. “Well,

fortunes smile on us! Russa Nodrey, you roamin’ rascal, how are you?”

Russa avoided Mem’s flour-dusted hug and made for the comer seat at the table, as she remembered it was the

most comfortable and best for access to the food. She winked at Mem.

“Oh, I’m same as I always was, Mem. When I’m not trav-elin’ up an’ down the country, I’m roamin’ sideways

across the land.”

Mem winked back at Russa and whispered, “Your visit is very timely, friend. I have something to ask of you.”

Then, on seeing the Colonel approaching the table, she quickly mouthed the word “later.” Russa understood.

Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock viewed the guest with a jaundiced eye and a snort. “Hmph! Respects to

ye, marm, I see you’ve installed y’self in my flippin’ seat! Comfortable are ye, wot?”

Russa managed a rare smile. “Aye, one seat’s as good as another. How are ye, y’old fogey, still grouchin’ an’

throwin’ orders around like they’re goin’ out of style? I’ve seen boulders that’ve changed faster than you!”

The conversation was cut short by Osmunda thwacking a hollow gourd with a ladle, summoning the inhabitants of

Camp Tussock to their evening meal.

Mem Divinia and her helpers always provided the best of victuals. There was steaming hot, early-spring vegetable

soup with flat, crisp oatmeal bannocks, followed by the famous Tussock hotpot. In a huge earthenware basin coated

with a golden piecrust was a delicious medley of corn, carrots, mushrooms, turnips, winter cabbage, and onions, in a

thick, rich gravy full of Mem’s secret herbs. This was followed by a hefty apple, blackberry, and plum crumble topped

with Osmunda’s green-sap and maple sauce. Hot mint and comfrey tea was served, along with horse-chestnut beer and

red-currant cordial. Afterward there were honeyed barleyscones, white hazelnut cheese, and elderflower bread, for

those still wanting to nibble.

Tammo sat quietly, still out of favor with his father, the Colonel, since the battle-ax incident. He listened as Russa

related the latest news she had gathered in her wandering.

“Last autumn a great storm in the west country sent the waves tearing up the cliffs, and a good part of ’em

collapsed into the sea.”

The Colonel reached for cheese and bread with a grunt. “Hmph! Used to patrol down that way, y’know, lots of

toads, nasty slimy types, murderous blighters, hope the cliffs fell on them, wot! Anythin’ happenin’ at Salamandastron

of late?”

Tammo leaned forward eagerly at the name: Salamandastron, mountain of the Badger Lords, the mysterious place

that was the headquarters of the Long Patrol.

Unfortunately Russa dismissed the subject. “Hah, the badger mountain, haven’t been there in many a long season.

Place is still standin’, I suppose ...”

The Colonel’s monocle dropped from his eye in righteous indignation. “You suppose, marm? Tchah! I should jolly

well hope so! Why, if Salamandastron weren’t there, the entire land would be overrun with Searats, Corsairs, vermin,

Rapscallions, an’ ... an’ ... whatever!”

Russa leaned forward as if remembering something. “Spoke to an owl last winter. He said a whole fleet of

Rapscallions had taken a right good thrashin’ on the shores near Salamandastron. Wotsisname, the old Warlord or

Firstblade or whatever they call him? Tunn! Gormad Tunn! He was wounded near to death. Anyhow, seems they’ve

vanished into thin air to lick their wounds since then. I’ve seen no signs of Rapscallions, but if I were you I’d sleep

with one eye open, y’can never tell where they’ll turn up next. Crudest pack o’ slayers ever to draw breath, that lot!”

“I don’t think we need worry too much about Rapscallions,” Mem interrupted her friend. “They only plunder the

coasts in their ships. Strange how they never sail the open seas like Searats an’ Corsairs. Who’s the Badger Lord at

Salamandastron now, have y’heard?”

Russa poured herself a beaker of tea. “Big female, they say, madder than midwinter, stronger than a four-topped

oak, temper like lightnin’, full o’ the Bloodwrath. She’s called Cregga Rose Eyes, wields a pike that four otters

couldn’t lift!”

Osmunda nodded in admiration. “Hurr, she’m got’n a purty name, awright.”

Russa laughed mirthlessly. “There’s nought pretty about it! That one’s called Rose Eyes because her eyes are

blood red with battle light. I’d hate to be the vermin that tried standin’ in her path.”

All eyes turned on Tammo as the question slipped from his mouth: “What’s a Rapscallion?”

The Colonel glared at his son. “Barbarian-type vermin, too idle t’work, too stupid t’build a decent home. Like

y’mother says, they only raid the coastlines, nothin’ for you t’worry your head over. Mind y’manners at table, young

’un, speak when y’spoken to an’ not before, sah!”

Russa shook her head at the Colonel’s statement. “You an’ Mem are both wrong. Rapscallions are unpredictable,

they can raid inland as easily as on the coast. I saw their Chief’s sword once when I was young. It’s got two edges, one

all wavy for the sea, an’ the other straight for the land. There’s an old Rapscallion sayin’: ‘Travel whither blade goes,

anyside the sword shows.’”

The Colonel cut himself a wedge of cheese. “Huh! What’s all that fol-de-rol s’posed t’mean, wot?”

“Have we not had enough of this kind of talk, swords’n’vermin an’ war?” cried Mem Divinia, banging her beaker

down on the table. “Change the subject, please. Roo-lee, what d’you make of this weather?”

The mole changed the conversation to suit Mem, who could see by the light in her husband’s eye that he was

spoiling for an argument with Russa.

“Ho urr, ee weather, marm ... Hurr ... umm ... Well, ee burds be a tellin’ us’n’s ’twill be a foine springtoid, aye.

May’ap missie Whinn’ll sing ee song abowt et.”

Mem coaxed a young hedgehog called Whinn to get on her paws and sing. Whinn had a good voice, clear and

pretty; she liked to sing and did not need much urging.

“Blow cobwebs out of corners, the corners, the corners,

Throw open all your windows

To welcome in the spring.

Now icicles are shorter,

And turning fast to water,

Out yonder o’er the meadow,

I hear a skylark sing.

All through the earth a showing, a showing, a showing,

The green grass is a growing,

So fresh is everything.

Around the flow’rs and heather,

The bees do hum together,

Their honey will be sweeter

When ’tis made in spring.”

Tammo and the other creatures at the table joined in as Whinn sang the song once more, and there was much

tapping and clapping of paws. The evening wore on, with everybeast getting up to do his bit, singing, dancing, reciting,

or playing simple instruments, mainly small drums or reed flutes.

Owing to the amount of food he had eaten and the warmth of the oven fire, Colonel Cornspurrey had great

difficulty keeping awake. With a deep sigh he heaved himself up and took a final draught of chestnut beer, then,

swaying a little he peered sleepily at Russa Nodrey, and said, “Hmph, I take it you’ll be off travelin’ again in the

momin’, marm?”

Russa looked as fresh as a daisy as she nodded to him. “Crack o’ dawn’ll be early enough for me. Thank ye for

your hospitality—Camp Tussock vittles were as good as ever.”

Shuffling off to the dormitory, Cornspurrey called back, “Indeed ’twill, keep the noise down when y’go, I’ll bid ye

g’night now. An’ you others, don’t sit up too bally late, work t’be done on the morrow.”

When his father had gone to bed, Tammo watched his mother and Russa conversing earnestly in low voices. He

knew they were discussing something important, but could catch only snatches of their conversation.

“Nay, ’tis impossible, Mem. I travel alone, y’know that!”

“Well, there’s a round score o’ pancakes to take along if you’ll help me, Russa.”

“But I might not be goin’ anywhere near Salamandastron!”

“Well then, take him as far as Redwall Abbey. He’ll meet other warriors there, and the Long Patrol visits regularly.

He won’t be any trouble, I promise you. The Colonel’s forbidden him t’go, but there’ll only be trouble ’twixt the two

of ’em if he has to stay.”

“A score o’ pancakes you say, Mem?”

“Make it thirty if y’like! He’ll keep up with you an’ obey every word you say, I know he will. Do it as a favor to

me an’ you’ll always be welcome to a meal at Camp Tussock!”

“Hmm, thirty pancakes, eh, hah! And it’d be one in the monocle for that old waffler, somebeast disobeyin’ his

orders. Right then, I’ll do it, but we’d best leave tonight an’ be well away from here by the morn. I’ll wait outside in

the copse. Send him out when he’s ready.”

Russa departed, muttering something about preferring to sleep out under the stars. Mem Divinia started clearing the

table.

“Come on now, all of you, off t’bed, mind what the Colonel said, work t’be done tomorrow. Tammo, you stay here

an’ help me to clear away. Good night all, peaceful dreams!”

One by one they drifted off to the big dormitory cellar, which had been built beneath the stockade.

Osmunda nodded to Mem. “They’m all gone abed now, marm.”

Mem took a haversack from her wall cupboard and began adding pancakes to its contents. “Tammo, put those

dishes down and come here. Hurry, son, there’s not much time.”

Mystified, Tammo came to sit on the table edge near his mother. “What’n the name o’ seasons is goin’ on, maim?”

Osmunda smacked his paw lightly with a ladle. “Do ee be ’ushed now, maister, an’ lissen to ee mother.”

Mem kept her eyes averted, fussing over the haversack. “Lackaday, I’m not sure whether I’m doin’ the right or the

wrong thing now, Tammo, but I’m givin’ you a chance to see a bit o’ life out in the world. I think ’tis time you grew

up an’ joined the Long Patrol.”

Tammo slid off the table edge, disbelief shrill in his voice. “Me, join the jolly ol’ Long Patrol? Oh, marm!”

Mem pulled the haversack drawstrings tight. “Keep y’voice down or you’ll waken the entire camp. Our friend

Russa has agreed to take you in tow. She’ll keep you safe. Now don’t be a nuisance to that old squirrel, keep up, and

don’t dare cheek her. Russa ain’t as lenient as me an’ she’s a lot quicker on her paws than your father, so mind your

manners. There’s enough food in the haversack to keep you going for a good while, also thirty of my pancakes for

Russa. Come over here, Tamm, stand still while I put this on you.”

Mem Divinia took from the cupboard a twine and linen belt, strong and very skillfully woven. It had a silver

buckle fashioned in the image of a running hare. Attached to the belt was a weapon that was neither sword nor dagger,

being about half the length of the former and twice the size of the latter. Tammo cast admiring glances at the beautiful

thing as his mother set the belt sash fashion, running over his shoulder and across his chest, so that the buckle hung at

his side.

The long knife had no sheath, but fitted neatly through a slot in the belt buckle. Carefully, the young hare drew the

weapon from its holder. Double edged and keenly pointed, its blue steel blade was chased with curious designs. The

cross hilt was of silver, set with green gems. Bound tightly with tough, red, braided twine, the handle seemed made for

his paw. A highly polished piece of rock crystal formed the pommel stone.

Mem tapped it lovingly, saying, “This was made by a Badger Lord in the forge at Salamandastron; ’tis called a

dirk. No weapon ever served me better in the days when I ran with the Long Patrol. Your father always preferred the

battle-ax, but the dirk was the weapon that I loved specially. It is the best gift I can give you, my son. Take it and use

it to defend yourself and those weaker than you. Never surrender it to a foebeast or let any creature take it from you.

Time is running short, and you must leave now. Don’t look back. Go, make Camp Tussock proud of you. Promise me

you’ll return here someday, your father loves you as much as I do. Fate and fortune go witii you, Tamello De Fformelo

Tussock—do honor to our name!”

Osmunda patted his ears fondly. “Furr ee well, maister Tamm, oi’ll miss ee!”

Seconds later Tammo was rushing out into the night, his face streaked with tears and covered in white flour dust

from his mother’s good-bye embrace. Russa Nodrey materialized out of the pine shadows like a wraith.

“I hope my pancakes aren’t gettin’ squashed in that there bag. Looks like you’ve brought enough vittles with ye to

feed a regiment for seven seasons. Right, come on, young ’un, let’s see if those paws o’ yours are any good after all the

soft livin’ you’ve been brought up with. Shift y’self now. Move!”

The young hare shot forward like an arrow from a bow, dashing away from his birthplace to face the unknown.

5?

The new Firstblade of all Rapscallions sat alone on the creaking, weather-beaten stern of his late father’s vessel,

which lay heeled half over on the southeast shore. Damug Warfang had watched dawn break over the horizon, a red

glow at first, changing rapidly as the sun rose in a bloom of scarlet and gold. A few seabirds wheeled and called to one

another, dipping toward the gentle swell of the placid sea. Hardly a wave showed on the face of the deep, pale-green

waters inshore, ranging out to mid-blue and aquamarine. A bank of fine cloud shone with pearl-like opal-escence as

the sunrays reflected off it. Now the wide vault of sky became blue, as only a fresh spring morn can make it; scarlet

tinges of sun wisped away to become a faint rose thread where sea met sky as the great orb ascended, golden as a

buttercup.

All this beauty was lost on Damug as the ebb tide hissed and whispered its secrets to the shingled beach. Probing

with his swordpoint, he dug moodily at the vessel’s timbers. They were rotten, waterlogged, barnacle-crusted, and

coated with a sheen of green slime. Damug’s pale eyes registered anger and disgust. A bristletail crawled slowly out of

the damp woodwork. With its antennae waving and gray, armor-plated back undulating, the insect lumbered close to

Damug’s footclaw. With a swift, light thrust he impaled it on his swordpoint and sat watching it wriggle its life away.

Behind him breakfast fires were being lit and drums were beginning their remorseless throb again as the

Rapscallion armies wakened to face the day. Damug sensed the presence of Lug-worm at his back, and did not bother

turning as the stoat spoke.

“Empty cookin’ pots cause rebellion, O Firstblade. You must throw the sword quickly, today!”

Damug flicked the swordblade sideways, sending the dying insect into the ebbing sea. Then he stood and turned to

face Lugworm. The Greatrat’s jaw was so tight with anger that it made his voice a harsh grate.

“I know what I’ve got to do, slopbrain, but supposing the sword falls wave side up? How could I take all of those

back there out to sea in a fleet of rotten, waterlogged ships? We’d go straight to the bottom. There’s not a seaworthy

vessel on this shore. So unless you’ve got a foolproof solution, don’t come around here with that idiotic grin on your

stupid face, telling me what I already know!”

Before Lugworm could answer, Damug whipped the swordpoint up under his chin. He jabbed a little, causing the

blade to nick skin. Lugworm was forced to stand tip-pawed as Da-mug snarled, “Enjoying yourself now, cleversnout?

I’ll teach you to come grinning at my predicament. Come on, let’s see you smile that silly smile you had plastered on

your useless face a moment ago.”

The stoat’s throat bobbed as he gulped visibly, and his words came out in a rush as the blade of the unpredictably

tempered Warlord dug a bit deeper. “Damug, Firstblade, I’ve got the answer, I know what t’do, that’s why I came to

see you!”

The swordpoint flicked downward, biting into the deck between Lugworm’s footpaws. Damug was smiling

sweetly, his swift mood swing and calm tone indicating that his servant was out of danger, for the moment.

“Lugworm, my trusty friend, I knew you’d come up with a solution to my problem. Pray tell me what I must do.”

Rubbing beneath his chin, where a thin trickle of blood showed, Lugworm sat upon the deck. From his belt pouch

he dug out a small, heavy brass clip. “Your father used this because he favored sailin’, always said it was better’n p.aw

slog-gin’ a horde over ’ill’n’dale. If y’ll allow me, Chief, I’ll show ye ’ow it works.”

Damug gave his sword to the stoat, who stood up to demonstrate.

“Y’see, the Rapscallions foller this sword. The Firstblade tosses it in the air, an’ they go whichever way it falls, but

it’s gotta fall wid one o’ these crosspieces stickin’ in the ground. Wave side of the blade up means we sail, smooth side

o’ the blade showing upward means we go by land.”

“I know that, you fool, get on with it!”

Lug worm heeded the danger in Damug’s terse voice. He attached the brass clip to the wave-side crosspiece and

tossed the sword up. It was not a hard throw; the flick of Lugworm’s paw caused the weapon to turn once, almost

lazily, as morning sunlight glimmered across the blade. With a soft thud it fell to the deck, the straight, sharp blade

edge upward.

“Y’see, Chief, it works every time ’cos the added weight on the wavy side hits the ground first. But don’t fling it

’igh in the air, toss it up jus’ like I did, slow like, wid a twist o’ yer paw. ’Tis easy, try it.”

Damug Warfang was not one to leave anything to luck. He tried the trick several times, each time with the same

result. The sword always landed smooth edge upward. Damug removed the brass clip and attached it to a bracelet he

wore.

“Good! You’re not as thick as you look, friend Lugworm.”

The stoat bowed his head respectfully to the new Firstblade, saying, “I served your father, Gormad Tunn, but he

became old and strange in the brain and would not listen to my advice. Heed my counsel, Chief, and I will make the

name Damug Warfang feared by all on land and sea. You will become the greatest Firstblade that Rapscallions have

ever known.”

Damug nodded. “So be it. You are my adviser and as such will be at my side to reap the benefit of all my

triumphs.”

Before Lugworm could voice his thanks, the blade was in his face, its point almost tickling his right eyeball. The

smile on Damug’s lips was cold enough to freeze water.

“Sly little Lugworm, eh? Counselor to mighty ones! Listen, stoat, if you even think about crossing me I’ll make

you scream half a season before you die!”

The rats Sneezewort and Lousewort were merely two common, low-ranked Rapscallions in the Firstblade’s great

army. The pair scrabbled for position on a clump of boulders at the rear of massed hordes of vermin warriors, who had

all gathered to witness the Throwing of the Sword ceremony. They jostled and pushed, trying to catch a glimpse of

what was going on in the stone circle where the duel had taken place. High-ranking officers called Rapmarks occupied

the immediate edge of the ring, as was their right. The ordinary rank and file struggled, standing tip-pawed to get a

view of the proceedings.

Sneezewort hauled himself up on Louse wort’s back, and the dull, stolid Lousewort staggered forward under the

added weight, muttering, “Er, er, wot’s goin’ on down there, mate?”

Sneezewort flicked his companion’s ear with a grimy claw. “Straighten up, jetlyback, I can’t see much from ’ere.

’Ang on, I think ole Firstblade’s gonna say sumpin’.”

Lousewort flinched as his ear was flicked harder. “Ouch-ouch! Stoppit, that’s me wounded ear!”

Staggering farther forward he bumped into a big, fat, nastylooking weasel, who turned on them with a snarl. “Hoi!

If you two boggletops don’t stop bangin’ inter me an’ shoutin’ like that y’H ’ave more’n wounded ears ter worry about.

I’ll stuff yore tails up yore snotty noses an’ rip ’em off, so back off an’ shut yer gobs!”

Damug’s voice rang harsh and clear across the savage crowd of vermin gathered on the shore.

“The spirit of my father, the great Gormad Tunn, appeared to me in my dreams. He said that the sword will fall

land side up and seasons of glory will reward all who follow Damug Warfang. Plunder, slaves, land, and wealth for

even the lowest paw soldier of the mighty army of Rapscallions. I, your First-blade, pass the words of my beloved

father on to you, my loyal comrades!”

Sneezewort could not resist a snigger as a thought occurred to him. “Yeeheehee! ‘Beloved father’? They couldn’t

stan’ the sight o’ each other. Huh, Damug’H be in trouble if’n the sword lands wavy side up after shootin”is mouth off

like that, I tell yer, mate!”

The big weasel turned ’round, testing the tip of a rusty iron hook. “Damug won’t be in ’arf the trouble you’ll be in

if’n yer don’t put a stopper on that blatherin’ jaw o’ yourn, snipe-nose!” He turned back in time to see the sword rise

above the crowd. There was a vast silence, followed by a rousing cheer.

“Land up! Land up!”

Lousewoit thrust a stained claw into his wounded ear and wiggled it. “Stand up? Wot’s that supposed ter mean?”

The big nasty weasel whirled around and dealt two swift punches, one to Lousewort’s stomach, the other to

Sneeze-wort’s nose. They both collapsed to the ground in a jumbled heap, and the weasel stood, paws akimbo,

sneering at them. “It means you need yer ears washin’ out an’ yer mate needs his lip buttoned! Any more questions,

dimwits?”

Clutching his injured nose, Sneezewort managed to gasp out, “No thir, it’th all quite clear, thank yew, thir!”

Damug gave his orders to the ten Rapmarks, each the commander of a hundred beasts.

“Our seasons of petty coast raids are over. We march straight up the center of the land, taking all before us. Scouts

must be continuously sent out on both sides to report any area that is ripe for plundering. Leave the ships to rot where

they lie, burn your dwellings, let the army eat the last of our old supplies here today. We march at first light tomorrow.

Now bring me the armor of the Firstblade!”

That night Damug stood garbed in his barbaric regalia, the swirling orange cloak of his father blowing open to

reveal a highly polished breastplate of silver, a short kilt of snake-skin, and a belt fashioned from many small links of

beaten gold, set with twinkling gemstones. On his head he wore a burnished brass helmet surmounted by a spike, with

iron mesh hanging from it to protect his neck. The front dipped almost to his muzzle tip; it had two narrow eye slits.

Oily smoke swirled to the moonless skies as the lights of myriad dwellings going up in flames glimmered off the

armor of Damug Warfang, Firstblade. Roaring, drinking, singing, and eating their last supplies, the Rapscallion

regiments celebrated their final night on the southeast shores. They gambled and stole from one another, fought,

argued, and tore the waterlogged fleet apart in their search for any last bits of booty to be had.

Damug leaned on his sword, watching them. Beside him, Lugworm cooked a fish over glowing charcoal for his

Chief’s supper. He looked up at the Firstblade’s question.

“Are they all ready to follow and obey me, Lugworm?”

“Aye sirrah, they are.”

“All?”

“Save two, Chief. Borumm the weasel and Vendace the fox. Those two were allies of your brother, Byral, so watch

your back whilst they’re about.”

Smiling humorlessly, Damug patted his adviser’s head.

“Well answered, Lugworm. I already knew of Borumm and Vendace. Also I knew that you were aware of them, so

you have just saved your own life by not staying silent.”

Lugworm swallowed hard as he turned the fish over on the embers.

6?

Lousewort staggered up over the tide line under the weight of a large circular ship’s steering wheel. It was a great

heavy piece of work, solid oak, decorated with copper studding, now moldy and green.

Sneezewort stood tending their fire, over which he was roasting some old roots and the dried frame of a long-dead

seabird. He shook his head in despair. “Ahoy, puddenbum, where d’yer think yore goin’ wid that thing?”

Smiling happily, Lousewort stood the wheel on its edge. “Er, er, looka this, it’s a beauty, izzenit, mate? I’ll wager

’tis worth a lot, thing like this ....”

Sneezewort snorted at his slow-witted companion. “Oh, it’s a beauty, all right, and it will be worth somethin’.

After you’ve carried it back an’ forth across the country fer seven seasons an’ found a new ship to match up wirrit.

Great ole useless chunk o’ rubbish, wot do we need wid that thing? Get rid of it afore ye cripple yerself carryin’ it!”

He gave the wheel a hearty push, sending it rolling crazily off into the darkness. There was a crash, followed by the

outraged roar of the big nasty weasel.

“Belay, who threw that? Ooh, me footpaw! I’ll carve the blackguard up inter fishbait an”ang ’im from me ’ook!”

In their panic the two dithering rats ran slap into each other twice before tearing off to hide in the darkness.

Damug tossed the remnants of the fish to Lugworm and wiped his lips upon the orange cloak.

“Keep an eye open whilst I sleep. Oh, and pass the word around: I want every Rapscallion painted red for war

when we march tomorrow, fully armed and ready for slaughter!”

7?

Tammo—had never been so tired in all his young life. It was three hours after dawn and they were” still running.

His foot-paws felt heavy as two millstones, and the weight of the haversack on his back, which had been fairly light at

first, was now like carrying another beast.

Those open plains that had always looked smooth and slightly undulating from a distance, what had happened to

diem? Suddenly they had become a series of steep hills and deep valleys, with small sharp rocks hidden by the grass,

areas of thorny thistle and slopes of treacherous gravelly scree. The welcome sunlight of dawn was now a burning eye

that blinded him and added to the discomfort of his already overheated body.

Staggering and gasping for breath, Tammo slumped down on the summit of a hill, unable to go another pace

forward. Russa Nodrey was already there, still upright, breathing calmly as she viewed the prospect to the south. From

the corner of her eye she watched the young hare with a tinge of admiration, which she kept well hidden from him.

“Nothin’ like a brisk trot, eh, Tamm? How d’you feel?”

Tammo was on all fours, head bent as he tried to regulate his breath. He spoke still facing the ground, unable to

look up. “Not too blinkin’ chipper, marm. Need water, somethin’ to eat, and sleep. Give anythin’ for a jolly good

snooze, marm!”

Russa crouched down beside him. “Lissen, young ’un, call me Russa, pal, matey, anythin’ you like. But stop callin’

me marm. It makes me feel like some fat ole mother duck!”

Tammo glanced sideways at her, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I’ll do that, matey, but you stop callin’ me young

’un or I’ll start callin’ you mother duck!”

Standing behind him, Russa smiled as she pulled the haversack from his back. Despite her initial reluctance, she

was beginning, if a little grudgingly, to enjoy Tammo’s company.

“Let’s have this thing off ye, Tamm. We can’t stop here, got to press on a bit afore we make camp.”

Tammo flexed his shoulders and moved to a sitting position. “Why’s mat? This looks like a jolly good spot, wot?”

The squirrel pointed south, indicating another two hilly tors. “We’ve got to land up across there by midday. Right,

here’s where yore eddication starts, young ’un ... er, pal. Tell me, why should we make camp there instead o’ here?”

Tammo pondered the question a moment. “Haven’t a bally clue, old pal. Tell me.”

Russa began shouldering the haversack. “Well, for a start, ’tis too open up here, we c’n be seen for miles. A good

camp should be sheltered for two reasons: one, in case o’ the weather; two, t’stay hidden. Doesn’t do t’let everybeast

know where ye are in open country.”

The young hare stood up slowly. “Hmm, makes sense I suppose.”

“You can bet yore life it does.” The squirrel winked at him. “But afore y’go harm’ off, let me tell you the rest. At

midday it’ll be hottest, that’s when we should sleep a few hours an’ save energy. We can eat’n’drink too afore we nap,

sleep’s good fer the digestion. If we ate an’ drank now, we’d be travelin’ on full bellies. It’d take us twice as long to

get there in that state. All right, matey, let’s be on our way. I’ll carry this ’avvysack fer a while—’tis only fair.”

Tammo started down into the valley, digging his paws in against a shale drift. He felt much lighter and better for

the brief rest. “Indeed ’tis only fair, considerin’ the weight of your pancakes, old pal!” he called back.

Russa caught up and quickly took the lead. “Less of the oW, young scallywag, or I’ll put on a turn of speed that’ll

have ye eatin’ me dust fer a full day!”

Tammo pulled a wry face at the squirrel’s back. “What ho, young Russa, point taken. Lead on, but not too fast.”

Russa shook her head as she skirted a patch of mossy grass, still wet and slippery with morning dew. “Rest yore

jaws an’ tet the paws do the work, Tamm, seasons o’ gabble! I never did so much talkin’ in all me life. Save yore

breath fer travelin’, that’s another lesson y’ve got to learn.”

“Right you are, O wise one, the jolly old lips are sealed!”

“Good! Then shut up an’ keep up!”

“To hear is to obey, O sagacious squirrel!”

“You’ve gotta have the last word, haven’t yer?”

“Only because you’re the strong silent type, great leader.”

“I’ll great leader you, y’cheeky-faced rogue!”

“Bad form f’r a Commander to insult the other ranks, y’know. Whoops! Yowch!”

Not looking where he was going, Tammo trotted into the area of mossy grass and slipped, landing flat on his back.

Because of the steep incline, he rolled a good way downhill, until be was halted by a boulder.

Russa went by him, looking straight ahead, a smile playing ’round her lips. “Tut tut, I’ve already told ye, matey,

y’can’t Ue down fer a nap until we make camp!”

Tammo learned a lot that first morning. By midday they were standing on top of the hill overlooking the spot

Russa had chosen for a campsite. Down in the valley a little stream tum-.. bled over a rock ledge, forming a tiny

waterfall. There were wild privets and dogwood to one side, making a shady bower. Hot and dusty, Tammo wiped a

paw across his mouth at the sight of fresh water. He saluted smartly at Russa and said, “Permission t’go down an’

chuck m’self in yonder cool water!”

The canny squirrel shrugged. “Suit y’self, matey, if’n that’s what y’feel like doin’.”

The young hare let out a joyful whoop and sped off downhill.

Russa backed off and, dropping out of sight, cut off at a tangent, approaching the glade from a different angle.

Ducking out of his shoulder belt and dirk, Tammo cast both aside and leapt into the water. It was ice cold and

crystal clear. The sudden shock robbed him of his breath for a moment; then he gave vent to a yell of sheer delight. It

was good to be alive on such a day. Gulping down the sweet fresh water, Tammo stood beneath the cascade with his

mouth wide open, falling backward and splashing playfully with all four paws.

“Yerrah! Now dat’s wot I likes ter see, Skulka, a young critter fulla the joys o’ spring!”

Rubbing both eyes and snorting water from his nostrils, Tammo floundered upright to see who had spoken.

Two ferrets, big and lean and clad in tattered rags, stood on the bank, one with an arrow half drawn on her

bowstring, the other with a spear stuck in the ground as he tried on Tammo’s belt and dirk for size.

The young hare knew he was in deep trouble. Glancing around to see if he could spot Russa, Tammo pointed at his

property. “Good day, friends! I say, that’s my belt an’ dirk you’re jolly well tryin’ on, y’know!”

The female kept her arrow centered on Tammo. Turning to her partner, she revealed a row of snaggled, discolored

teeth in a grin. “Lah de dah, Gromal, ain’t ’e got nice manners? Didyer know mat’s ’is jolly ole dirk’n’ belt yore tryin’

on?”

Gromal had fastened the belt around his waist, and now he was stroking the dirk handle and admiring the fine

blade. “Ho, is it now? Well ’ere’s the way I sees it, Skulka. That beast flung ’isself in our water widout so much as a

by yer leave. Lookat ’im there, drinkin’ away an’ sportin’ about as if it belonged to ’im!”

Tammo stood quite still in the stream and managed to force a friendly smile at the evil pair. “Accept my apologies,

you chaps. Sorry, I didn’t know the stream belonged to you. I’ll just hop right out.”

Gromal pulled his spear from the ground. “Aye, that’s the ticket, me young bucko. You jus”op right up ’ere on the

bank so’s we kin search yer. Yore gonna pay fer the use of our water. Keep that shaft aimed at ’im, Skulka. If’n ’e

makes one false move, shoot ’im atween the eyes an’ slay ’im!”

Skulka drew her bowstring tight, sniggering. “If ’e don’t ’ave no more val’ables, then mebbe we c’n use ’im as a

slave fer a few seasons.”

A hardwood stick came whirling in a blur from the tree «over and struck the arrow, snapping it clean in two pieces.

Russa hurtled out like a lightning bolt, shoving Skulka into the water and launching herself at Gromal. She caught him

a terrific headbutt to the stomach, and he crumpled to the ground, mouth open as he fought for air. Tammo waded

swiftly to the shallows, and as Skulka staggered upright, he dealt her a powerful kick with both footpaws. She fell

back in the water, and he sat upon her, applying all his weight.

Russa had relieved Gromal of the dirk; now she grabbed her hardwood stick and stood waiting for him to rise. He

came up fast, seizing his spear and charging her. Almost casually she stepped to one side, dealing him three quick hard

blows to the back of his head as he rushed by her. The ferret dropped like a log.

Ignoring him, she turned to Tammo and said, “Best let tfaat’n up afore ye drown her, mate.”

Tammo hauled Skulka dripping and spluttering from the stream. He shook water from his eyes, peering indignantly

at Russa. “I say, y’might’ve told me about these two before you let me flippin’ well dash down here an’ dive in the

water, wot?”

The squirrel kicked Skulka flat, trapping her across the throat with the hardwood stick. Then she shrugged

indifferently. “I didn’t know they were down there. Besides, you couldn’t wait to dash into the water. I never approach

a campsite without checkin’ it out first, mate, and so should you.”

Tammo heaved a sigh as he took his belt from the fallen ferret. “Another jolly old lesson learned, I suppose?”

Russa patted his back heartily. “You jolly well suppose right, me ol’ pal!”

While the two ferrets sat on the bank recovering from their drubbing, Russa paced around them. She glanced across

at Tammo, who was carrying the haversack out of the shrubbery where she had left it. “What d’you think we should do

with these vermin, Tamm, kill ’em, or let ’em go?”

The young hare was shocked at the suggestion of coldblooded slaying. “Russa Nodrey!” he cried, his voice almost

shrill with outrage. “You can’t just kill them! You wouldn’t!”

The squirrel’s face was impassive. “D’you know why I’m alive today? ’Cos my enemies are all dead. Make no

mistake about it, Tamm, these two scum would’ve slain you just fer fun if I hadn’t been here.”

The ferrets began to wail imploringly.

“No no, we was just sportin’ wid yer, young sir!”

“We ain’t killers, we’re pore beasts fallen on ’ard times!”

Russa curled her lip scornfully. “Aye, an’ I’m a bluebird wid a frog for an uncle!”

Tammo placed himself between Russa and the ferrets. “You’re not goin’ to slay them. I’ll stop you, Russa!”

The squirrel sat down and, unfastening the haversack, began selecting a few of Mem Divinia’s pancakes. “Huh! No

need t’fall out over a pair of nogoods like them. Please yoreself, mate, do what y’like with ’em.”

Tammo flung Skulka and Gromal’s weapons into the water, then he drew his dirk and pointed it at the cringing

duo. “Get up an’ get goin’, you chaps. I never want to see your ugly faces again. Quick now, or I’ll let Russa loose on

you!”

Without a backward glance, the pair sped off as if pursued by a flight of eagles. Tammo put up his dirk. “There,

that’s settled!”

Russa filled a beaker with water from the stream. “So you say, me ole mate.”

“What d’you mean, so I say?”

“Ah, you’ll learn one day. I thought you were starvin’. Come an’ get some o’ these vittles down yer face.”

They dined on pancakes spread with honey, beakers of stream water, and a wedge of cold turnip and carrot pie

apiece. The sun was unusually hot for early spring, and Tammo felt rather giddy after their adventure. Finding a soft

shady spot beneath the hedgerow, he was asleep in a trice. Russa sat with her back against a dogwood trunk and

napped with one eye open.

8

When the sun was past its zenith, Russa woke Tammo. He felt marvelously refreshed and immediately shouldered

the haversack, saying, “My turn to carry this awhile. Come on, pal, where to now?”

Still traveling south, the squirrel took him to the top of the next rise and pointed with her stick. “Little patch of

woodland yonder, we should make it at twilight.”

The going was much easier for Tammo. He enjoyed the sight of new places and fresh scenery, learning from his

experienced traveling companion all the time. Russa seemed to come out of her normally taciturn self and was much

more verbose than usual.

“Skirt ’round this patch, Tamm, don’t want to disturb that curlew sittin’ on ’er nest, do we?”

“Of course not, jolly thoughtful of you. Leave the poor bird in peace to sit on her eggs, wot?”

“Nothin’ of the sort. If’n we crossed there that’d upset ’er, and she’d fly up kickin’ a racket to warn us off. That’d

give our position away to anybeast who was trackin’ us.”

“Oh, right. I say, d’you suppose there is somebeast after us?”

Russa’s reply was cryptic. “I dunno, what d’you think?”

The squirrel was as good as her word. Long shadows were gone and twilight was shading the skies as they arrived

at the woodland patch, which was considerably bigger than it had seemed from afar. Russa allowed Tammo to pick

their campsite, and he chose an ancient fallen beech with part of its vast root system poking into the air.

Russa nodded approval. “Hmm, this looks all right. Want a fire?”

Tammo shrugged off his belt and weapon. “If you say so. Spring nights can be jolly cold, and besides, I’d like to

have a hot supper, if y’have no objections.”

Russa shook her head vigorously. “None at all, matey. There’s plenty o’ deadwood an’ dry bark about. I’ll see t’the

fire, you unpack the vittles.”

Flint and steel from Russa’s pouch soon had dry tinder alight. Clearing a firespace around it, she added fragrant

dead pine twigs, old brown ferns, and some stout billets of beech. Tammo found a flagon of elderberry wine in the

pack. He warmed pancakes before spreading them with honey, and set two moist-looking chunks of plum cake near

the flames to heat through. They sat with their backs against the beech, pleasantly tired, eating, drinking, and chatting.

Russa picked up Tammo’s dirk and inspected it closely. “This is a rare weapon, mate. Is it your father’s?”

“No, it was my mother’s. She was a Long Patrol fighter, y’know. She said a Badger Lord made it for her in the

forge at Salamandastron, the great mountain fortress. Can you tell me anythin’ of the mountain, Russa? I’ve never seen

it.”

Reflectively the squirrel balanced the blade in her paw, then she threw it skillfully. It whizzed across the clearing

and thudded point first into a sycamore trunk.

“Sometimes a thrown blade can save your life,” she said. “I’ll teach you how to sling it properly before long.”

Tammo had to tug hard to pull the dirk from the tree trunk. “I’d be rather obliged if y’did. Now what about

Salamandastron?”

Russa took a sip of wine and settled back comfortably. “Oh, that place, hmm, let me see. Welt, a mountain’s a

mountain, much like any other, but I can give you the chant I heard the Long Patrol hares sayin’ last time I was over

that way.”

Tammo piled a bit more wood on the fire. “You know the Long Patrol hares? Tell me, what do they chant?”

The squirrel closed her eyes. “Far as I can recall it went somethin’ like this:

“O vermin if you dare, come and visit us someday, Bring all your friends and weapons with you too. You’ll find a

good warm welcome, let nobeast living say That cold steel was never good enough for you.

You won’t find poor helpless beasts all undefended, Like the old ones, babes, and mothers that you’ve slain, And

you’ll find that when your pleasant visit’s ended, You’ll never ever leave our shores again.

All you cowards of the land and you flotsam of the sea, Who murder, pillage, loot whene’er you please, There’s a

Long Patrol a waitin’, we’ll greet you cheerfully, You’ll hear us cry ‘Eulalia’ on the breeze.

“’Tis a welcome to the bullies who slay without a care,

All those good and peaceful creatures who can’t fight,

But perilous and dangerous the beast they call the hare,

Who stands for nought but honor and the right.

Eulalia! Eulalia! Come bring your vermin horde,

The Long Patrol awaits you, led by a Badger Lord!”

Tammo shook his head in admiration. “By golly, that’s some chant! Are they really that brave and fearless, these

Long Patrol hares?”

Russa threw a burning log end back into the fire. “Ruthless, they can be, but they keep the shores defended and the

land safe fer peaceful creatures t’live in. C’mon now, mate, y’need yore sleep for tomorrow’s trekkin’. Stow y’self

over there in the dark, away from the flames.”

Tammo pulled a wry face at this suggestion. “But I’m nice’n’warm here, why’ve I got to move?”

The squirrel’s face grew stern. “Because I says so, now stop askin’ silly questions an’ shift!”

Tammo retreated into the surrounding bushes, muttering, “Nice warm fire an’ I’ve got t’sleep back here, a chap

could catch his death o’ cold on a night like this, ’taint fair!”

Sometime during the night, Tammo was awakened by a bloodcurdling scream. He leapt up, grabbing for his dirk,

which he had left within paw’s reach. It was not there.

He stood in the firelight and looked around. His friend was missing too. Cupping paws around his mouth, the

young hare yelled into the night-darkened woodlands, “Russa, where are you?”

With a bound the squirrel cleared the fallen beech trunk and was at his side, wiping the dirk blade on the grass.

“I’m here. Keep y’voice down an’ get back under cover!”

Together they crouched in the bushes. Tammo was bursting to question Russa, but he held his silence, watching the

squirrel’s eyes flick back and forth as she craned her head forward, listening.

From somewhere in the midst of the trees there came a shriek of rage. Russa stood erect and shouted in the

direction whence it had come, “Yore mate’s dead, ferret! Take warnin’ an’ clear off, ’cos I’m comin’ after you next

an’ I don’t take prisoners!”

Skulka’s answering call came back, thick with rage: “It ain’t over, old one, we’ll get you an’ yer liddle pal! Jus’

wait’n’see!”

This was followed by the sound of Skulka crashing off through the ferns. Then there was silence. Russa gave

Tammo back his dirk, saying, “It was those two ferrets we tangled with earlier today, mate. I knew they’d be back,

’specially after they saw you take our ’avvysack o’ vittles out o’ the bushes back there.”

Tammo felt weak with shock. “Russa, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t let them see the haversack they would’ve gone off

none the wiser.”

The wily squirrel shook her head. “Wrong, matey, they would’ve tried to get us whether or not. I knew they was

followin’ us all day. ’Twas logical they’d make their move tonight when they thought we’d be asleep. So I took off

into the trees wid yore blade an’ bumped straight into the one called Gromal, armed wid a long sharpened stake, if

y’please. So I had to finish it then an’ there, ’twas him or me. But I’m a bit worried, Tamm.”

Tammo was puzzled by this statement. “What’s worryin’ you, Russa?”

“Well, did y’hear the other ferret shoutin’, she said we’ll get you. We. It’s like I thought, there must be a band of

’em somewheres about. I had a feeling I knowed them two from long ago, they always run with a robber band.”

Tammo gripped his blade resolutely. “Right, mate, what’s t’be done?”

Russa ruffled Tammo’s ears rather fondly. “Sleep’s to be done. Shouldn’t think they’ll be back tonight, but we’ll

take turns standin’ guard. More likely they’ll try an’ ambush us out in the open tomorrow, so get y’sleep—you’ll need

it.”

Night closed in on the little camp. The fire dimmed from burning flame to glowing embers, trees murmured and

rustled, their foliage stirred by a westering wind. Tammo dreamed of his home, Camp Tussock. He saw the faces of his

family, and Osmunda and Roolee, together with the young creatures with whom he had played. Elusive aromas of

Mem Divinia’s cooking, mingled with songs and music around the fire of a winter’s night, assailed his senses. A great

sadness weighed upon him, as though he might never see or feel it all again.

Russa climbed into a tree and slept the way she had for many seasons, with one eye open.

9

Extract from the writings of Craklyn squirrel, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country.

Great Seasons! Now I know I am old. A beautiful spring afternoon, the sun smiling warmly over Mossflower

Wood and our Abbey, and almost everybeast, from the smallest Dibbun baby to the Mother Abbess herself, is out in

the grounds at play. While here am I, sitting by the kitchen ovens, a cloak about me, scratching away with this

confounded quill pen. Ah well, somebeast has to do it, I suppose. Though I never thought that one day I would be old,

but that is the way of the world, the young never do.

Let me see now, out of the Redwallers of my early seasons there are only a few left: Abbess Tansy, my dear friend,

the first hedgehog ever to be Mother of Redwall; Viola Bankvole, our fussy Infirmary Sister; and who else? Oh, yes,

Foremole Diggum and Gurrbowl the Cellar Keeper, two of the most loyal moles ever to inhabit Red-wall Abbey.

Counting the squirrel Arven and myself, that is everybeast accounted for. Arven is our Abbey Warrior. Who would

have thought that such a mischievous little rip would grow up to be so big and reliable, respected throughout

Mossflower?

Alas, the seasons caught up with all the old crew who were our elders, and they have gone happily to the sunny

meadows. Though they are always alive in our memories, those good creatures and the knowledge and joy they

imparted to all. Sad, is it not, though, that our Abbey has lacked a badger and a hare for many a long season now? But

I beg your indulgence, I am getting old and maudlin, I’ve become the same ancient fogey my friends and I would

laugh at in our youth. Enough of all this! If I sit here much longer I’ll be baked to a turn like the oatfarls in the oven. If

my creaking joints will allow me, I’m going out to play with the others. After all, it is springtime, isn’t it?

Abbess Tansy ducked as a ball made from soft moss and twine flew over her head. She wrinkled her nose at the

tiny mouse who had thrown it. “Yah, missed me, Sloey bunglepaws!”

The mousebabe stamped her footpaw and grimaced fiercely. “A not ’uppose t’duck you ’ead, Muvver Tansy, you

stannup straight!”

Behind Tansy a Dibbun mole picked up the ball and was about to throw it clumsily when Craklyn sneaked up. She

took the ball from him and threw it hard, hitting Tansy on the back of her head.

With the soft ball sticking to her headspikes, the Abbess whirled around, a look of comic fury upon her face. “Who

threw that ball? Come on, own up!”

Craklyn’s expression was one of simple innocence. “It wasn’t me, Mother Abbess!”

Tansy glared at the little ones playing the game. “Well, who was it, one of you rascals?”

The Dibbuns fell about laughing as a small mole named Gubbio pointed to Craklyn. “Yurr, et wurr ee flung yon

ball, marm!”

Craklyn looked horrified. She pointed to Gubbio, saying, “No, it wasn’t! You were the one who threw the ball! We

saw him, didn’t we?”

This caused more hilarity among the babes. The sight of the Recorder fibbing like a naughty Dibbun was too much

for them. They skipped about giggling, pointing to Craklyn.

“‘Twas marm Craklyn, ’twas ’er!”

Abbess Tansy pulled the ball from her headspikes and pretended to lecture the Recorder severely: “You naughty

creature, fancy throwing things at your Abbess! Right, no supper for you tonight. Straight up to bed, m’lady!”

It all proved too much for the Dibbuns, who threw themselves down on the grass, chuckling fit to burst.

Foremole Diggum in company with Arven the squirrel Warrior and several other moles passed by, headed for the

south wall. They had been talking earnestly together as they went, but on seeing Abbess Tansy they stopped

conversing and nodded to her as they hurried on their way.

“Afternoon, marm, an’ you too, marm!”

Craklyn exchanged glances with Tansy. “They’re up to something. Hi, Arven! What’s the rush, where are you all

off to?”

“Nothin’ for you t’be concerned with, marm,” Arven called back to her. “Just out for a stroll.”

Immediately, Tansy took Craklyn’s paw and began to follow them. “You’re right, they are up to something. Out

for a stroll, eh? Well, come on, friend, let’s join ’em! Carry on with the game, you little ’uns, and no cheating!”

Behind the shrubbery that bordered the outer wall of the ramparts on their south side, Diggum Foremole and the

rest were questioning a mole called Drubb.

“Whurr do ee say ’twas, Drubb?”

He pointed with a heavy digging claw in several places as he brushed hazel and rhododendron shrubs aside. “Yurr

see, an’ yurr, yonder too, roight along ee wall if’n you’m look close. Hurr, see!”

Craklyn and Tansy arrived on the scene. Straight away the Abbess started to interrogate Arven: “What’s going on?

There’s something you aren’t telling me about. What is it, Arven—I demand to know!”

The squirrel had crouched low at the wallbase, probing the joints of massive red sandstone blocks with a small

quill knife. He looked up at Tansy, keeping his voice deceptively calm. “Oh, it’s something and nothing, really. Drubb

here says he thinks the wall is sinking, but he may not be right. We didn’t say anything to you, Tansy, because you’ve

enough to do as Abbess ...”

He was cut short by Tansy’s indignant outburst. “The south outer wall of my Abbey is sinking and you didn’t

consider it serious enough to let your Abbess know? Who in the name of stricken oaks do you think I am, sir—Mother

Abbess of Red-wall, or a little fuzzbrained Dibbun playing ball?”

Diggum Foremole touched his brow respectfully. “You’m forgive oi fer sayin’, marm, but ee lukked just loik a

fuzzy-brain Dibbun a playin’ ball when us’n’s passed ee but a moment back, hurr aye.”

Tansy drew herself up grandly, spikes abristle and eyes alight. “Nonsense! Show me the wall this instant!”

The group wandered up and down the length of the high battlemented south wall for the remainder of the

afternoon, talking and debating and pointing earnestly. The final conclusion was inescapable. The wall was sinking,

bellying inward too. They probed the mortar between the stone joints, stood on top of the wall, and swung a weighted

plumb line from top to bottom. Then, placing their faces flat to the wall surface and each one squinting with one eye,

they gauged the extent of the stone warp. Whichever way they looked at it there was only one thing all were agreed

upon. The south wall was crumbling!

10?

Darkness was stealing over Redwall Abbey, and the lights of Great Hall shone through long, stained-glass

windows, laying columns of rainbow colors across the lawn. Buttressed and arched, the ancient building towered

against a backdrop of Mossflower woodlands. From bell tower to high roof ridge, it was the symbol of safety, comfort,

and achievement to all the Redwallers who called it home.

Sister Viola Bankvole had never adopted the simple habit worn by most Abbey creatures. She favored flounces and

ruffles, supported by more petticoats than enough. She made her way out of the Abbey’s main door, holding up a

lantern and tutting fussily as playful night breezes tugged at her cloak and bonnet. Brazen and slow, RedwalFs twin

bells boomed out sonorously, calling everybeast to table for the evening meal.

Abbess Tansy and her party were at the north wall gable, completing an exhaustive inspection of the entire outer

walls.

Foremole Diggum patted the stones fondly. “Burr! Thank ee, season’n’fates, thurr b’aint nuthen wrong with ee rest

of’n our walls, marm, boi ’okey thurr b’aint!”

Arven held up his lantern, watching Abbess Tansy’s face anxiously. “He’s right, Tansy. The east, north, and west

walls, including the gatehouse, stairs, ramparts, and main gates, are all sound as the day they were built!”

The Abbess rubbed a paw across her tired eyes. “So they are, but that’s little comfort when the whole south wall

could topple at a moment’s notice.”

Viola came bustling up, bonnet ribbons streaming out behind her. “Mother Abbess! There’s a full evening meal

waiting inside that cannot start without your presence! My word, just look at yourselves, dusty paws, thorns and teazels

sticking to your clothing, what a sight! Craklyn, I thought you were supposed to be helping with the Dibbuns’ bedtime.

Goodness knows what time those babes will get up to the dormitory tonight when they haven’t even been fed yet! Oh,

and another thing ...”

Arven’s voice cut strongly across the bankvole’s tirade: “Enough! That will do, Sister Viola!”

Tansy took advantage of Viola’s huffy silence to say, “Thank you, Sister, we will be in to dine shortly. Meanwhile,

would you be good enough to take my chair and order the meal to start in my absence? But do not send the Dibbuns to

bed. I have something to say for all Redwallers to hear.”

Viola seemed to swell up with die importance of her mission. Nothing she could think of pleased her more than

taking the Abbess’s place, albeit only for a short time. The bankvole swept off back to the Abbey, cloak aswirt with

the wind.

Craklyn watched her go as they made their way toward the Abbey pond to wash. “Hmph! That bankvole,

sometimes I think a swift kick in the bustle would do her the world of good.”

Tansy stifled a smile as she reproved her friend. “Sister Viola is a good and dutiful creature, and she can’t help

being a bit overzealous at times. Mayhap we could all take a little lesson from her devotion to detail.”

The bustle and chatter of good company was always a keynote to Redwall dining. Great Hall was packed with

Redwallers, eating and conversing across well-laden tables. Golden and brown crusts of batch loaves, nut-bread, and

oatfarl shone in the candlelight; tureens of steaming barley and beet soup, filled with corn dumplings, were placed at

intervals, between hot cheese and mushroom flans and fresh spring salads. Flagons of spiced fruit cordial and

dandelion tea vied for place with pear and chestnut turnovers, apple and cream puddings, and two huge wild cherry

and almond cakes. Many of the elders sat Dibbuns on their laps, sharing their plates with the Abbeybabes. The young

ones were jubilant at the chance to stay up late.

Arven and the moles came to the table in Tansy’s wake. The good Abbess signaled Viola to stay where she was, in

the big chair at the head of the table. Shoving Sloey the mouse-babe and Gubbio the Dibbun mole playfully apart,

Tansy placed herself between them on the low bench, saying, “Move aside there, you two great fatties, let a poorbeast

in!”

Sloey looked up from her soup as she moved to make room. “Big fatty y’self, marm. Wot you be late for?”

Gubbio spoke for his Abbess as he munched a large slice of cake. “Apportant bizness, oi surpose.”

Tansy ladled soup for herself, winking at the molebabe. “Aye, mate, apportant bizness it was!”

The meal continued in no great hurry, a low buzz of conversation accompanying it. Time was never a factor when

victuals were being taken at Redwall. When Tansy judged the moment was right, she stood up and nodded to Viola.

The bankvole rang a small pawbell which was on the table near where she sat. Talk died away and Dibbuns were

shushed as Tansy addressed her creatures.

“My friends, listen carefully. As your Mother Abbess I have something to tell you. Now there is no cause for

alarm, but Foremole Diggum, Arven, Craklyn, some other good moles, and myself have inspected the structure of our

Abbey’s outer wall is today. For some reason as yet unknown to us, the south wall is in a dangerous state.”

Shad, a big otter who occupied the gatehouse as Keeper, was immediately up on his paws. “What’s t’be done,

marm?”

Tansy gestured to Diggum, and the Foremole answered for her: “Hurr, furstly us’n’s needs to foind out whoi ee be

unsafe, on’y then’ll us be able to fixen ee wall.”

With Tansy’s permission, Arven was next to speak. “There’s no need for anybeast to worry, but we must set a few

sensible rules for the safety of all. From tomorrow we will fence off an area isolatin’ the entire south wall. Please do

not hang about near it. Carry on with your chores and pleasures as normal, and see that none of our little ’uns try to

play in (he area, because it will be dangerous for a while. Lots of stone and rubble are bound to be lying about when

the wall is demolished.”

An incredulous murmur arose ’round Great Hall.

“They’re going to knock down the south wall, demolish it!”

Shad the Gatekeeper thwacked the table with his thick tail, silencing the talkers. “Hearken t’me! Wot’s all the

bother about? Stands t’sense that a wobbly wall ’as t’be knocked down afore y’can build it back right. You ’card

Abbess Tansy, there ain’t no cause to worry!”

Pellit, a fat dormouse kitchen helper, shook his head knowingly. “Huh, just wait until the first vermin comin’ up

the path spots the wall knocked down. That’ll be the time to start wor-ryin’!”

A loud hubbub broke out as a result of the dormouse’s observation, and argument and dispute took over until Great

Hall was in uproar. Many of the Abbeybabes, upset by the noise, began wailing with fright.

Without warning, Viola Bankvole leapt up onto the table. Seizing a big empty earthenware basin, she raised it high

and sent it crashing to the floorstones. The noise of it smashing to fragments caused a momentary silence. That was

enough for Viola; she was in, her voice ringing out sternly: “Silence! Be quiet, I say! Have you no manners at all? You

there, Brother Sedum, and you, Pellit, take these babes off to bed right now! The rest of you, stop behaving like a pack

of wild vermin. Shame on you! Arven, you are Abbey Warrior, tell these silly creatures of your plans!”

Arven had made no plans at all, but he took the center floor and made them up boldly as he went along, his voice

ringing with confidence to reassure the listeners.

“My plans, yes—1 was just coming to that before all the shouting started. Foremole Diggum and his moles will

take care of the demolition and rebuilding, together with any of you he chooses to assist him. The work will be carried

out in shifts, so that the job will be completed as soon as possible. Meanwhile I’m sure our friend Shad will contact the

Skipper of Otters and his crew, and together with our own stout creatures they will form a force to guard and patrol

the immediate area. Really, friends, there is no cause to worry at all. Many seasons have passed since any vermin

bands were seen in this part of Mossflower Country.”

Tansy clapped her paws in appreciation of Arven’s fine speech, and soon the other Redwallers joined in, heartened

by his words.

Late that night when most other creatures were abed, Tansy presided over a meeting of the Abbey elders in Cavern

Hole, a smaller, more comfortable venue. While they were gathering she took the opportunity to murmur to Craklyn,

“What price a swift kick in the bustle now, marm? I think Viola behaved magnificently tonight in Great Hall. There’s

a lot more to our Infirmary Sister than mostbeasts would think, d’you agree?”

The squirrel Recorder nodded vigorously. “Indeed there is, she can be a proper little firebrand when she wants. All

right, Mother Abbess, I’ll eat my words. I’d sooner shake her by the paw than kick her in the bustle!”

Deep into the small hours they sat debating the issue of the south wall, its possibilities and its perils. The meeting

ended with Diggum’s irrefutable mole logic.

“Hurr well, so be’L Us’n’s caint do ennythin”til we foinds out wot maked ee wall go all of awobble. Oi’m thinkin’

us’n’s won’t be able t’do that proper lest us gets a gudd noight’s sleep.”

Arven tossed and turned in his bed, the question of the wall troubling him greatly, until finally sleep took over and

he settled down. In his dreams he was visited by Martin the Warrior, the guiding spirit of Redwall Abbey. Martin was

the Warrior who had been instrumental in founding Redwall long ages before. The dust of countless seasons had blown

over his grave, though his image was still fresh on the wall tapestry of Great Hall. It was often in times of trouble and

crisis that he would appear in dreams to one or another Redwaller of his choosing, comforting and counseling them.

On this night, however, his words carried a warning to Arven. Looming through the mists of slumber the

warriormouse strode, armored and carrying his legendary sword. Arven instinctively knew there would be a message

for both him and the Abbey, and as he watched Martin draw near, a great sense of peace and well-being swept over

him. He felt like some small creature folded within the security of a figure that was old, wise, compassionate, and

above all, safe. The Warrior spoke:

“Watch you ever the southlands,

And beware when summertide falls,

A price will be paid for these stones we hold dear,

Though war must not touch our walls.”

Arven had no recollection of his dream the next day.

11

On the southeast coastline the mighty Rapscallion army crouched, saturated, cold, and hungry, amid the wreckage

of their ships. Gray-black and bruised though it was, dawn proved a welcome sight for the dispirited vermin masses.

No-beast could have known that after they had burned their dwellings a storm would arrive in the night.

It came from the southeast, tearing across the seas with a vengeance, without warning. Battering torrents of rain

sheeted down to drown the campfires ’round which the vermin were sleeping. Hailstones big as pigeon eggs were

mixed with the deluge, while a gale-force wind drove the downpour sideways over the beach.

Shrieking and roaring, rats, ferrets, stoats, weasels, and foxes dashed about on the shingle, seeking shelter as the

storm’s intensity grew. Ships beached on the immediate tide line were seized upon by the mountainous seas and heaved

out upon the waves, where they were smashed like eggshells as they crashed into one another. Rigging and timbers,

ratlines and gallery rails flew through the air, slaying several unfortunates who were running panicked on the shore.

Only four vessels, beached high above the tide line, their hulls half buried by sand and shingle, were safe. Around the

lee sides of these ships the Rapscallions fought their comrades savagely, endeavoring to find shelter. Damug Warfang

and his Rapmark officers, together with a chosen few, occupied the cabin spaces, while the remainder fended for

themselves out in the open.

By daylight the rain and hailstones had passed, sweeping upward into the land, though the wind was still strong and

wild. Damug crouched over a guttering fire in the cabin of his father’s former ship, teeth chattering. Drawing his cloak

tighter, he watched Lugworm heating a pannikin of grog over the meager flames.

“That looks ready as it’ll ever be. Give it here!”

With his teeth rattling like castanets against the container, the Greatrat sipped gingerly at the scalding concoction.

When he had drunk enough the Firstblade gave the remainder to Lugworm, who choked it down before Damug could

change his mind. Peering through the broken timbers, Damug cast his eye over the low-spirited Rapscallions roaming

the shore.

“We’ll move right away, get inland where the weather’s a touch milder. First grove o’ woodland we find will do

for a camp; fire, water, whatever food we can forage, then they’ll be ready to gear up and march.”

Lugworm fussed around his Chief, brushing dirt and splinters from Damug’s cloak. “Aye, sir, they’ll be fine then,

fightin’ fit fer a journey o’er to the west, ter pay that badger back for yore father.”

Whack!

The Greatrat’s mailed paw caught Lugworm alongside his jaw, sending him crashing into a shattered bunk. Damug

was like a madbeast: flinging himself upon the hapless stoat he beat him unmercifully, punctuating each word with a

blow or kick.

“Don’t you ever mention that beast within my hearing again! We stay away from that cursed mountain! Aye, and

that rose-eyed destroyer, that blood-crazed badger! That ... That ...” He grabbed Lugworm by the throat and shook him

like a rag. “That ... badger! You even think about her again and I’ll kill you stone dead!”

Damug Warfang hurled the half-conscious Lugworm from himself, slammed the door clean off its hinges, and

strode quivering with rage out of the cabin. Grabbing a ferret called Skaup, he bellowed right into his face, “Get the

drums rolling, and tell my Rapmarks to line up their companies. We march north. Now!”

Within a very short time the Rapscallion soldiers were formed up into columns five wide and marching away from

the hostile coast.

Damug strode at the head of his army; on either side of him, six rats pounded their big drums. Ragged banners

flapped wildly in the wind, their poles ornamented with the tails of dead foebeasts. The poles’ tops were crowned with

the skulls of enemies, and their long pennants bore the sign of Rapscallion, the two-edged sword.

Borumm the weasel and Vendace the fox were scouts, known by the title Rapscour. They marched to the left flank

of the main body with twoscore trained trackers each. Borumm glanced back at the receding shoreline and the sea,

saying, “Take yer last peep o’ the briny, mate, this lot won’t be goin’ nowheres by water anymore. ’Is Lordship

Damug don’t like sailin’.”

Vendace narrowed his eyes against the driving wind. “That’s a fact, cully, an’ I’ll wager an acorn to an oak that ’e

won’t be ’eadin’ over Salamandastron way neither. Taint only ships Damug’s afeared of.”

Borumm let his paw stray to the cutlass at his side. “A proper Firstblade shouldn’t be afeared o’ nought. But we’ll

frighten ’im one dark night, eh, mate?”

Vendace grinned wolfishly at his companion. “Aye, when Vs least expectin’ it, we’ll find space atwixt ’is ribs fer a

couple o’ sharp blades. Then we’ll be the Firstblades.”

Borumm closed his eyes longingly for a moment. “Hair, we’ll turn this lot right ’round an’ make fer the soft sunny

south coast an’ rule it like a pair o’ kings.”

Lugworm stumbled along behind the last column, clasping a damp strip of blanket to his bruised throat. Being a

First-blade’s counselor had its drawbacks. It would take him a day or two to get back into his Chief’s favor, and

meanwhile he decided to stay as far away from Damug as possible.

Lousewort and Sneezewort marched just ahead of him, being in the back five of the last contingent. Lousewort

caught sight of Lugworm and called back to him, “G’mornin’, Luggv’ w°t sorta mood’s the boss in t’day?”

Lugworm tried to speak, but could manage only a painful gurgle.

Sneezewort looked quizzically at Lousewort. “Wot did ’e say, mate?”

The stolid Lousewort shook his head. “Er, er, ’e jus’ said ‘Gloggte oggle ogg,’ or sumthin’, I dunno.”

Sneezewort prodded his mate. “‘Gloggle oggle ogg,’ eh? That’s wot you’d a bin sayin’ right now if’n you was

totin’ that stoopid big wheel along wid yer.”

The big nasty-looking weasel’s voice reached them from the rank marching in front. “Wot stoopid big wheel’s that

yer talkin’ about?”

“Oh, the one I chucked awa—Wot wheel are ye talkin’ about, comrade? I don’t know nothin’ about any wheel,

d’you, matey?”

Lousewort nodded obliviously. “Oh yep, you remember, Sneezy, my nice big wheel wot you throwed away.

Owow! Wot are ye kickin’ me for, mate?”

All morning the wind continued to blow, right until midnoon, when a drizzle started. Damug Warfang rapped out

commands to the drummers.

“Speed up that beat to double march, there’s a woodland up ahead.”

The two Rapscours and their scouts dashed ahead of the Rapscallions to reconnoiter the spot. It was a prime

campsite, with a small pond containing fish, and lots of fat woodpigeons roosting in the trees. By late noon the army

was completely sheltered from the weather: rocky ledges, heavy tree trunks, and overhead foliage sealed them off from

cold, wind-driven rain. A feeling of well-being pervaded the camp, now they were in a fresh location. This was luxury,

after an entire winter spent on the hostile and hungry southeast shore.

Borumm and Vendace were snugly settled in, having spread an old sail canvas over the low curving limb of a

buckthorn, with a rocky outcrop at their back. They sat cooking a quail over their campfire. Lugworm was with them,

hiding behind a flap of the overhanging canvas, glancing nervously around at the passing Rapscallions.

Borumm chuckled at the stoat’s apprehensive manner. Shoving him playfully, he said, “Wot’s the matter, matey?

You ain’t doin’ no ’arm jus’ sittin”ere sharin’ a bird with two ole pals.”

Lugworm averted his face as a Rapmark walked by. “What’d Damug say if’n somebeast told ’im I was sittin”ere

talkin’ wid you two?”

Vendace shrugged as he tended the roasting quail. “We won’t tell ’im if you don’t. Stop frettin’ an”ave some o’

this bird. AH you gotta do is tell us where ole Firstblade’H be sleepin’ tonight an’ how many guards’11 be around, an’

any-thin’ else y’think we should know. Leave the rest to us, matey.”

Borumm whetted a curved dagger against the rock. “Aye, by tomorrer it shouldn’t make any difference who saw

yer talkin’ to us. Damug won’t be around to throttle yer again, ’e’ll be searchin’ for ’is daddy in Dark Forest!”

Sneezewort had a good fire going. He stirred the half-burned wood hopefully, watching Lousewort returning from

the pond. He noticed that his companion looked very damp.

“Yore lookin’ a bit soggy, mate. Didyer catch anythin’?” he called.

Lousewort slumped by the fire, waving away the cloud of steam rising from his ragged garments. “Er, er, I nearly

did, but I got pushed inter the water.”

Sneezewort picked up a small log and brandished it angrily. “Pushed in? Huh, show me the slab-sided blackguard

wot pushed yer!”

“Er, er, it was that big nasty-lookin’ weasel.”

Sneezewort threw the log on the fire, sighing resignedly. “Ah well, that one’s got ’is lumps comin’ someday. So,

you didn’t bring any vittles back at all?”

Lousewort produced a pile of dripping pondweed. “Er, er, only this. May’aps we can make soup out of it.”

His companion turned up a lip in disgust. “Yurgh, dirty smelly stuff, chuck it away!”

Lousewort was about to carry out his friend’s order when his paw was stayed. Sneezewort stared unhappily at the

mess of dripping vegetation, shaking his head, and said, “Take my ole helmet an’ fill it wid water. Pondweed soup’s

better’n nothin’ when yer belly thinks yore throat’s cut!”

Damug belched loudly and settled back to suck upon the bones of the tench he had just devoured. From the shelter

of an ash nearby he heard his title whispered.

“Firstblade!”

The Greatrat lay still, lips hardly moving as he answered, “Gribble, is that you?”

From his hiding place, the rat Gribble called in a low voice, “Aye, ’tis me. Lugworm’s gone over to Borumm an’

Vendace. From wot I ’card they’ll make their move tonight, Chief.”

Damug Warfang smiled and closed his eyes. “Good work, Gribble. It always pays to have watchers watching

watchers. I’ll be ready. Go now, keep your eyes and ears open.”

12

Russa Nodrey added twigs to the fire embers, peering upward at statey skies that showed between treetops that

morning. “Hmm, doesn’t look too good out there t’day. No point in leaviiT camp awhile, those vermin’d probably

ambush us afore we got out o’ these trees.”

Tammo looked up from the beaker of hot mint tea he was sipping. “Y’mean the rotten oF vermin are hiding in

these woodlands? I thought you said they’d ambush us out on the flatland.”

The wily squirrel pointed a paw at the sky. “So they would if it were fine weather, but put y’self in their place,

mate. You wouldn’t stand out in the open soakin’ an’ freezin’, waitin’ fer us to come out of a nice dry camp like this.

No, if’n you’d any sense at all you’d get under cover, out of the weather. They’re probably creepin’ through the trees

toward us right now.”

The young hare dropped low, drawing his dirk. “Are you sure that’s what the rascals are up to?”

Russa added more wood to the fire. “Sure as fiddle apples, if I know anythin’ about vermin!”

Tammo was amazed at his companion’s calm manner. “Then what’re you standin’ there loadin’ more bally wood

on the fire for? Shouldn’t we be doin’ somethin’ about the situation?”

Russa hid the haversack away beneath some bushes, then rummaged about in her back pouch. She tossed Tammo a

sling and a bag of flat pebbles. “Here, I take it y’can use that.”

Tammo loaded a pebble into the tough sinewy weapon, and swung it. “Rather! I was the best slingshot chucker at

Camp Tussock!”

Russa twirled her hardwood stick expertly. “Right, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take to the trees an’ pick ’em off as

you draw ’em out. Use the sling, leave yore blade where ’tis unless they get too close, then don’t fool about, use it fer

keeps. Move now, I c’n hear ’em comin’—sounds like there’s enough o’ the scum, We’ll have our work well cut out,

mate.”

Tammo heard a twig snap some distance away and heard a harsh cry.

“There’s one of ’em, come on!”

He turned to answer Russa, but she was not there.

Suddenly a rat came leaping over the fallen beech at him. Tammo reacted swiftly. Swinging the loaded sling, he

brought it cracking down between his assailant’s eyes. The rat fell poleaxed by the force of the blow. For a second

Tammo froze, almost paralyzed at the sight of the rat’s broken body, half shocked, half exhilarated at this victory and

escape. But there was no time to think. Instinctively he began whirling his sling. Leaping backward a few paces, he

centered on a shadowy form in the shrubbery and let fly. He was rewarded by a sharp agonized cry as the slingstone

smashed home. The young hare turned and ran a short distance. He was stopping to load up his sling when a sharp-

clawed paw gripped the back of his neck.

“Haharr, gotcha!”

There was a heavy clunking noise, and the vermin collapsed limply. Russa leaned out of the foliage of an oak,

directly over where Tammo stood. She waved the piece of hardwood at him.

“Best weapon a beast ever had, this ’un! Get goin’, Tamm, there’s more of ’em than I reckoned!”

The woodlands became alive with vermin war cries. An arrow zipped past Tammo, grazing his ear before it

quivered in the oakwood. Then they came pounding through the woodlands toward him, a score or more of snarling

savages, brandishing an ugly and lethal array of weapons. Whipping a slingstone at them, Tammo took off at a run,

only to find he was headed straight in the direction of another group.

Whichever way he wheeled there were vermin coming at him. Foliage rustled overhead, and Russa came sailing

out of a tree to land beside him, her jaw set grimly.

“I never figgered on this many, mate. The villains’ve got us surrounded. Pity it had to happen yore first time out,

Tamm. Still, there’s one consolation—if’n we go together, I won’t be left t’carry the news back to yore mum.”

Tammo felt no fear, only rage. Drawing his blade, he gritted his teeth and swung the loaded sling like a flexible

club. “Stand back t’back with me, pal. If we’ve got to go, then let’s give ’em somethin’ to jolly well remember us by.

Eulal-iaaaaaaa!”

The vermin rushed them but were swiftly repulsed, such was the ferocity with which the two friends fought. Four

rats went down from blade thrust, sling, and stick. Whirling to meet a second onslaught, following hard on the heels of

the first, Russa stunned a weasel with the butt of her stick, grabbing him close to her so that he took the spear thrust of

a ferret behind him. Tammo whipped the loaded sling into the face of another and slashed out to the side with his dirk,

catching a rat who was sneaking in on him.

A big, wicked-looking fox swung out with an immense pike. The heavy iron blade thudded flat down on Russa’s

head, stunning the squirrel and knocking her flat. Tammo tripped over a wounded rat and stumbled awkwardly. The

vermin pack flung themselves on the pair. Tammo managed to slay one and wound another, then he went under,

completely engulfed by weight of numbers. Stars and comets rattled about in his head as the butt end of the fox’s pike

flattened him.

Waves of throbbing pain crashed through the young hare’s skull. He struggled to lift his paws to his head but found

he was unable to. Noise followed, lots of noise, then an agonizing pain across his shoulders. Opening his eyes slowly,

Tammo found himself facing Skulka. She was swinging the thorn-covered wild rose branch that she had just struck

him with.

“Hah! I thought that’d waken ’im! Would yer like another taste o’ this, me bold young warrior?”

Tammo’s paws were tightly bound, but that did not stop him bulling forward and up, catching the ferret hard

beneath her chin with a resounding headbutt. Her jaws cracked together like a window slamming as she fell backward.

A rat ran forward swinging a sword, shouting, “I’ll finish ’im!”

Russa had recovered sufficiently to kick out at the rat with her tightly lashed footpaws, and he was knocked

sideways, striking his back sharply against a tree trunk.

Rubbing furiously at his spine, the rat came at Russa, sword held straight for her throat. “I’ll show ye the color o’

yer insides fer that, bushtail!”

He was stopped in his tracks by the big fox’s pike handle. “No, y’won’t, cully. I want some sport wid these two

afore we put paid to ’em. Now then, young ’un, where’d yer ’ide that bagful o’ vittles you two’ve bin totin’ around?”

Tammo glanced down at the pikepoint pricking his chest. He smiled contemptuously at his tormentor, and said,

“Actually I stuffed ’em down your ears while you were asleep last night, figurin’ that owing to the lack of brains

there’d be plenty o’ room inside your thick head, old chap.”

The fox quivered with anger but held his temper. “You’ve just cost yer comrade ’er tail, and when I’ve chopped it

off I’m gonna ask yer again. We’ll see ’ow smart yer mouth is then, bucko. Skulka, Gaduss, grab ’old o’ that squirrel

...”

Suddenly the fox stopped talking and stared dumbly at the javelin that appeared to be growing out of his middle. A

bloodcurdling cry rang through the trees.

“Eulaliaaaaaa! Give ’em blood’n’vinegar!”

This was followed by a veritable rain of arrows, javelins, and slingstones. Taken by surprise, the vermin scattered.

One or two who were a bit slow were cut down where they stood. From somewhere a drum began beating and the

wild war cry resounded louder: “‘S death on the wind! Eulaliaaaa! Eulaliaaaaaa!”

The vermin had obviously heard the call before. Whimper—

6o ing with tenor they fled, many of them falling to the rain of missiles pursuing the retreat.

Tammo was busily trying to sever his bonds on the fallen fox’s pikeblade, when the drums sounded close. He

looked up to see a very fat hare striding toward him. Amazingly, the creature was making the drum sounds with his

mouth.

“Babumm babumm barabumpitybumpitybumm! Drrrrrrr-ubbity dubbity rump ta tump! Barraboomboomboom!”

A tall elegant hare with drooping mustachios, carrying a long saber over one shoulder of his bemedaled green

velvet jacket, stepped languidly out of the tree cover.

“Good show, Corporal Rubbadub, compliments to y’sah. Now d’you mind awfully if one asks y’to give those

infernal drums a rest?”

With a smile that was like the sun coming out, the fat hare threw up a smart salute and brought both footpaws

down hard as he gave two final drum noises.

“Boom boom!”

The tall hare’s saber whistled through the air as he spoke to Tammo and Russa. “Stay quite still, chaps, that’s the

ticket!”

The two friends winced and closed their eyes tightly as the saber whipped around them like an angry wasp. In a

trice the cords that had bound them were lying slashed on the ground.

Russa smiled one of her rare smiles. “Captain Perigord Habile Sinistra to the rescue, eh!”

The hare made an elegant leg and bowed. “At y’service, marm, though I’m known as Major Perigord nowadays,

promotion y’know. Hmm, Russa Nodrey, thought you’d have perished from vermin attack or old age seasons ago.

Who’s this chap, if I may make so bold as t’ask?”

Standing upright, Tammo returned the Major’s bow courteously. “Tamello De Fformelo Tussock, sah.”

“Indeed! Any relation to Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock?”

“I should say so, sah, he’s my pater!”

“You don’t say! Well, there’s a thing. I served under your old pa when I was about your seasons. By m’life! Then

you’ll be Mem Divinia’s young ’un!”

“I have that honor, sah.”

Major Perigord walked in a circle around Tammo, shaking his head and smiling. “Mem Divinia, eh, great seasons

o’ salt, the prettiest hare ever t’slay vermin. I worshiped her, y’know, from afar of course, she was ever the Colonel’s,

and me? Pish tush! I was nought but a young Galloper. Ah for the golden days o’ youth, wot!”

He broke off to listen to the screams of the fleeing vermin growing fainter, then turned to Corporal Rubbadub and

said, “Be s’good as to call the chaps’n’chappesses back, will you, there’s a good creature.”

Still smiling from ear to ear, Rubbadub marched off in the direction of the retreat, his drum noises echoing and

rolling throughout the small woodland.

“Barraboom! Barraboom! Barraboomdiddyboomdiddy boomboom!”

The Major perched gracefully on the fallen beech trunk. “Complete March Hare, ol’ Rubbadub, took too many

head wounds in battle, doncha know. Never speak, but the chap makes better drum noises than a real drum, or four real

drums f that matter. Brave as a badger and fearless as a fried frog, though, a perilous creature t’have on your side in a

pinch.”

Tammo remembered the term “perilous hare,” so he gave the polite rejoinder, “As you say, sah, a perilous creature,

an’ what more could one ask of a hare?”

Perigord nodded his head and winked broadly at the younger beast. “Rather! ’Tis easy t’see you’re the Colonel’s

offspring, though I think that fortunately you favor your mother more.”

Tammo touched his aching head and leaned back against the beech.

Major Perigord was immediately apologetic. “Oh, my dear fellow, what a beauty of a lump they gave you on the

old beezer—you too, Russa. Forgive me, chattin’ away here like a sea gull at suppertime. We must get y’some medical

attention. At ease in the ranks there, sit down an’ rest until Pasque gets back. She’s our healer—have y’right as rain in

two ticks, wot! You’re with the Long Patrol now, y’know, no expense spared!”

Despite his headache, Tammo managed a bright smile. “Did you hear that, Russa? We’re with the Long Patrol!”

13

To Tammo’s utter amazement, when all the hares returned to camp, he counted only eleven, including Perigord and

Rubbadub. The Major was amused by the look on his new friend’s face.

“I can see what you’re thinkin’, laddie buck. Well, let me tell you, the Long Patrol counts quality high above

quantity, wot! Here, let me introduce y’to our happy band. This is our Galloper, Riffle, fleet of paw and faster’n the

wind. Sergeant Torgoch, a walkin’ armory, collects weapons, ’specially blades. These two’re Tare’n’Turry the terrible

twins, can’t tell ’em apart, eh, never mind, neither c’n I. Lieutenant Mono, our Quartermaster, can steal a nut from a

squirrel’s mouth an’ make him diink he’s jolly well eaten it. My sister, Captain Twayblade, charming singer but rather

perilous with that long rapier she carries. The delightful Pasque Valerian, best young medico t’come off the mountain,

I’ve seen her fix a butterfly’s wing. That chap there’s Midge Manycoats. He’s our spy, master o’ disguise an’ deadly

with a noose. Then there’s Rockjaw Grang, Giant o’ the Norm, bet y’ve never seen a hare that size in a season’s

march. That leaves m’self, whom y’ve met, an’ Corporal Rubbadub, the droll drummer.”

Rubbadub smiled widely, clapping his ears together twice and issuing a drum sound so that it looked as if the ears,

and not his mouth, had made the noise.

“Boomboom!”

Russa nudged Tammo and, nodding toward Torgoch, murmured, “That ’un’s carryin’ yore blade, mate!”

Amid the array of daggers, swords, and knives bristling from Torgoch’s belt, the young hare identified his own

weapon, its shoulder belt wound ’round the blade.

Tammo braced himself and faced the hare. “Beg pardon, old lad, but I rather think that’s my dirk you’ve got.”

The Sergeant took Tammo’s weapon from his belt. Balancing it deftly on his paw, he smiled ruefully. “I ’oped it

wouldn’t be, young sir, ’tis a luvverly blade. I took it orf a vermin oo didn’t look as if Vd be usin’ it agin. You’d best

’ave it back, y’don’t see knives like this’n a lyin’ about every day. A proper officer’s weapon ’tis, I’d say a Badger

Lord could’ve made it.”

Tammo was about to put on the belt when he suddenly sat down hard on the ground and began shivering. The ache

in his head had become overwhelming. The tall saturnine Lieutenant Mono nodded gloomily at Pasque Valerian and

said, “I’ll light a fire an’ heat some water. You’d best see to that young ’un, he’s got a touch o’ battle shock. I recall

m’self bein’ like that first time I saw serious action.”

Pasque sat alongside Tammo, rummaging in her herbalist’s pouch. “Lie back now, easy does it. Here, chew on this

—dkm’t swallow it, though. Spit it out when you’ve had enough.”

It was a sort of sticky moss, bound together by some type of vegetable gum, with a taste reminiscent of mint and

roses. Tammo chewed slowly, and through half-closed lids he watched Pasque mixing herbs by the fire. She was the

prettiest, most gentle creature he had ever encountered. Tammo resolved that he would get to know her better, then his

thoughts became muddled as he drifted away into warm dark seas of slumber. Night had fallen when he awakened, and

a delicious aroma of cooking reminded him he was very hungry.

Perigord’s sister, Twayblade, patted the log beside her. “Feelin’ better now, young ’un? Come an’ perch here. Rub-

badub, bring this beast somethin’ to eat, wot.”

Instinctively, Tammo reached to touch his injured head. A massive paw engulfed his, and he found himself staring

upward into the fearsome face of the giant hare, Rockjaw Grang.

“Nay, lad, th’art not to touch thy ’ead yet awhile. Best leave alone what our little lass ’as patched up. Sithee, coom

an’ set by t’fire.”

Rockjaw picked Tammo up as if he were a babe and sat him down between Twayblade and Pasque, who smiled

quietly at him and said, “I hope you’re feeling better this evening.”

Tammo flushed to his eartips and muttered incoherently, feeling completely awkward and embarrassed for the first

time in his life. He wanted so much to talk with Pasque, yet his tongue would not obey his brain. Rubbadub saved the

situation by marching up with a bowl of hot pea and celery soup with fresh-baked bread to dip in it.

He winked and grinned broadly. “Drrrmrr tish boom!”

Russa raised her eyebrows. “Oh, he does cymbals too?”

The young Galloper Riffle refilled the squirrel’s beaker. “Aye, marm, bugles also, an’ flutes when he’s a mind to.

Ol’ Rubbadub’s a full band when the mood takes him.”

Major Perigord turned to his troop good-humoredly. “Stripe me, but you’re a dull bunch o’ ditch wallopers! We

ain’t welcomed our guests with the anthem yet.”

Tammo looked up from his soup. “The anthem?”

Midge Manycoats took out a tiny flute and got the right key. “Humm, humm, fa, sol la te, fa, fa, fa, that’s it. Right,

troop, the ‘Song of the Long Patrol.’ Like to hear it, Tammo?”

The young hare nodded eagerly. “Rather, I’d love to!”

With Midge acting as conductor and choirmaster, the little woodland camp with its flickering fire shadows, echoed

to the famous marching air of the Salamandastron fighters.

“O it’s hard and dry when the sun is high

And dust is in your throat,

When the rain pours down, near fit to drown, It soaks right through your coat.

But the hares of the Long Patrol, my lads,

Stout hearts they walk with me

Over hill and plain and back again

To the shores of the wide blue sea.

Through mud and mire to a warm campfire,

I’ll trek with you, old friend,

O’er lea and dale in a roaring gale,

Right to our journey’s end.

Aye, the hares of the Long Patrol, my lads,

Love friendship more than gold.

We’ll share long days and tread hard ways,

Good comrades, brave and bold!”

Rubbadub completed the anthem with a long drumroll and a double boom as Tammo and Russa thumped out their

applause on the tree trunk.

The terrible twins, Tare and Turry, called out to Tammo, “Come on, come on, you’ve got to jolly well sing us one

back!”

“Aye, so y’have, sing up, Tamm, you look as if y’could belt out a good ditty!”

Russa Nodrey noted the horrified look on Tammo’s face, and smiled wryly at Perigord. “Hah! Look at ’im, that’n

would sooner be boiled in the soup than sing wid yore pretty Pasque sittin’ next to ’im!”

She spared Tammo further embarrassment by volunteering herself. “Ye can’t expect that hare t’sing whilst ’e’s

recoverin’ from an injury. I’ll do my anthem for you, ’tis called ‘The Song of the Stick.’ Though I usually sings it

when I’m alone.”

Leaping up, Russa began twirling her small hardwood staff, tossing it in the air, catching it on her tail, flicking it

back overhead into her paws, and spinning it until it became a blur as she sang:

“This ain’t a sword, it ain’t a spear,

An arrow, nor a bow,

‘Tis just a thing I carries ’round

With me where e’er I go.

It cannot talk or grumble,

And never answers back,

But it can sniff out vermin

An’ land ’em such a crack!

O my liddle stick o’ wood, my liddle stick o’ wood,

Whacks here’n’there an’ everywhere,

No weapon’s half so good,

An’ I am tellin’ you,

My friend so stout’n’true,

This liddle piece o’ timber

Has always seen me through.

It’ll wallop a weasel, sock a stoat,

Or fling a ferret from ’is coat,

‘Twould knock a fox clean out his socks,

My liddle stick o’ wood!”

The hares gathered ’round, applauding Russa, who was still performing tricks with the hardwood, which seemed as

though it had a life of its own.

Tammo waved at her. “Thanks, matey, that was great!”

Russa came over to whisper in his ear. “I wouldn’t do it fer any otherbeast, Tamm, performin’ in public ain’t my

thing. So remember, you owe me one, pal.”

When the meal and the entertainment were over, Major Perigord gave out his orders.

“Heads down now, chaps, we move out at dawn. Rockjaw, take first watch. Riffle, Midge, reeky ’round a bit, see if

y’can pick up the vermin trail for the mornin’. Compliments an’ g’night, troop.”

Russa and Perigord sat by the fire, long after the rest were asleep, conversing in low tones.

“What brings you an’ the Patrol over thisways, friend?”

“Rapscallions an’ Lady Cregga Rose Eyes’s commands. We travel on her orders, Russa. Last winter we did battle

with old Gormad Tunn an’ his army, never seen so many vermin in me life, wot! Well, we gave ’em the drubbin’ they

richly deserved an’ sent the scum packin’. Great loss o’ life on both sides, but Rapscallions got the worst of it, by

m’left paw they did! Our Badger Lady was like a pack o’ wolves rolled into onebeast when the Bloodwrath came upon

her. They took off like scalded crabs an’ we pursued ’em almost into deep water, hackin’ an’ smashin’ at their fleet,

did a fair part of damage to it. Hah, off they sailed, screamin’ an’ cursin’ something dreadful!”

Russa stared into the fire. “Evil murderin’ beasts, ’twas all they deserved!”

The elegant Major stroked his mustachios reflectively. “Trouble is, nobeast seems t’know where the blighters went.

We know Rapscallions don’t sail out on the open seas, they hug the coasts an’ make raids from their ships. So we’re

certain they can’t have had their fleet sunk out at sea an’ got themselves drowned, worst luck. Lady Rose Eyes is

extremely worried, y’see they’ve dropped completely out of sight, over a thousand Rapscallions, with Gormad Tunn

and those two evil sons of his, Damug an’ Byral. Our Badger Lady figures that the cads are layin’ up someplace,

plannin’ a major comeback. Huh, they won’t come near Salamandastron again, but she’s of the opinion, an’ rightly so,

that the great Rapscallion army’11 find a target easier than our mountain. Russa, I tell you, with a mob o’ that

magnitude they could create a veritable bloodbath anyplace!”

Russa nodded her agreement. “So she sent you an’ yore troop out to track ’em down?”

Perigord stirred the embers with his sabertip. “That she did, old friend, and we searched most o’ the winter until

we located today’s gang. But they’re only a blinkin’ fraction of the main band, must’ve had their ship blown off

course an’ wrecked. I think they’re travelin’ overland to join up with the others, that’s why we’re trailin”em. Pity we

had to show our paws by attackin’ them today, but I couldn’t let you an’ young Tammo be slain by those

foul

blackguards.”

Russa patted the Major’s left paw gratefully. “Thanks, Perigord. I wasn’t greatly bothered, but it’d be a shame

t’see a fine young hare like Tammo butchered by vermin. I brought him along with me because ’tis his life’s ambition

to join the Long Patrol. ’E idolizes you lot.”

The hare squinted along the length of his saberblade. “I could see that. Bear in mind, both Tammo’s mater’n’pater

ran with the Patrol once. He comes of good fightin’ stock, that young ’un. Officer material, I shouldn’t wonder, wot?”

Both beasts sat silently, watching the flames die to embers. Russa finally stretched out in the shelter of the beech

log and said, “If you take him with yer I’ll come along for the trip. Promised his ma I’d look out fer ’im. Wot’s yore

next move?”

The Major unbuttoned his tunic and lay down. “Sleep what’s left o’ the night, I s’pose, then carry on trailin’ the

vermin an’ see where they go. Though if they persist in trav-elin’ south I’ll have to stop ’em permanent—can’t have

those killers wanderin’ up the path to Redwall Abbey. Lady Cregga’d have an absolute fit if she knew we’d let a gang

o’ bloodthirsty thieves anywhere near the Abbey.”

Russa rolled over so that her back was warmed by the embers. “Fits right in with my plans. I was plannin’ on

visitin’ ole Abbess Tansy, an’ of course there’s always the famous Redwall kitchens, no grub better in the land!”

Major Perigord Habile Sinistra licked his lips dreamily. “I’m right with you there, old sport!”

14

Arven was jerked into wakefulness by Shad the otter Gatekeeper. The burly creature was cloaked and carrying a

lantern. “All paws on deck, mate, yore needed at the wall!”

Wordlessly, the squirrel donned his tunic and grabbed a cloak, then the pair stole out of the dormitory silently,

loath to waken young Redwallers still sleeping.

Descending the spiral stairs to the ground floor, Shad explained what had taken place. “I was asleep in the

gatehouse not an hour back when Skipper an’ his otter crew arrived. Funny, I sez, I was comin’ over t’see you today,

messmate. Was you now, sez ’e t’me, well that is funny, Shad, ’cos I couldn’t sleep fer dreamin’ that summat was

amiss at the Abbey, so I roused the crew an’ set course for ’ere right away! Well, there’s a stroke o’ luck, sez I to ’im,

you saved me a journey, matey, y’better come an’ look at our south wall.”

By then Shad and Arven were at the main door of the Abbey building. Pale stormlit dawn was breaking. A gale-

force wind tore the breath from their mouths, buffeting both creatures sideways, and hissing rain glistened off the grass

in the cold half-light Sheltering the lantern beneath his flapping cloak, Shad shouted at Arven, “Come an’ see for

yoreself!”

Leaning into the tempest, heads down and cloaks drawn tight, both beasts made their way to the south wall.

Skipper of Otters stood at the southeast end of the wall, he and his crew sheltering beneath a monstrous jumble of

branches, limbs, twigs, leaves, and stone blocks. Arven nodded briefly to the otters, then, launching himself into the

mass of foliage, he shed his cloak and climbed nimbly upward into the tangle. No squirrel could climb like the

Champion of Redwall; in a short time Arven was vaulting out of the foliage onto the battlemented walkway that

formed the walltop. Bracing himself against the stormy onslaught, he surveyed the damage and its cause.

Mossflower woodlands grew practically right up to the east wall, curving slightly at the south corner and petering

out to give way to gently sloping grassland. Directly at the curve a great beech tree had fallen upon the end of the

south wall. The ancient forest giant had stood there for untold seasons in high and wide-girthed splendor, only to be

felled during the night by the irresistible force sent by weather’s wildness.

Near the beech base, Arven could see where the top-heavy tree had broken. Long, thick wood splinters shone

white in the rain like the bone fragments and shards of some dreadful wound. In its crashing fall the trunk had hit the

wall, scattering battlements, walkway, and sandstone blocks, the tremendous weight hewing a large V shape into

Redwall’s outer defenses.

As Arven came springing back down to ground, Skipper draped the squirrel’s cloak about his shoulders.

“Much damage, mate?” he asked.

Arven nodded. “Much!”

Skipper indicated his sturdy crew with a wave. “Well, much or little, it don’t bother us, matey, we’re ’ere to lend a

paw in any way y’need otters. Where d’you want us t’ start?”

Arven patted the faithful creature’s back. “You’re a good ’un, Skip, you and your crew. This Abbey only stands by

the goodness and loyalty of its friends. But there’s nothin’ we can do whilst the weather keeps up like this. Come on,

let’s get you lot inside and find you some breakfast by the fire.”

Skipper’s craggy face broke into a smile. “Lead us to it, me ole mate!”

Mother Buscol was official Redwall Friar, and the small fat squirrel liked nothing better in life than to cook. She

watched the hungry otter crew poking their heads around her kitchen doorway and hid her pleasure by scowling at

them.

“Indeed to goodness, an’ what do all you great rough beasts want, hangin’ around my kitchens like a flock of

gannets?”

Skipper winked roguishly at her. “Feedin’, marm!”

Narrowing her eyes, she shook a ladle at him. “Hot oatmeal an’ mint tea’s all you’re gettin’ out o’ me this morn.”

Skipper came bounding in and swept Mother Buscol off her paws, planting several hearty kisses on her chubby

cheeks. “Oatmeal an’ mint tea is fer Dibbuns, me beauty. Where’s the good October Ale an’ a pan of shrimp’n’hotroot

soup, aye, an’ some o’ those shorty-cakes fer afters? Cummon, tell me afore I kisses you ’til sundown. Haharr!”

Her slippered paws kicked the air as she beat the otter playfully with her ladle. “Lackaday, put me down, you great

wiry whiskered oaf, or I’ll clap you in a boiler an’ make riverdog pudden of you!”

Behind her back, Shad had purloined a batch of hot scones, and now he slid past Mother Buscol, chuckling.

“Where’s yore manners, mate? Put the pore creature down an’ we’ll wait in Cavern ’Ole ’til brekkfist’s ready.”

Laughing, Mother Buscol went about her business. “Indeed to goodness look you, shrimp’n’hotroot soup with the

best October Ale an’ my good shortybreads. Whatever next?”

Dibbuns hastily finished their meal and trundled into Cavern Hole to sport with the playful otters.

“Skipper, Skipper, it me, Sloey, I jump offa table an’ you catch me!”

“Burr, ’old ee still, zurr h’otter, oi wants to ride on ee back!”

“Teehee! We tella Muvver Buscol you steal ’er scones!”

Otters rolled and wrestled happily about the floor with the babes, tickling, swinging, and playfighting. Abbess

Tansy and Craklyn came to see what all the noise was about, and Tansy shook her head at Skipper and his crew,

sprawled on the floor.

“Really, sir, I don’t know who’s the worse, you or these babes. Come on, Dibbuns, be off with you. The elders

need to talk with Skipper while he has his breakfast.”

Foremole Diggum scratched his head as he inspected the plans Craklyn had drawn up on a parchment. “Umm, can

ee go through et all agin, marm, then may’ap oi’ll unnerstan’ wot ee wants a doin’!”

The Redwall Recorder outlined her scheme for the second time. “As I said, the tree falling has started demolition

on the wall, so it’s not all bad. But how to move the tree so we can continue with the job? Here’s my idea. First we

need axes and saws to lop off all the top foliage of the beech, then, if it is not already broken clean of its stump, we

must sever it. Once that job is done the tree must be supported by struts, to make sure it doesn’t fall any further. Then

the remaining wall can be removed, the tree trunk dropped and rolled out of the way. Clear?”

Diggum continued scratching his head. “Hurr, ’tis a pity oi be such a simplebeast, oi’m still all aswoggled with ee

plan, marm.”

Arven stood up decisively. “Oh, you’ll get the hang of it as we go along, Diggum. What’s the state of the weather

outdoors now?”

Gurrbowl the Cellar Keeper and Viola Bankvole went outside. They were back shortly to report. “The rain has

stopped, though it’s still quite windy; sky over to the south is clearing. If the wind dies down ’twill be a fine

afternoon.”

Skipper quaffed his beaker of October Ale. “Right y’are, marm, then let’s get those axes an’ saws out o’ the

toolstore an’ sharpen ’em up. We’ll start work after lunch!”

Still mystified by the plan, Foremole Diggum decided to inspect the job from a different angle. He gathered

together a few of his trusty moles for the task. “Yurr, Drubb, Bunto, Wuller, an’ ee Truggle, oi figger et’s toime us’n’s

taked a lukk at ee wall proper loik!”

Skipper was greasing a double-pawed saw when he noticed the moles leaving, carrying nothing but a few coiled

ropes. “Ahoy, where d’you suppose they’re bound?”

Arven glanced up from the axblade he was whetting. “Leave them be, Skip. I could see Diggum wasn’t too happy

with Craklyn’s plan, so I suppose he’s going to take a look for himself. You know moles, they always look at things in

a different way from otherbeasts, and quite often theirs is the most sensible way. Maybe they’ll find out something we

don’t know.”

Foremole Diggum moved slowly along the wallbase on all fours, sniffing the ground, scratching the stone, and

probing the soil with his strong digging claws. About midway along the south wall he stopped and, pointing to a spot

on the sandstone blocks three courses up, addressed Truggle: “Roight thurr, marm!”

The other moles nodded wisely; their Foremole had made a good choice. Truggle produced a small wooden mallet

and began striking the place Diggum had indicated. Diggum placed an ear against the ground, directly below where

she was hitting, and listened carefully, ignoring the wind and the wet grass. When he had heard enough, the Foremole

signaled Truggle to stop and straightened up.

Drubb blinked earnestly at Diggum. “Boi ’okey, gaffer, oi can tell by ee face you’m founded summat.”

Foremole Diggum took a twig and stuck it into the ground on the place where his ear had been.

“Ho oi found summat sure enuff, doant know ’ow oi missed et afore. Wot caused ee wall to sink’n’wobble? Ee

answer’s daown thurr, ’tis a cave or may’ap summ sort o’ chamber!”

Bunto shook his Foremole by the paw. “Hurr! Oi knowed ee’d foind ee answer. Wot now, Diggum, zurr?”

Foremole Diggum’s homely face wrinkled into a cheery smile. “Us’n’s got some diggin’ t’do!”

Five sets of digging claws met over the twig.

“Who’m dig deep’n’make best ’oles? Only us’n’s, we be moles!”

15

Lugworm had done his work well. The two rat sentries guarding Damug Warfang’s shelter of brush and canvas sat

upright with four empty grog flasks between them. The crafty stoat had known that the strong drink would be

irresistible to beasts standing guard through die cold lonely night hours. Lugworm watched them from his hiding place

until he was sure the pair were sleeping soundly. Slipping away he found Borumm and Vendace waiting at the place

he had arranged to meet them.

Borumm drew his curved dagger, impatient to go about his business. “Everythin’ ready, mate, coast clear?”

Lugworm nodded fearfully, wishing he had never been drawn into the conspiracy to slay the Firstblade. “Aye, ’tis

ready, but go carefully, Damug’s a light sleeper.”

Vendace drew his blade, suppressing a snigger. “Light sleeper, eh? Well ’e won’t be after tonight!”

Lugworm edged away from the would-be assassins nervously. “There, I’ve done me bit, the rest’s up to youse two.

But remember, if yer fail an’ get caught, then not a word about me!”

Borumm the weasel kicked out, sending Lugworm sprawling.

Vendace stood over him, snarling scornfully. “Garn, git outta my sight, stoat, yore in this up to yer slimy neck. The

only consolation you’ve got is that we don’t intend ter fail, or git caught. Now beat it an’ keep yer gob shut!”

As Lugworm scrambled away whimpering, the fox winked at his cohort. “We’ll deal wid him tomorrer, no use

teavin’ loose ends lyin’ about. If Lugworm can betray Damug ’e’d do the same fer us someday. Come on, let’s pay the

Firstblade a liddle visit.”

Damug perched in the branches of the ash Uvc near his shelter, the rat Gribble crouching by his side. Together they

watched the weasel and the fox as, daggers drawn, the pan-slid by the two sleeping sentries, silent as night shadows.

The Greatrat waited a moment, until he heard blades grating against the sack of stones he’d wrapped in his cloak and

laid by the fire. Then he nodded to Gribble.

The rat blew two sharp blasts upon a bone whistle.

Pheep! Pheep!

Ten heavily armed Rapmark officers broke cover, rushed in, and surrounded Borumm and Vendace.

16?

It was fine and sunny next morning, a perfect spring day. Da-mug allowed Gribble to dress him in his splendid

armor; choosing a cloak that did not have dagger slits in it, draped it loosely across one shoulder, and strolled out to

the woodland’s edge. The entire Rapscallion army was marshaled there, awaiting him, each beast fully armed and

ready to march, their faces painted bright red. The face paint served a double purpose: it instilled fear into those they

chose to attack, and marked them so they would not strike one another down in the heat of battle. Damug took up

position on a knoll where he could be seen and heard. Whipping out the sword that was his symbol of office, he

shouted, “Rapscallions! Are you well rested and well fed?”

A roar of assent greeted him. “Aye, Lord, aye!” He smiled approvingly. Now his horde looked like true

Rapscallions. They bore little resemblance to the cringing vermin who had wintered on the cold shores after their

defeat at Sal-amandastron.

Damug yelled another question at them. “And are you ready to conquer and slay with me as your Firstblade?”

Again the wild roars of agreement echoed in his ears. He waited until they died down before saying, “Bring out the

prisoners!”

Over a single drumbeat the rattle of chains could be heard. Covered in wounds from the beatings they had

received, three pitiful figures, chained together at neck and paw, were led forward. It was Borumm, Vendace, and

Lugworm, stumbling painfully against one another as they staggered to stay upright. Spearbutts knocked them down

on all fours in front of Damug, and the vast crowd of Rapscallions pressed forward to hear Damug’s pronouncement.

“Let these three wretches serve as a lesson to anybeast who thinks Damug Warfang is a fool. They are cowards and

traitors, but I am not going to order them slain. No! I will give them a chance to show us all that they are warriors. At

the first opportunity of battle, these three will lead the charge, their only weapons being the chains they wear. Those

chains will stay on them, binding them together until death releases them. They will march, eat, and sleep all their lives

in chains. Let nobeast feed them or comfort them in any way. I am Firstblade of all Rapscallions. I have spoken!”

The three prisoners were made to kneel facing Damug and thank him for sparing their lives. When they had

finished he swept contemptuously by them. Waving his sword at two random vermin, he rapped out, “You there, and

you, come here!”

Sneeze wort nudged his companion Lousewort. “Git up there, thick’ead, Lord Damug pointed at you, not me!”

Lousewort approached the knoll where Damug stood. Sneezewort breathed a sigh of relief: whatever it was, Louse-

wort would be on the receiving end. The other beast Damug had indicated strode up before him. It was the big nasty

weasel.

The unpredictable Warlord circled them both. “Give me your names!”

“Hogspit, they calls me Hogspit, Sire.”

“Er, er, I’m Lousewort, yore Lordness!”

Damug leaned on his sword and stared at them closely. “Lousewort and Hogspit, eh! And are you both

Rapscallions, true and loyal to your Firstblade?”

Both heads bobbed dutifully. “Aye, Sire!”

Damug laughed aloud and clapped their shoulders with his mailed paw. “Good! Then I promote you both to the

rank of Rapscour. You two will take the places of Borumm and Vendace, with twoscore each to command. Take your

scouts and go now, travel due north, and report back to me every two days on what lies ahead.”

Sneezewort was livid. He followed his companion, arguing and shouting at him, “Lord Damug never pointed at

you, ’e pointed at me, I’d swear ’e did. Wot would die Firstblade want wid a fleabrain like you as a Rapscour officer?”

Lousewort drew himself up importantly. “Er, er, less o’ that, mate, I ain’t no fleabrain, I’m a Rapscour now. So

don’t go tellin’ me no more of yer fibs. Lord Damug pointed t’me, you said so yerself, huh, you even

shoved me

forward!”

Sneezewort was hopping with rage. He ran at Lousewort, shrieking, “I’ll shove yer forward an’ sideways an’

back’ards as well, y’great lump o’ lard-bottomed crabmeat!”

But Lousewort was a bit too large and solid to shove. He stood firm, shaking a cautionary paw at his friend. “Er,

er, stop that, you, y’can’t shove me, I’m an officer now!”

Sneezewort advanced on him, sneering ominously. “So I— can’t shove yer, eh? Who’s gonna stop me,

Scrawfonk?”

Lousewort grabbed hold of Sneezewort and held him firmly. “Ooh, you shouldn’t a called me that, that’s a bad

name to call anybeast! Er, er, I know who’ll stop yer, my brother officer. Hoi, Hogspit, there’s a low common pawrat

’ere, callin’ an officer naughty names an’ shovin”im too.”

The big nasty weasel strode aggressively up and punched Sneezewort hard in the stomach. “Lissen, popguts, don’t

let me ever catch you givin’ cheek to a Rapscour. An’ you, blam-, erbonce, don’t let ’im shove yer, see!” I Grabbing

them both by the ears, Hogspit banged their heads I—together resoundingly. He strode off, leaving them both rue-T

fully rubbing their skulls.

Lousewort looked at Sneezewort dazedly. “Er, er, let that be a lesson to yer, matey!” he muttered.

A short while after the Rapscours had left with their scouts, the great army got under way. Drums beating to the

pace of their march battered out at a ground-eating rate as the day advanced into warm sunny afternoon. Northward

the Rapscallion host tramped, dust rising in a cloud behind their banners and drums—only three days away from the

southernmost borders of Mossflower Country.