The Long Patrol

current close t’this bank.”

A rat named Henbit came running to the hilltop. His eyes took in the situation at one quick glance. Turning, he

dashed back pell-mell to where the ferret Skaup was leading the main party at a run, hot on the tracks of the fugitives.

Henbit dashed up and threw a hasty salute. “Borumm an’ Vendace straight ahead, Cap’n! They’ve jus’ left that

’illtop to cross the stream an’ attack those shrews!”

Skaup acted quickly. “You there, Dropear, take fifty an’ ran on ahead. Don’t go up the ’ill, go ’round it—come at

’em along the shore. I’ll take the rest an’ make for the shore from ’ere, that way we’ll get ’em between us. Never mind

the shrews, we’re ’ere to bring those traitors back, not to fight wid .a gang o’ boatmice. Get goin’!”

Vendace and Borumm were almost down the hill when the fox whispered to his partner, “D’yer think they’ve seen

us? I coulda swore I saw the ole one lookin’ over this way once or ijwice.”

Borumm waved his paw to the vermin scrabbling downhill, urging them to move a bit faster. “Nah, if’n they’d seen

us we’d ’ave known by now, mate. Best stop our lot when we reach the stream bank, that way we can all charge

together. That water looks pretty shallow t’me.”

It took more time than Vendace liked for the last vermin to get down off the hill onto the shore. He fidgeted

impatiently, conveying his anxiety to Borumm. “All of a sudden I don’t fike this, mate. Those shrews gotta be blind if

they ain’t seen as by now. Lookit our lot too, barrin’ for me an’ you an’ a jcouple o’ others, there’s scarce a decent

blade between us—they’re mostly armed wid chunks o’ wood or stones.”

The weasel glared bad-temperedly at the fox. “Fine time ter be tellin’ me you’ve got the jitters. Wot’s the matter,

mate, don’t you think we kin take a pack o’ scruffy shrews? Straighten yerself up! Come on, you lot. Chaaaaaarge!”

Bellowing and roaring, they made it into the shallows—then they were besieged on three sides. Log-a-Log and his

Guosim loosed arrows and slingstones across the water. The charging jfine faltered a second under the salvo, then they

were hit by file forces of Dropear and Skaup coming at them from both sides. It was a complete defeat for Vendace

and Borumm’s mwn.

“Stay yore weapons, Guosim,” Log-a-Log called to his shrews, “this isn’t our fight no more. But stand ready to

bring down any vermin tryin’ to cross the stream!”

The fugitives could run neither forward nor sideways. Some tried running back uphill, where they made easy

targets for arrow and lance. The remainder, knowing what fate would await them at the paws of Damug Warfang,

fought desperately, trying to break free and run anyplace.

Across the stream the shrews sat in their logboats, paddles poised as they watched the awful carnage.

Frackle averted her eyes, as if she could not bear to watch. “They’re from the same band. Some of those creatures

must’ve fought together side by side. How can they do that to one another?”

Log-a-Log watched the slaughter through narrowed eyes. “They’re vermin, they’d kill their own families for a

crust!”

There were only ten of the original fugitive band left alive—the rest lay floating in the stream or draped on the

hillside. Skaup grinned evilly at Borumm as he noosed his neck to the others, forming them into a line. “Firstblade

Damug’Il be well pleased to see you an’ the fox safe back under ’is paw, weasel.”

Bound paw and neck, the prisoners tottered painfully along the shore, driven by spearbutts and whipped with

bowstrings. Skaup turned to stare across the stream at the Guosim sitting in their logboats. “You got off light t’day, but

you’ve slain Rapscallions. We’ll settle with you another day!”

Log-a-Log’s face was impassive as he picked up a bow and sent an arrow thudding into Skaup’s outstretched paw.

“Aye, we’ve slain Rapscallions, an’ we’ll slay a lot more unless you get gone from this place. I warn ye, scum, next

time I draw this bowstring the arrow won’t be aimed at yore paw. Archers ready!”

Guosim bowbeasts stood up in the logboats, setting shafts to bowstrings, awaiting their Chieftain’s next command.

Skaup’s face was rigid with agony. He looked at the shrew shaft transfixing his paw and the Guosim with bows

stretched, and slunk off, his voice strained with pain and anger as he yelled, “We’ll meet again someday, I swear it!”

A ribald comment echoed across the stream waters at his back: “Be sure t’bring that arrow with ye, ’twas a good

shaft!”

Skaup was close to collapse when he made it back to his party. Dropear threw a paw of support around his

shoulders. “Siddown, Cap’n, an’ I’ll dig that thing outta yore paw.”

The ferret pushed him roughly aside and staggered onward. “Not here, fool. Let’s get out o’ sight farther down the

bank!”

Log-a-Log and his shrews stood watching them until they were behind a curve in the stream course. The shrew

leader stroked his short gray beard. “Hmm, what we saw ’ere t’day tells me somethin’, mates. If they could afford to

slay more’n thirty o’ their own kind, then there must be more of ’em than I thought—a whole lot more! Right, let’s get

these craft under way midstream, where the current runs swift. Watch out for a weepin’ willow grove on yore port

sides. We’ll take the back waterways an’ sidecut off to Redwall Abbey. I think I’d best warn ’em there’s trouble

comin’.”

30

Algador Swiftback cast a fleeting glance backward as he marched on into the gathering evening. “Whew! I say,

we’ve covered a fair old stretch today. Salamandastron’s completely out o’ sight!”

Drill Sergeant Clubrush’s voice growled close to his ear. “The mountain might be out o’ sight, laddie buck, but

I’m not! No talkin’ in the ranks there, keep pickin’ those paws up an’ puttin”em down. Left right, left right, left right

...”

More than five hundred hares of the Long Patrol, some veterans but mainly new recruits, tramped eastward into the

dusk, with Lady Cregga Rose Eyes, axpike on shoulder, always far ahead.

The lolloping young hare named Trowbaggs still had difficulty in learning to march properly. He put his left paw

down when everybeast was on their right, and vice versa, and for the umpteenth time that day he stumbled, treading on

the foot-paws of the hare marching in front.

“Oops! Sorry, old chap, the blinkin’ footpaws y’know, get-tin’ themselves mixed up again, right left, right left ...”

Deodar shook her head in despair as she watched him. Trowbaggs, y’great puddenhead, it’s left right, not right

Clubrush’s stentorian voice rang out over the marchers: “Long Patrol—halt! Stand still everybeast—that means

you too, Trowbaggs, you ’orrible liddle beast!”

Thankfully, the marching lines halted, standing to attention until the order was given.

“First Regiment, stand at ease! Water an’ wood foragers fall out! Duty cooks, take up chores! Lance Corporal

Ellbrig, pick out yore sentries for first watch! The remainder of you, lay out y’packs an’ groundsheets, check all

weapons an’ arms! Four neat rows now, clear away any nettles an’ prickles over f there—that’s yore campsite for

tonight, you lucky lot!”

Hares dashed hither and thither on their various duties as Sergeant and Lance Corporal roared out orders. In a short

time, military precision resulted in camp being set up.

Algador sat with his companions by the shallows of a small pond, everybeast cooling off their footpaws and resting

on their packs.

urgale lay flat on his back, complaining to the stars: “Oh, my auntie’s bonnet! I thought ol’ Clubrush was goin’ to

march us all bally night. Look, there’s steam risin’ out of the water where I’m dippin’ me pore old paws!”

The Sergeant’s tone was almost an outraged squeal. “Get those dirty great sweaty dustridden paws out o’ that

water! It’s for drinkin’, not sloshin’ about in. Trowbaggs, what’n the name o’ seasons are you up to, bucko?”

“Wrappin’ m’self up in me groundsheet, Sarge. Good

Veins stood out on the Sergeant’s brow as he roared at the s blunderer, “Sleepin’? Who said you could sleep, sah?

Get that equipment cleaned, lay out yore mess kit, line up for Stopper! Forget sleep. Trowbaggs, stay awake! Yore on

second f;’: Trowbaggs groaned aloud as he searched in the dark for his mess kit. “Somebeast’s pinched me flippin’

spoon. Oh, Mother, I want to go home. Save me from all this, I wasn’t Hgptout for it, wot!”

“Never mind, scout,” a kindly older hare named Shangle fidepad whispered to him, “it gets worse before it gets

jolly well better. Here, I’ll swap with you. I’m on first watch. You do it and I’ll take second sentry for you, that way

you’ll be able t’get a full night’s sleep.”

When the camp had quieted down and was running smoothly, Clubrush went to sit beside Lady Cregga at the

pond’s far side. She looked up from polishing her axhead and asked, “How are they doing. Sergeant?”

“Oh, they’ll shape up, rnarrn, never fear. First day’s always the longest for the green ones. P’raps if we don’t march

’em as ’ard an’ far tomorrer ...”

The rose eyes glinted dangerously. “They’ll learn to march twice as hard and fast, aye, and fight like they never

imagined before I’m done with them. I never brought them along on any picnic, and the sooner they realize that the

better. Dismissed, Sergeant Clubrush!”

The Sergeant stood to attention and saluted. “Aye, marm, thank ye, marm!”

Clubrush went to where his equipment was neatly laid out. Somebeast had carefully folded his groundsheet so that

he could retire immediately without making it up into a sleeping bag. Being an old campaigner, the Sergeant upset the

sheet with his pace stick. A pile of nettles and some soggy bank sand flopped out on the ground.

He lay down on the clean dry part of the sheet and shouted, “Oowow! Who put this lot in me bed? You ’orrible

rotten lot, I’ll march yore blatherin’ paws to a frazzle in the mornin’!”

Smothered giggles sounded from the recruits’ area. Sergeant Clubrush smiled as he settled down. They were good

young ’uns; he’d do all he could to help them make the grade.

Obeying Damug’s orders, Gaduss the weasel had scouted north with his patrol all day, reaching the southern edge

of Mossflower Wood by nightfall. He allowed no fires to be lit in the small camp set up at the outer tree fringe. The

night passed uneventfully.

In the hour before dawn, the scouts broke camp and pressed on. They had not been traveling long when the weasel

gave a signal. Dropping flat in a patch of ferns, the vermin patrol watched Gaduss wriggle forward. Through the mist-

wreathed tree trunks a silent figure moved, seeking shadows between shafts of dawn light.

Gaduss unlooped from his belt a greased strangling noose 4 fashioned from animal sinew. Winding it around both

paws, K he inched forward until he was shielded by an ash tree, directly in the traveler’s path. Timing it just right, he

leapt out behind the unwary creature and whipped the noose over his head and round his neck.

Rinkul was fortunate in that it also looped over the stick he was carrying. In panic, he pushed outward with the

piece of polished hardwood, preventing the sinew from biting into his windpipe. Both beasts went down, rolling

over and over in the loam, jacking, snapping, and scratching at each other. The vermin broke cover and dashed to

assist their officer, tearing the fight- frag duo apart. Seconds later the two were face-to-face, Gaduss wide-eyed with

surprise.

“Rinkul, wot’n the name o’ blood’n’claws are you doin’ ’ere?”

The ferret massaged his neck where the noose had bruised it. “Findin’ me way back ter Gormad Tunn an’ the

army. Nice rception yer gave me, mate, ’arf choked me ter death!”

Gaduss stuffed the noose back into his belt. “You ’aven’t ’eard, then. Gormad’s dead, so is Byral, ’tis Damug

Warfang w ho’s Firstblade of Rapscallions now. Where’ve y’been?” Rinkul sat down on a rotting stump. “Been?

That’s a long ry, mate. Our ship was driven off course an’ wrecked up the northeast coast. I’ve been through a lot o’

things an’ the onlybeast left alive out o’ a shipload. But that’s by by. Get me ter Damug Warfang, I’ve got news fer ’is

ears e—urgent news!”

31?

In the orchard of Redwall Abbey the tables for the owlchicks’ feast had been laid. Friar Butty supervised his

helpers ’round a firepit, over which the hot dishes were being kept at a good temperature. Apple, pear, and plum

blossoms were shedding their petals thickly on the heads of the feasters. It was a joyous sight.

The three owlchicks sat on cushions inside an empty barrel alongside their mother’s place at the table; the

badgerbabe lay in an old vegetable basket lined with sweet-smelling dried mosses. Tammo and Pasque sat together,

with Arven and Dig-gum Foremole on either side of them. Mother Abbess Tansy occupied her big chair, which had

been specially carried out. She looked very happy, clad in a new cream-colored habit, belted with a pale green girdle

cord. The Dibbuns had made her a tiara of daisies and kingcups, which she wore proudly, if a little lopsidedly, on her

headspikes.

Good Redwall food had the tables almost bent with its weight. Rockjaw Grang grabbed spoon and fork in a

businesslike way. Gurrbowl Cellarmole nodded to him as she and Drubb rolled a barrel of October Ale up to its

trestle. “Hurr, ee lukk ready t’do a speck o’ dammidge to yon vittles, zurr!”

Sergeant Torgoch eyed a large spring salad longingly. “You’ll ’scuse me sayin’, marm, but ’e ain’t the only one

’ereabouts who’s lived on camp rations fer a season, eh, Rub-badub?”

The fat hare’s smile matched the sun in the sky. “Rubbity dubdub boomboom!”

Abbess Tansy nodded politely to the Major. “As our guest, sir, perhaps you’d like to say the grace?”

Perigord’s mouth was watering furiously, but he wiped his lips on a kerchief and drooped an elegant ear in Tansy’s

direction. “Quite, er, thank ye, marm!”

“Thanks to seasons an’ jolly good luck, We’ve all got a sword an’ a head, An’ the way we’ll tuck into these vittles

Will show that we’re living, not dead.”

“Haharrharr!” Shad the Gatekeeper chortled. “Short’n’sweet, that’s ’ow I likes it, mate. Dig in!”

Everybeast did so with a will. Redwallers had no strict rules about dining: sweet was as good as salad to start, stew

as acceptable as cake, and all shared the feast with one another.

“Here, mate, try some o’ this plum slice with black-currant sauce!”

“Whoi thankee, zurr mate, may’ap you’m aven summ o’ moi deeper’n ever turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie. Hurr—

that be th’stuff!”

“Mmmm! Well, what d’you think of our Mossflower, Wedge, eh, Pasque?”

“Excellent. I never knew I was such a jolly good cook, wot!”

“I say, this Abbey Trifle is absoballylutely top hole!”

“Just give me good oP fresh crusty bread an’ ripe yellow cheese, oh, with some o’ these tangy pickles, an’ a plate

o’ salad, an’ maybe some stuffed mushrooms. Put that fruitcake ff oh the side, I’ll deal with it later. More October Ale,

please!”

“Damson an’ gooseberry pudden with meadowcream, that’s f’me!”

“Ahoy, Dibbun, drink any more o’ that strawberry fizz an’ you’ll go bang!”

“Awright den, me go bang. Ooh, likkle berryfruit tarts, me like ’em!”

Taunoc dropped in and peered at the owlchicks in their barrel, saying, “Goodness, what handsome chicks. I think

they resemble me strongly.”

“Wot a pity,” a raucous voice called out. “Shame they don’t look more like yore missus, hahaha!”

The Little Owl sniffed pityingly. “There speaks a beast with all his taste in his mouth.”

“Have you decided on names for the little ones yet, marm?” the Abbess called across to Orocca.

Orocca took her beak out of a hazelnut turnover long enough to reply, “Owls never name their eggchicks. They’ll

tell us their own names once they are ready to speak.”

Tansy gave her a charming nod and a smile, then, pulling a wry face, she turned to Craklyn. “Oops, excuse me for

asking, but what about our badgerbabe? We’re going to need a name for him soon. Anybeast come up with a good

idea yet?”

Craklyn paused from her rhubarb and maple crumble. “D’you see the giant hare over there, the one they call Rock-

jaw? Well, I think he’s thought up a name for the little fellow.”

At their request, Rockjaw emerged from behind a pair of platters piled high with salad, bread, cheese, cake, and

pasties and wiped his mouth daintily on the tablecloth hem. “By ’ecky thump, marms, there’s only one thing better’n

food—more food! Sithee, I’ve dubbed yon likkle tyke well. ’E’s to be named Russano.”

Captain Twayblade nodded her agreement. “Aye, ’tis a good strong name. Russa Nodrey saved his life, so her

name’11 live on in the badger. ’Twas clever of oF Rock, really, he took Russa’s first name an’ the first two letters of

her second. Russano, I like it. Here’s to Russano!”

Everybeast raised their drinks to toast the babe’s new name. “Russano! Good health, long seasons!”

“May he always remember his pretty ol’ nurse, Rockjaw Grang!” Lieutenant Mono added, then ducked quickly

beneath the table as Rockjaw picked up a pie.

“Ah’ve never struck a h’officer wi’ an apple an’ red-currant pie afore, but there’s alms a first time, ’tenant Morio!”

Amid the general laughter, Craklyn got up and sang an old Abbey birthing song.

“O here’s to the little ones,

Sunshine on all,

As we grow old’n’small,

May they grow tall,

Not knowing hunger or winter’s cold bite,

Fearing no living thing, by day or night,

Strong in the heart, and sturdy of limb,

Making us proud to know of her or him.

Here’s to the life we love, honest and new,

Grant all these hopes and dreams come true,

With each fresh dawn may joy never cease,

Long seasons of happiness and peace!”

Perigord thumped the tabletop with his tankard. “Splendid, well sung, marm! Long Patrol, let us honor little

Russano in Salamandastron style. Draw steel!”

Tarnmo was not sure what to do, though he felt privileged to be part of the hares’ brief ceremony. Pulling forth his

blade, he held it flat over the vegetable basket like the rest. Gazing solemnly up through a crisscross of deadly steel,

the badger-babe watched Major Perigord as he intoned:

“We are the Long Patrol, these are our perilous blades, Pledged to your protection across all the seasons, Our lives

are yours, your life is ours. Eulali aaaaaaaaa!”

“Blister me barnacles, mate,” Skipper of Otters whispered to Arven. “I felt the fur rise all along me back when

those warriors shouted their battle cry!”

The Champion of Redwall smiled. “Aye, me too, but did y’see the little Russano? He never batted an eyelid. He’ll

grow to be a cool ’un, I wager.”

“I’ve heard that hares can’t sing,” Ginko the Bellringer called out. “Is that right?”

Pasque Valerian threw a paw across Rubbadub’s shoulders. “An’ where pray did y’hear that, sir? Everybeast up on

y’paws an’ form two rings, one inside the other. One ring goes left, the other circles right. Midge, Riffle, you show

’em. Rubba-dub, you beat time an’ I’ll do the singin’. ‘Hares on the Mountain.’”

Whooping and leaping, the hares gripped their Redwall partners’ paws.

“‘Hares on the Mountain,’ beat it out good’n’fast!”

Rubbadub grinned massively, striking up his drum noises. “Rubbity dubbity dumbaradum, rubbity dubbity dumbar-

adum ...”

Both circles began moving counter to each other with the beat, at every third step banging both paws down hard

and doing a double clap. Soon the Redwallers had the hang of it. When the circles were moving to Pasque’s

satisfaction, she sang out loud and speedy:

“‘O mother, dear mother, O mother come quick, Calamity lackaday bring a stout stick, There’s hares on the

mountain, they’re all rough’n’big, A cuttin’ up capers an’ dancin’ a jig!

They wear rusty medals an’ raggy old clothes, There’s one with an apple stuck fast to his nose, Another’s got

seashells all tied to his back, There’s hares on the mountain alas an’ alack!’

‘O daughter, my daughter, now listen to me, Such rowdy wild pawsteps I never did see, Run into the house quick

an’ cover your eyes, An’ I’ll give those ruffians such a surprise!’

A hare in a frock coat so fine an’ so long Scraped on a small fiddle an’ banged a big gong, He seized the poor

mother an’ gave a loud cry, ‘Let’s warm up our paws with a reel, you an’ I!’

‘O mother, sweet mother, oh may I look now?’ “Come stir y’stumps, daughter, an’ look anyhow,’

As she whirled around the good mother did call, ‘There’s a handsome one here with no partner at all!

‘So batter that drum well an’ kick up your paws, I’m reelin with mine an yore jiggin’ with yours, A leapin’ an’

twirlin’ as cares fly away, Those hares on the mountain can call any day!’”

All through the grounds of the Abbey, the warm sunny afternoon resounded with the joyous sounds of feasting and

laughter. Sloey the mousebabe filled her apron pockets with candied nuts and dashed off with the other Dibbuns to

play hide-and-seek.

Gubbio and the rest drew straws to see who would be denkeeper. A tiny hedgehog named Twingle drew the short

straw. Covering his eyes with a dock leaf, he began counting aloud in baby fashion.

“One, three, two an’ a bit, four, sixty, eight, three again, an’ a five-seventy-nine ...”

Squealing and giggling with excitement, the little creatures dashed off to hide before Twingle finished counting.

“Four, two an’ a twelve, don’t knows any more numbers, Fm a cummin’ t’find youse all now!”

Back at the table the moles were broaching a great new cask of October Ale, singing uproariously along with the

Redwallers, showing the Long Patrol hares what good voice they were in.

“October Ale, ’tis brewed when summer’s done,

From hops’n’yeast an’ barley fine,

With just a pinch of dandelion,

A smidgeon of good honey, a taste of elderflower,

An’ don’t forget the old wild oat

Culled at the dawn’s first hour.

We puts it up in casks of oak,

All seasoned well with maple smoke,

Then lays it in cool cellars deep,

Ten seasons long to sleep.

October Ale, no drink so good’ n’cheery

In winter by the fireside bright

To warm your paws the whole long night,

Or after autumn harvesting, to rest an’ take your ease.

Just sip a tankard nice’n’slow.

With crusty bread an’ cheese.

‘Tis wholesome full an’ hearty

For any feast or party.

We’d tramp o’er forest hill an’ dale

For good October Ale!”

Gurrbowl wielded her mallet, knocking the spigot through the bung with a satisfying thud. Skipper and his otters

lined up with tankards and beakers as the foaming dark brew splashed forth. Sergeant Torgoch brushed his bristling

mustache with the back of a paw, smacking his lips and clunking beakers with Galloper Riffle as they sampled the

new barrel’s contents.

Torgoch placed a coaxing paw around the Cellarmole’s shoulders, saying, “Wot d’ye say, marm, ’ow about comin’

to be Head Cellar Keeper at Salamandastron? Just think of all those poor hares who ain’t never tasted yore October

Ale. Take pity on ’em, I beg yer!”

The molewife was so flustered by the compliment she threw her pinafore up over her face. “Hurr, go ’way, zurr,

you’m a tumble charmer, but oi wuddent leave this yurr h’ Abbey for nought, so thurr!”

With a twinkle in her eye, Abbess Tansy chided Torgoch: “Shame on you, Sergeant, trying to rob us of our Cellar

Keeper! But seeing as you like Redwall’s October Ale so much, here’s what I propose. You may take as many barrels

back to Salamandastron as you can carry.”

Rockjaw Grang placed his paws around a barrel. Grunting and straining, he was barely able to move it. The

Sergeant pulled a mock mournful face. “Thankee, marm, yore too kind, I’m sure!”

Suddenly, Twingle the hedgehog Dibbun came stumbling up to the table, waving his paws wildly and shouting,

“Come a quick, ’urry ’urry!”

Arven picked him up and sat him on the tabletop. “Now then, you liddle rogue, what’s all this noise about?”

Twingle struggled down from the table, yelling urgently, “We was playin”ide-seek an’ Sloey failed down d’big

’ole!”

Shad the Gatekeeper lifted the Dibbun with one big paw. “What, y’mean the pit under the south wall, Sloey fell

down there?”

Breathless and tearful the Dibbun nodded. “All a way down inta the dark she gone!”

Like a flash the otters and hares were away, running headlong with Arven leading them.

Sloey’s fall was broken by the rushing waters far below. The swift current was about to whip her off into the

bowels of the earth when suddenly she was plucked from the roaring torrent by her apron strings and flung up on the

bank. Half conscious, the mousebabe struggled upright and screamed with fright as a coil, heavy and scale-covered,

knocked her back down. Something licked her paw, and she caught the dreadful waft of stale breath, hot against her

quivering nostrils. A long, satisfied sigh sounded close to her face. “Aaaaaahhhhnhh!”

32

Tammo was with Arven, Perigord, and Skipper as they hurried onto the platform over the chasm. Shad could be

heard calling behind them, “Stay back, too many’ll collapse the platform! Stay back, mates!”

Grabbing a rope, Major Perigord knotted it through the carrying ring of the lantern left there by the moles. He

swung the light out into the gorge, paying the rope out. Everyone leaned over the edge, peering down as the lantern

illuminated the abyss.

Arven bellowed down, “Sloey, can you hear me? Sloey?”

A wail of terror drifted upward as the lantern traveled lower.

Perigord grabbed Skipper’s paw. “Great thunderin’ seasons. Look!”

A big yellow river eel was menacing the mousebabe on the bank, its brown back and muddy umber sides rearing

up snak-ily, the gashlike downturned mouth open, revealing glittering teeth. It swayed slowly, as if savoring the

anticipation of a meal, while its eyes, amber circles with jet-black center orbs, focused on the helpless mite.

Skipper wiped a nervous paw across his dry lips, calling hoarsely, “Keep quiet, liddle ’un! Stay still, don’t move!”

Arven stared anxiously down at the horrendous scene. “Oh, mercy! What’ll we do?”

Skipper of Otters acted swiftly. Grabbing the dirk from Tammo, he climbed up onto the rail of the platform. “I’ll

borrow yore blade, matey, speed’s the thing now. One of you follow me down by usin’ the rope. Rescue the Dibbun

an’ get ’er back up ’ere. Can’t stop t’chat, mates, ’ere goes!”

With the long knife between his teeth, Skipper dove headfirst into the gorge.

Something flashed by Sloey and landed in the water with a booming splash. Instantaneously the big male otter

surfaced and bounded clear of the rushing stream. The eel was about to strike down on its prey when Skipper hurled

himself on the coiling monster.

“Redwaaaaaaallllll!”

The eel struck, burying its teeth in the otter’s shoulder and whipping its coils around his body. Skipper had sunk

his teeth into the eel’s back and was stabbing furiously with the dirk. Eel and otter went lashing and thrashing into the

churning waters, locked together in a life-and-death struggle. In a flash they both were gone, swept away

underground.

Arven and Perigord took hold of the rope together, but Tammo ducked between them and slid over the platform,

clinging to the rope.

“I’m lighter than you chaps. Stand by t’pull me up when I get the Dibbun!”

Paw over paw the young hare descended, looking down to where the babe lay and shivered in the light of the

bobbing lantern. Tammo dropped lightly beside Sloey and, taking off his tunic, he wrapped her in it, talking in a soft,

friendly tone.

“There now, that nasty thing’s gone, thank goodness. I know, we’ll make you a nice seat so they can pull you up,

wot!”

Sloey turned her tearful face to her rescuer. “I falled downa hole an’ nearly got eated up!”

Tammo detached the lantern, knotted a fixed loop into the rope’s end, and sat the mousebabe in it. “Yes, I know,

but you’re safe now, Sloey. You go on up an’ have some more food at the feast, that’ll make y’feel lots better.”

He signaled and the Dibbun was lifted up in the makeshift sling, clinging tightly to the rope and calling back down,

“Tharra naughty fishysnake, me ’ope Skipper smack its bottom good’n’ard!”

Lying flat on the rocks, Tammo allowed the waters to drench him as he held up the lantern and squinted away to

where the boiling torrent raced off downhill into the darkness. Nowhere could he see sight or sound of Skipper or the

yellow eel.

A pall had been cast over the golden afternoon. The feast lay abandoned as Perigord explained what had happened.

In stunned silence the Redwallers heard the news.

Abbess Tansy stood by her chair, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Oh, poor Skipper, is there nothing we can do?”

Tammo wiped his wet paws on the grass. “I stayed down there an’ took a good look, marm. The water goes straight

down underground—’fraid Skipper’s gone. What a brave beast he was, though. Never considered his own safety at

all!”

Arven leaned against a table, his eyes downcast. “I saw his face before he jumped. I could tell that there wasn’t

anything he wouldn’t do to stop little Sloey from being hurt. Skipper of Otters was a true Redwaller!”

Major Perigord gripped his saber handle tightly.

33?

Some distance southeast of Redwall Abbey, the streams, brooks, and back channels became less rapid, flowing

placidly through Mossflower Wood. It was here that they converged on the margins of a sprawling water meadow.

Log-a-Log, the Guosim Chieftain, gave orders to ship oars and let the little fleet of logboats drift. He sat in the prow

of the lead vessel, conversing with his friend Frackle, their voices a low murmur, as if to preserve the sunlit

peacefulness that hung over the flooded meadows like an emerald cape.

A half-grown dragonfly landed on the boat, close to Log-a-Log’s paw. It rested, unconcerned by the shrews, its

iridescent wings fanning gently.

“Hmmm, nothin’ like a bit o’ peace,” the shrew leader sighed. “I never yet rowed through this place, always let the

boat drift. See, Frackle, ’tis summer, the water lilies are startin’

to open, an’ look over there ’twixt the fen sedge an’ bulrushes—yellow poppies sproutin’ with the cudweeds. I tell

you, matey, this is the place to take a picnic on a quiet noontide!”

Frackle let her paw trail in the dark water, swirling a path amid the minute green plants that carpeted the surface.

Then a white-fletched arrow hummed, almost lazily, through the still air, burying itself in the prow of the logboat,

and a gruff roar rang out from somewhere behind the banks of fern and spikerush: “Thee’d ha’ been dead now hadst

thou been a foebeast!”

Log-a-Log stood up in the bows of his logboat, reassuring the other Guosim with a quick wave of his paw. Then,

sitting back down, he pretended to stifle a yawn as he replied idly, “Yore brains are all in yore boots, Gurgan

Spearback. If I’d been a foebeast I’d have spotted the smoke up yonder creek, from the chimneys o’ those clumsy

floatin’ islands you call rafts!”

Hardly had he finished speaking, when one of the rafts came skirting the reeds and headed for the logboats.

Propelled by six hedgehogs either side with long punting poles, the craft skimmed lightly and fast, belying the

awkward nature of its construction.

There was a hut, a proper log cabin with shuttered windows and a door, built at the vessel’s center, with a

smokestack chimney sprouting from its roof. Lines of washing ran from for’ard to aft, strung between mast timbers.

Between the rails at the raft’s edges, small hedgehogs, with safety lines tied about them, could be seen playing. It was

obvious that several large families were living aboard.

The leader of the Waterhogs was a fearsome sight. Gurgan Spearback wore great floppy seaboots and an immense

brass-buckled belt, through which was thrust a hatchet and a scythe-bladed sword. He had long sea gull feathers

impaled on his headspikes, making him look a head bigger than he actually was. His face was painted white, with

scarlet polka dots daubed on.

Gurgan leaned on a long-handled oversized mallet, its head a section of rowan trunk. As the raft closed with the

leading logboat, the Guosim Chieftain sprang over the rail and hurled himself upon the Waterhog leader. They

wrestled around the raft’s deck, pummeling each other playfully while they made their greetings.

“Thou’rt nowt but an ancient blood pudden, Log-a-Log Guosim!”

“Gurgan Spearback! Still lookin’ like a spiky featherbed wid boots on, you great floatin’ pincushion!”

More rafts joined them, sailing out from a creek on the far side. Soon they were joined into a square flotilla, with

the logboats tied up to their outer rails. Food was served on the open decks, hogcooks bustling in and out of their huts,

carrying pans of thick porridge flavored with cut fruit and honey, the staple diet of Waterhogs. This was accompanied

by hot cheese flans and mugs of rosehipVapple cider.

The little hogs wandered between groups, eating as if they were facing a seven-season famine. Big, wide-girthed

fathers and huge, hefty-limbed mothers encouraged them.

“Tuck in there, Tuggy, th’art nowt but a shadow, get some paddin”round thy bones, young ’og!”

Log-a-Log refused a second bowl, patting his stomach to indicate that he had eaten sufficiently. “Phew! I wouldn’t

chance a swim after that liddle lot, mate!”

Gurgan snatched the bowl and dug in with a scallop-shell spoon. “So, what brings thee’n’thy tribe around these

’ere parts?”

Log-a-Log patted a passing young one’s headspikes and winced. “I could ask you the same question, messmate,

but we’re chartin’ a course close to Redwall Abbey to warn the goodbeasts there. Did y’know there’s Rapscallions on

the move?”

Gurgan licked the empty bowl and hiccupped. “Aye, that I did. We’ve been four days ahead o’ yon vermin since

they burned their fleet on the southeast coast. Damug Warfang has o’er a thousandbeast at his back, too many for us. I

was lookin’ to avoid ’em someway.”

Log-a-Log nodded gravely. “Perhaps the answer is to join forces and go after the vermin. We’d have a chance

together.”

Gurgan began licking his spoon thoughtfully. “Aye, that we would. But hast thou seen the number o’ liddle ’uns

we’re rearin’ now? ’Twould not be right to put their lives in danger.”

The shrew sipped pensively at his beaker. “Aye, but think on this a moment, Gurgan. Warfang an’ his army are like

to sweep the whole land an’ enslave all, ’less they’re stopped. If Mossflower were conquered an’ ruled by

Rapscallions, wot kinda country would that be to bring young ’ogs up proper?”

Gurgan’s paw tested the sickle-edged blade at his belt. “Thou art right, Log-a-Log. What’s to be done?”

“We’ll take yore young ’uns up to the Abbey an’ lodge ’em there. That’ll leave you free to fight!”

Paw met paw; Log-a-Log winced again as Gurgan’s big mitt crushed his with right good will.

“Thee’ve an ’ead on thy shoulders, comrade. Thun-der’n’snowfire! Ah’ll give yon Warfang an’ his ilk some death

songs t’sing!”

Half the Guosim were left on the water meadows with the fighting crews, while the old and very young were

conveyed toward Redwall in the logboats. Twilight was upon the land as they paddled upstream. Not too far off,

Redwall could be seen, framed by Mossflower Wood on its north and east sides.

The logboats lay in a small cove, where the stream took a bend on the heathlands before turning back to the

woodlands. Gurgan waddled ashore, leaning on a long puntpole he had brought along. “This looks as close as we’ll

hove to yon Abbey. Best leave the boats here an’ walk the rest o’ the way. Come hither, young Blodge, an’ quit

messin’ about there!”

The young Waterhog Blodge had jumped ashore ahead of the rest and was poking about with a stick at the foot of

a hillock by the stream bank. Waving the stick, she came scurrying along. “Look ye, I finded water comin’ out o’

yonder hill, sir!”

Log-a-Log and Gurgan went to investigate. Blodge had found a trickle of cold fresh water seeping out of the

mound and flowing into the stream. She probed it with her stick until it became a tiny fountain, spurting from the

hillside.

Log-a-Log took a drink. “Good water, sweet’n’fresh, cold too. It must be comin’ from some underground stream,

runnin’ fairly fast, by the look o’ it.”

Gurgan Spearback placed his long pole against the water. It sprayed out either side of the butt. “Ah’ve ne’er seen

ought like this,” he said, shaking his great spiky head. “Stand aside there, I’ll give it a good prod.”

They stepped out of his way and he pounded the pole home into the hole with several powerful thrusts. Water

squirted everywhere from the enlarged aperture, soaking them. A warning rumble from somewhere underground

caused Log-a-Log to grab Blodge and leap back aboard the logboat, yelling, “Come away, Gurgan, mate! Quick!”

The rest of his warning was lost as the hill burst asunder with the awesome pressure of water building up inside it.

Mingled with rocks, soil, pebbles, and sand, a mighty geyser of roaring water smashed sideways, demolishing the

hillock and immediately swelling the stream to twice its size as it ate up the banks and the land close around.

Skillfully the Guosim oarbeasts rode the flood, turning their boats in midstream and beaching them on the farther

side. Shouting and screaming, the young Waterhogs scrambled ashore, away from the danger. Gurgan Spearback was

picking himself up and trying to wade upstream, when he was clouted flat by a mud-covered mass, shot from

underground like a cannonball. Blowing mud and water from nostrils and mouth, the sturdy Waterhog fought to get

the weight off him; it was pinning him down in the shallows, threatening to drown him.

Log-a-Log and several shrews came rushing to his rescue and grappled with the great muddy object, managing to

free Gurgan.

Waist deep in icy water, Log-a-Log wiped his eyes and gasped, “Are you all right, mate? Yore not bad injured, are

ye?”

“Ho don’t fuss now, I’ll be all right when I cough up this mud, matey!”

Gurgan looked at Log-a-Log. “Who said that?”

Skipper of Otters staggered to the bank, grunting under the weight of a dead yellow eel whose coils were still

wrapped tightly around his sodden frame. He collapsed on dry land.

i8z

“I said that! Well, don’t stand there gettin’ wet an’ gog-glin’, lend a paw t’get this slimy h’animal off me, mates!”

Log-a-Log was never one to panic. He took the situation in his stride. Relieving Skipper of Tammo’s dirk, he

began prising the stiff coils apart, talking to the otter in a matter-of-fact way.

“Ahoy, Skip, it’s been a season or two since I clapped eyes on ye. So this is what yore wearin’ these days, a

serpent fish. What’s the matter, ain’t a tunic good enough for ye anymore?”

It was not often that the Abbey bells rang aloud once night had fallen, but Skipper’s return proved the exception.

Ginko the Bellringer swung on his bell ropes, sending out a joyous clangor across the land until his paws were numbed

and reverberations hummed through both his ears.

The new arrivals were welcomed into Great Hall, while the heroic Skipper was carried shoulder high by the hares

and his otter crew, down to Cavern Hole. He sat stoically as Sister Viola and Pellit cleaned, stitched, and salved his

wounds, answering the volley of questions, of which Tammo’s was the first.

“Did you bring my dirk back, Skip? How was it?”

With some reluctance, the otter returned Tammo’s weapon. “I tell you, matey, that piece o’ steel saved my life.

’Tis a blade t’be proud of an’ I’d give ten seasons o’ me life to be the owner of such a fine thing!”

The young hare polished his dirk hilt proudly before restoring it to his shoulder belt.

Shad poured hot mint tea for his friend. “I’ll wager that ole snakefish kept you busy, matey?”

Skipper held his head to one side as the Sister ministered to a muddied slash the eel’s teeth had inflicted. “Aye, he

did an’ all. A real fighter that beast was, a shame I had t’slay it. The snakefish was lost an”ungry; ’twas only his nature

t’seek prey. Yowch! Go easy, marm!”

Sister Viola placed an herbal compress on the wound. “I’m sorry. There, that’s done! It was extremely brave of you

to act as you did, sir. Little Sloey owes you her life. I don’t often say this to fighting beasts, but it has been an honor to

treat your injuries.”

Captain Twayblade pounded the table enthusiastically. “Well said, marm, we can’t afford to lose a beast as

perilous as the Skipper. I propose y’make him an Honorary Member of the Long Patrol, eh, what d’ye say, Major?”

Amid the roars of approval, Abbess Tansy entered. Smiling through her tears, she clasped the otter’s paw

affectionately. “So, you old rogue, you came back to us!”

Skipper stood slowly, flexing his brawny limbs experimentally. “Of course I did, Abbess, marm, an’ I’ll thank ye

next time I’m gone that y’don’t cancel the feast in me absence.

Beggin’ yore pardon, but y’didn’t finish all the ’otroot soup, did ye?”

Shaking with laughter, Rockjaw Grang strode off to the kitchens, saying over his shoulder, “Sithee, riverdog, sit ee

there, I’ll fetch ye the whole bloomin’ pot if y’ve a mind to sup it!”

Gurgan Spearback peeped around the door of the spare dormitory where the young Waterhogs had been billeted.

“Hoho! There they be, fed’n’washed an’ snorin’ respectfully. My thanks to thee, goodbeasts.”

Mother Buscol shuffled out, carrying a lantern, followed by Craklyn, who was holding a paw to her lips. “Hush

now, sir, we’ve just got the little ’uns to sleep.”

Gurgan carried the lantern for them as they went downstairs. “They Abbey be full o’ babes—Dibbuns, my

Waterhogs, three liddle owls, even a badgerbabe. How came you by him?”

Craklyn kept firm hold of old Mother Buscol’s paw as she negotiated the spiraling steps. “That’s our little Russano,

he’s very special to us.”

Log-a-Log interrupted them as they entered Great Hall. “Council o’ War’s to be held in Cavern Hole straight

away!”

34

Sneezewort and Lousewort, like the rest of the Rapscallion horde, were stunned by what they had witnessed. Both

rats sat by their cooking fire in the late evening, discussing in hushed tones the terrible retribution Damug Warfang

had inflicted on the ten runaway rebels whom Skaup and his hunters had brought back.

Sneezewort shuddered as he added twigs to the flames. “Good job you never went with ’em, mate. Nobeast’ll ever

think o’ crossin’ the Firstblade after the way ’e dealt with Borumm an’ Vendace an’ the eight who was left!”

Lousewort gazed into the fire, nodding numbly. “Er, er, that’s true. Though if I ’ad gone wid ’em I’d ’ave sooner

been slain fightin’ to escape than ... Wot was that word Damug used?”

“Executed, mate, that was wot ’e said an’ that was wot ’e did. Ugh! Imagine bein’ slung inter the water like that,

wid a great rock tied around yer neck, screamin’ an’ pleadin’!”

Lousewort ran a paw around his own neck and cringed at the thought. “It was cruel, ’ard an’ merciless an’, an’ ...

cruel!”

Sneezewort moved closer to the fire and shrugged. “Aye, but that’s ’ow a beast becomes Firstblade, by bein’ a

coldblooded killer. I was watchin’ Damug’s face—that’n was en-joyin’ wot ’e did.”

Damug Warfang was indeed enjoying himself. Everything seemed to be going his way. Not only had he brought

the escapers to his own harsh justice, but his scouting expedition under the command of the weasel Gaduss had

yielded a double result.

Rinkul the ferret, whom he had supposed long dead, was back with news of Redwall Abbey. Damug had never

seen Redwall, though he had heard all about the place. What a prize it would be. From there he could truly rule. If all

he had heard from Rinkul was true, then it would not be too difficult to conquer Redwall, seeing as the entire outer

south wall looked like collapsing.

There was also the prisoner that Gaduss had brought in with him, an ancient male squirrel, but big and strong—one

of those hermit types living alone in Mossflower.

Damug circled the cage that held the creature, idly clacking his swordblade against the seasoned wood bars. The

squirrel lay on his side, all four paws bound, ignoring the Warlord, his eyes shut stubbornly.

Damug leaned close to the bars, his voice low and persuasive. “Food and freedom, two wonderful things, my

friend, think about them. All you have to do is tell me what is the Abbey’s strength, how many fighters, what sort of

creatures. Tell me and you can walk free from here with a full stomach and a supply of food.”

The reply was noncommittal: “Don’t know, ’tis no use as-kin’ me. I’ve never been inside the place. I live alone in

the woodlands an’ keep meself to meself!”

The swordblade slid through the bars, prodding the captive. “You saw what I did to those creatures earlier on. Keep

lying to me and it could happen to you.”

The old squirrel’s eyes opened and glared scornfully at the Greatrat. “If you think that’d do ye any good yore a

bigger fool than I took ye t’be. I’ve told you, I know nothin’ about “Redwall!”

The swordblade thrust harder at the squirrel’s back. “There are ways of making you talk, far slower and more

painful than drowning. Has that notion penetrated your thick skull?”

“Huh! Then try ’em an’ see how far it gets ye, vermin!” Damug knew his captive spoke the truth. The old squirrel

would die out of pure spite and stubbornness rather than talk. Controlling his rising temper, the Firstblade withdrew his

sword. “A tough nut, eh? Well, we’ll see. After you’ve been lying there a day or two watching the cool fresh stream

water flowing by and sniffing the food on our campfires, I’ll come and have another word with you. Hunger and thirst

are the greatest persuaders of all.”

In a circle around a fire on the stream bank, the Rapmark Captains squatted, subdued by the memory of Damug’s

horrible executions, but eager to know more of the big Abbey whose wall was weakened to the point where it looked

like falling. Rinkul sat with them, though he would not say anything until Damug allowed him to.

Damug Warfang strode into the firelight, flame and shadow adding to his barbarous appearance: red-painted

features and glittering armor surmounted by a brass helmet that had a grinning skull fixed to its spike. Gathering his

long swirling black cloak about him, he sat down, eyes flicking from side to side.

“Three days! Just three more days, then we march to take the greatest prize any Rapscallion ever dreamed of. The

Abbey of Redwall!”

Beating their spearbutts against the ground, the Rapmarks growled their approval, until a glance from the Firstblade

silenced them.

“In three days’ time every Rapscallion will be rested, well fed, fully armed, painted for war, and ready to do battle.

You are my Rapmarks; this is your responsibility. If there is any more desertion or mutiny in this army, one soldier

unfit or unwilling to fight and die for his Firstblade, then I will look to you. You saw what happened to Borumm and

Vendace today; they were once officers too. Let me tell you, they got off lightly! Should I have to make any more

examples you will all see what I mean! Remember, three days!”

Damug swept off to his tent, leaving behind a circle of Captains staring in silence at the ground.

Mid-morning of the following day found the columns from Salamandastron marching under a high summer sun.

Lance Corporal Ellbrig watched young Trowbaggs suspiciously. The youngster was actually skipping along, but still

keeping in step with the rest, waggling his ears foolishly and twirling his sword. Ellbrig narrowed one eye as if

singling out his quarry.

“That hare there, Trowbaggs, you lollopin’ specimen, what d’you think you’re up to?”

The Long Patrol recruit chortled in a carefree manner, “G’mornin’, Corp, good t’be jolly well alive, wot?”

Ellbrig scratched his chin in bewilderment. “I was always a bit doubtful about young Trowbaggs, but now I’m sure.

He’s gone doodle ally, completely mad!”

Deodar, who was marching alongside Trowbaggs, reassured the Corporal: “He’s all right, Corp, it’s just that he’s

learned to march properly and his footpaws aren’t so sore anymore. Sort of got his second wind, haven’t you, old lad?”

Trowbaggs gave his sword an extra twirl and sheathed it with a flourish. “Exactly! Y’make the old footpaws go left

right, ’stead of right left. A good night’s sleep, couple of lull-abies from the Sergeant, pinch some other chap’s spoon

an’ fork:, scoff a bally good breakfast, an’ heigh ho, I’m fit for anything at all, wot!”

Drill Sergeant Clubrush had caught up with Lance Corporal Ellbrig and had heard all that went on. “Very good,

young sir, fit fer anythin’ are we?” he said.

Trowbaggs leapt in the air, performed a pirouette, and carried on skipping. “Right you are, Sarge, brisk as a bee,

bright as a button, an’ carefree as crabs on a rock, that’s me!”

The Sergeant smiled and exchanged a wink with the Corporal. “Right then, we’re lookin’ for bushtailed buckoes

like you. Fall out an’ relieve some o’ those ration pack an’ cookin’ gear carriers in the rear ranks. Look sharp now,

young sah!”

The irrepressible Furgale stifled a giggle. “Poor old potty Trowbaggs. Serves him jolly well right for openin’ his

silly great mouth, I s’pose.”

Sergeant Clubrush’s voice grated close to Furgale’s ear. “Wot’s that, mister Furgale? Did I ’ear you sayin’ you’d

like t’join Trowbaggs? We’re always lookin’ for volunteers, y’know.”

“Who me, Sarge? No, Sarge, I never said a blinkin’ word Sarge!”

The Drill Sergeant smiled sweetly, an unusual sight. “That’s the spirit, young sir, less o’ the loosejaw an’ more o’

the footpaw, left right, left right, keep those shoulders squared!”

The columns did not break step until well into the afternoon. Halting to rest and take light refreshment, they

sprawled gratefully on a high hilltop amid wide patches of scented heather. Lady Cregga Rose Eyes climbed onto a

rock and surveyed the terrain ahead. Sighting two running figures, she summoned Clubrush.

“Runners coming back, Sergeant. We’ll stop here until they report and rest. One of them’s young Algador

Swiftback, but I don’t recognize the other, do you?”

Clubrush shielded his eyes and watched the Runners. “Aye, marm, ’tis one o’ the Starbuck family. Reeve, I think.”

Algador and Reeve put on an extra burst of speed for the last lap, running neck and neck uphill. The Sergeant

dropped his ears flat in admiration.

“Look at ’em go, marm. Only Salamandastron hares can run like that. Ho fer the days o’ youth an’ t’be a Galloper

again, eh!”

Dashing up with scarce a hairbreadth between them, the pair skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust, throwing up a

joint salute.

“Found ’em, Lady Cregga, marm!”

“Rapscallion tracks, great masses of ’em!”

Leaping down from the rock, the huge badger confronted them, her eyes turning from pink to red as the blood rose

behind them. “Where did you see these vermin tracks?”

Trembling under the Warrior’s glare and still breathless, Algador and Reeve continued with their report.

“Comin” up from the south an’ east, marm!”

“When we cut their trail ’twas about four days old, but it was Rapscallions right enough, travelin’ north, marm!”

Cregga’s mighty paw gripped the axpike haft like a steel vise. “Where would be the best place to cut their trail

short?”

Algador stuck a paw straight out, turned slowly a few de—

The Long Patrol grees to his right, and, narrowing both eyes, sighted on a location. “Right there, marm! If they’re

marchin’ due north, the closest place we can cut trail would be between those two hills yonder.”

Without waiting for anybeast, Cregga strode off downhill, headed for the distant spot. Sergeant Clubrush ruffled

both the Runners’ ears.

“Well done, you two. Rest here an’ tell cooks to leave you food an’ drink. Follow us when y’feels ready to go agin.

Lance Corporal, get ’em up on their paws an’ formed in mar-chin’ order. Come on, you slack-pawed, famine-faced

web-wallopers! Are you goin’ t’sit around all day while yore good Lady Commander is off alone an’ unprotected? Hup

two three, last one in line’s on a fizzer!”

Clubrush tugged Trowbaggs’s ears as he passed by. “Leave the carryin’ to the carriers, Trowbaggs. Back up with

the rest an’ be’ave yoreself now.”

Trowbaggs hurried along, saluting furiously many times. “Behave m’self, Sarge, yes, Sarge, very good, Sarge,

thank you, Sarge!”

Clubrush and Ellbrig marched at the rear, helping and encouraging any stragglers. The Sergeant peered ahead

through the column’s dust. “I knows I shouldn’t be sayin’ this, Corp, but did you see ’er? She wasn’t bothered whether

or not she ’ad one or five ’undred at ’er back. Not Lady Rose Eyes, straight off she went, grippin’ that axpike like she

was stran-glin’ it, eyes blazin’ red, jus’ longin’ t’be destroyin’ any vermin she catches up with!”

Ellbrig stooped on the march, retrieving a beaker some recruit had dropped, and continued without breaking step.

“Well, you said it, Sarge, though you spoke for me ’cos I was thinkin’ the same thing. We’re led by a beast who’s

liable to run out o’ control at any moment. But what can we do?”

The Drill Sergeant blinked against the dust, keeping his eyes straight ahead on the winding downhill path. “Our

duty, Corporal, that’s wot we can do. Obey Lady Rose Eyes’s commands an’ look after those who ’ave to obey us.

Best thing we can do is the thing we do best. Turn these recruits into real Long Patrol hares who can take care o’

themselves in battle. Teach ’em discipline an’ comradeship an”ope most of

‘em come out o’ this mess alive, experienced enough to teach those who’ll come after them.”

Clubrush raised his voice, bellowing out in true Drill Sergeant fashion so all could hear him: “Come on, me lucky

buckoes, move those dodderin’ footpaws, yore like a load of ole mole wives out pickin’ daisies! Pick up that step now!

Shangle Widepad, you an’ the older veterans, give ’em the ‘Moanin’ Green Recruit’ song, see if’n these

whippersnappers can keep up with the pace!”

The tough-looking hare who had helped Trowbaggs on his first night by standing second guard for him struck up

the tune Clubrush had requested. Shangle had a fine deep bass; his comrades joined in. Soon the entire column was

moving faster, every young hare in the ranks not wanting to be identified with the object of the mocking air, the

Moaning Green Recruit.

“O ’tis up at dawn every morn, The flag is flyin’ high, Why did I join this Long Patrol, O why O why O why?

I march all day the whole long way, Me footpaws red an’ sore, If I get home I’ll never roam No more no more no

more!

O watch that line, step in time, Through sun’n’rain an’ snow, Would I sign up again to go, O no no no no no!

The Corporal shouts, the Sergeant roars, As like a snail I creep, Just get me to that camp tonight An’ let me sleep

sleep sleep!”

As a result of the quick-marching dogtrot, the column moved ahead speedily like a well-oiled machine, throwing

up a dust cloud in its wake. Darkness was falling fast, and the twin hills were near. Lady Cregga would either be

waiting for them in the valley between the hills, or she might have continued pursuing the trail of the Rapscallions. In

any event, Clubrush had decided that was where night camp would be pitched.

Trowbaggs was marching directly behind Shangle Widepad when the veteran stumbled. The younger hare saved

him as he fell backward. “I say, old bean, are you all right?”

Shangle grimaced, breaking into a hop to keep up with the pace. “Oofn, me flippin’ footpaw, I just ricked it on a

sharp stone!”

Trowbaggs supported him, nodding to Furgale. “What ho, Furg, lend a paw here, this chap’s hobblin’, wot!”

The two recruits took Shangle’s weapons and pack, sharing them and bolstering up the veteran between them.

“C’mon, bucko, we’ll get y’to camp, not far now.”

“Rather, you just lean on me’n’ole Trowbaggs, that’ll give us five footpaws between us.”

Shangle threw his paws gratefully around their shoulders. “Thanks, mates, I’ll do the same fer you sometime!”

Good-natured as ever, Furgale winked at the older hare. “‘Course y’will, old lad, when this is finished y’can

piggyback both of us all the way home, wot!”

Lady Cregga was not at the rendezvous. It was a fine dry night, and the ground was still warm from the sun’s heat.

Lance Corporal Ellbrig was left in charge while Clubrush headed off alone after their leader.

Ellbrig watched Trowbaggs and Furgale staggering in with Shangle between them. “Well done, you two! Shangle,

sit down there an’ I’ll take a look at that footpaw. The rest of you, cold supper, no fires, sleep on the ground with yore

groundsheets as pillows, don’t unroll ’em. We’ll be movin’ out sharpish at first light.”

Deodar and a hare named Fallow were on first watch. They jumped up, weapons at the ready, as two figures

loomed up through the gloom.

“Who goes there? Step forward an’ be recognized!” Fallow ordered.

Algador and Reeve jogged out of the darkness.

“What ho the camp, ’tis only us Gallopers. Well, did y’catch up with Lady Rose Eyes?”

Fallow snorted. “You’re jokin’, of course. Sar’nt Clubrush has gone ahead to see if he can find her. You two best

get some shut-eye; whole caboodle’s movin’ out at dawnlight.”

Algador unshouldered his pack and let it drop. “Seasons o’ slaughter, what drives Lady Cregga on like that?”

Deodar yawned, stretching languidly. “Search me, but whatever it is, we’re bound to follow!”

35

Cavern Hole was packed tight for the Council of War. As Champion of Redwall, Arven sat at the Abbess’s right

paw, his weapon, the great sword of Martin the Warrior, laid flat on the table in front of him. As guests and

experienced fighters, Major Perigord and his hares held the right side of the table, Log-a-Log and his shrews with

Gurgan Spearback and the otter crew facing them.

The Guosim Chieftain had something to say before the main meeting got under way. “About that water runnin’

beneath yore south wall, I think I’ve found the answer t’the problem. Today we found where the water comes out—

good job we did, too, or Skipper woulda never been seen agin. So, I figgers that I knows the waterways of Mossflower

better’n most. Any-’ow, I put on me thinkin’ cap about that stream. If’n it’s got a place t’come out, stands to sense

there must be a spot where it flows in. Heed me now, I think I knows where that very place is, ’tis on the river north

an’ west o’ Redwall. I’ve sailed it a few times an’ seen where it splits off. With yore permission, Abbess, marm, I’d

like to take some o’ yore otters an’ molefolk widi me to dam it off an’ stop the water flowin’

under yore wall. We’ll go first light tomorrer, sooner the better!”

Mother Abbess Tansy signaled for her helpers to begin serving supper all ’round. “You have my permission and

may fortune go with you and yours, Log-a-Log. The Guosim have always been special friends of Redwall. Skipper,

Foremole Diggum, will you assist the shrews?”

“Aye, marm, my crew’s willin’ an’ ready!”

“Bo urr, ee can count on us’n’s, h’Abbess!”

Tammo was sitting between Perigord and Pasque. He sipped hot red-berry cordial and nibbled a wedge of heavy

fruitcake, not feeling really hungry. Cavern Hole seemed overfull, rather muggy, warm, and distant. Tammo’s eyes

drooped, then he swayed slightly and settled back as the talk became a soothing murmur, as if it were echoes from far

away. Then a butterfly flew gently by in his sleep-laden imagination; soft, delicate, and silent. It settled on the pink

flowers of an almond tree, closing its fragile, pale gold wings. The flowers fell, drifting slowly through still noon air,

lighting with scarcely a ripple on the tranquil waters of a shady stream. Catching a small eddy, butterfly and flowers

together went ’round and ’round in lazy circles.

Bom Log-a-Log and Gurgan Spearback had told the meeting of Gormad Tunn’s death and everything they had

seen of Damug Warfang and his Rapscallions. All eyes turned to Major Perigord and Arven, who were already deep in

conversation. The squirrel Warrior, as Champion of Redwall, would naturally be consulted on the Abbey’s defense.

Finally Perigord leaned forward, nodding his head shrewdly. “Hmm, we’ve defeated those vermin at Salamandastron

not s’long ago, but you’ll forgive me sayin’, we had the full force o’ the Long Patrol an’ Lady Cregga Rose Eyes full

o’ Bloodwrath when we did it. How many Rapscallions d’you estimate Da-mug has on call?”

Log-a-Log scratched his head reflectively. “Best ask Gurgan, he’s seen ’em firsthand.”

“Aye,” said the Waterhog, “we’ve watched ’em on the move and when they camped. Oft times they looked to

number like leaves in an autumn gale. Hark now, ’tis not my wish to afright these gentle Redwallers, but my mate

Rufftip, she counted ’em as they moved out from the coast. Damug War-fang has a few score o’er ten ’undred to do

his biddin’.”

A stunned silence settled upon Cavern Hole. Nobeast had envisaged a vermin army of more than a thousand on the

march. Arven shot Major Perigord a quick glance. Something had to be done before panic set in. Perigord understood

and rose to the occasion.

“Well now, chaps, that sounds like a tidy old bunch, wot! However, there was half that number again when they

came at Salamandastron, ships too, but we still managed to send the rotters packin’. Main thing is not t’be scared by

numbers, after all, ’tis quality that counts, not quantity!”

Pellit the dormouse challenged him. “You could stand ’ere all night talkin’ like that, but it still won’t stop all those

Rapscallions attackin’ Redwall. Point is, wot are you goin’ to do about it besides talk, eh?”

Abbess Tansy glared frostily at Pellit. “Perhaps, sir, you would tell us what you propose to do?”

All the dormouse could do was bluster in his own defense. “I ain’t no fightin’ beast, marm, most of us

Abbeydwellers don’t know the first thing about battlin’. Wot d’you expect us t’do?”

Arven stood up slowly, frowning at Pellit, who cringed under the Redwall Champion’s stem reproof.

“Major Perigord has pledged himself and his patrol to help us. I would expect that you have the good manners to

give him a hearing, unless you have a better or more helpful suggestion to assist your Abbey in this crisis.”

Pellit lowered his eyes and shrugged. The Abbess smiled apologetically at Perigord. “Forgive the interruption,

Major. You were saying?”

But the hare had slightly lost track of his speech. To gain time he stroked his whiskers thoughtfully and pursed his

lips.

Suddenly all eyes turned on Tammo. He rose and walked ’round to stand beside Arven, gazing at the great sword

that lay upon the table. In a calm, measured voice, he began speaking:

“Aye, Sire, it shall be as you say.”

Arven could tell by the look in Tammo’s eyes that he was still sleeping. The young hare moved toward the steps

leading up to Great Hall. Placing a paw to his lips, Arven warned everybeast to hold their silence. Then he gestured

with his other paw to clear a way. Redwallers fell back to either side as Tammo went by them, unaware of all about

him. Craklyn uttered a single word as she followed in his wake:

“Martin!”

Lanterns burned dimly in Great Hall, casting shadows around the sandstone columns and recesses, and moonlight

shone through the high windows onto a floor worn smooth by countless generations of paws. In complete silence the

Red-wallers grouped behind Tammo, who stood staring up at the tapestry on the wall. It was a marvelous piece of

work, fashioned by Abbey creatures in the distant past. Martin the Warrior, Redwall’s founder hero, was depicted

there, standing armor-clad and leaning upon his sword.

“I brought you quill and parchment,” Viola Bankvole whispered to Craklyn, passing her writing materials. “You

may need them!”

The Recorder nodded her thanks as Tammo started speaking.

“Spring is done now, summer calls, This season fraught with wartime’s fear, Fate says Damug will ne’er see our

walls, Battle must take place, though not here.

Manycoats will know the way,

So go with him, De Fformelo.

A soothsayer knows what to say,

Secrets Warfang longs to know.

One day Redwall a badger will see,

But the badger may never see Redwall,

Darkness will set the Warrior free,

The young must answer a mountain’s call.”

A vagrant night breeze waved the tapestry once, then all was still and quiet. Tammo sat down upon the floor. He

rubbed his eyes and stared at his surroundings in bewilderment.

“What the ... Who brought me here?”

Arven sat beside him, pointing to the figure on the tapestry.

“Martin the Warrior did, he had a message for us.”

“Oh, y’don’t say, an’ what was the message?”

“You should know, friend, ’twas you who delivered it!”

“Me? I say, that’s a bit blinkin’ much. I don’t remember a single thing. What did I, I mean he, say?”

Craklyn spread her parchment in front of the young hare. “Don’t worry, Tammo, I recorded every word. Martin the

Warrior is the guiding spirit of our Abbey. In times of trouble he will often choose somebeast to deliver his message to

us. You must be a very special creature for Martin to single you out.”

Tammo nodded absently as he scanned the parchment. “Hmm, never thought of m’self as jolly well special, maim.

Hey, Midge, it mentions you here. It says, ‘Manycoats will know the way.’”

Midge was far shorter than the other hares, but none the less brave. He laughed excitedly. “Hahaha! Wonderful!

It’s just come to me in a flash, yes, I certainly do know what t’do!”

“Well bully for you, laddie buck!” Perigord checked him hastily. “But there’s no reason t’be worryin’ our friends

with a lot o’ balderdash. C’mon, chaps, all pop along an’ get some shut-eye now, it’s rather late y’know. Leave this to

us, we’ll sort out the details, wot!”

Abbess Tansy nodded in agreement. Some of the Redwallers looked rather reluctant, but one glance from their

Abbess told them she was in no mood for argument.

Skipper, Foremole, Log-a-Log, Gurgan, and the hares followed Arven, Craklyn, and Tansy back down to Cavern

Hole. Once there they made themselves comfortable by the fire embers.

Perigord stirred the logs with his saber tip, saying, “Speak y’piece, Midge. Tell us what came t’you in a flash.”

The small hare did so readily. “Listen, Martin said that the battle mustn’t take place at Redwall, it’s got to be

fought elsewhere, see!”

Arven placed the great sword on the fireplace lintel. “That makes sense. We wouldn’t stand much chance with over

a thousand Rapscallions charging a collapsin’ south wall. What do you intend t’do about it, Midge?”

“Here’s the wheeze, old chap. Damug Warfang, like all Warlords, is prob’ly very superstitious. Well, what if an

old ragged soothsayer puts a word in the ear of somebeast close to him?”

Perigord frowned. “What sort o’ word?”

“Well, sah, the sort o’ word tellin’ where a battle might take place an’ sayin’ how unlucky ’twill be to look upon

Red-wall Abbey until the battle is won, an’ how the chosen battle place’11 be lucky for a certain Rapscallion leader

...”

The Major shook his head at Midge’s quick-wittedness. “Enough, enough, I’ve got the drift now. Well done,

Midge Manycoats! Spot of action for you, young Tammo; the rhyme says you’ve got to go with Midge. Don’t worry,

he’ll disguise you pretty well.”

Eyes shining, Tammo clasped his dirk hilt. “Y’can rely on me, sah!”

Perigord ruffled Tammo’s ears fondly. “Splendid! I knew I could. Y’know, you look the image o’ your mother

sometimes, not half as pretty, but somethin’ about the eyes. However, can’t let you two go alone. Rockjaw, you are our

best tracker. Go with ’em, find the camp, and keep y’self close. We’ll use you as a go-between. Very good! Sar’nt

Torgoch, you an’ Lieutenant Mono go right away at dawn an’ scout out a good location for the battle. We’ll get news

of the chosen spot to you, Rockjaw. Taunoc, with his sharp eyes and knowledge of the woods, will be messenger.

Meanwhile, Midge, you can be workin’ y’self into the vermin’s confidence. Shouldn’t be too hard for a hare with a

head on his shoulders like you have, wot. We’ll get word t’you as soon as a good location’s been staked out. That’s all,

chaps. Get some rest now, busy day ahead of us tomorrow. Dismissed!”

Book Three: The Ridge

36?

Two hours after dawn the next day, four logboats plied the waters of the broad stream north by west from Redwall.

Fore-mole Diggum and his team crouched uneasily in the boats, some of them with cloaks thrown over their heads.

Moles are not noted for being great sailors, preferring dry land to water.

“Boo urr, ’taint natcheral t’be afloaten abowt loik this!”

“Hurr nay, oi’m afeared us’n’s moight be a sinkin’ unner-water!”

Log-a-Log dug his paddle deep, scowling at them. “Belay that kind o’ talk, I ain’t never lost a beast off n a boat o’

mine yet. Quit the wailin’ an’ moanin’, willyer!”

Skipper stuffed bread and cheese in his mouth, winking at his otter crew as they gobbled a hasty breakfast. “Ooh,

’e’s an ’eartless shrew, that’n is! Ahoy there, moles, come an’ join us in a bite o’ brekkfist, mates.”

Gurgan Spearback, swigging from a flask of October Ale, noted the moles’ distress.

“Hearken, Skip, yon moles were a funny enough color afore ye offered ’em vittles—don’t go makin”em any

worse!”

Log-a-Log’s companion Freckle pointed with her oarblade. “There ’tis, see, two points off’n the starboard bow!”

Part of the stream forked off down a narrow tributary. Steering the logboats into it, they followed the winding

downhill course of the rivulet, wooden keels scraping on the bottom as they went. After a short distance, Log-a-Log

waved his oar overhead in a circular motion.

“Bring all crafts amidships, sharp now, bow’n’stern broadsides!”

Four logboats were soon wedged lengthways against the flow, their stems and sterns resting on opposite shores of

the narrow waterway. Gratefully, the moles scrambled ashore, kissing the ground in thanks for rneir safe landing.

Skipper and his otters went ahead to the point where the stream disappeared into a hillside.

“This is it, mates,” announced Skipper. “Spread out an’ search for a big boulder!”

By the time the rest arrived, the streamflow had dwindled a bit, owing to the course being blocked by the logboats.

Gurgan waded through it and climbed the hill to admonish Skipper. “Thou’rt still hurted, thee shouldn’t ha’ come!”

The tough otter scratched at one of his wounds, which was beginning to itch. “Coupla scratches never stopped me

doin’ what I like, mate. Ahoy mere, mates, that’s a good ole boulder ye found!”

The stone was partially sunk into the earth, but Foremole Diggum and his crew soon dug it out. Using a smaller

rock as a chock, the otters levered the roundish mass of stone uphill, using shrew oars to move it. Gurgan threw his

added weight into the task, while Foremole marked out a spot on the hilltop, calling, “Bring ee bowlder up to yurr!”

Once or twice the heavy stone rolled back on them, but they were determined creatures. Otters, shrews, moles, and

the Wa-terhog Chieftain gritted their teeth and fought the boulder, fraction by fraction, until it rested on Foremole’s

mark. Sighting with a straight twig, Foremole ordered the boulder moved a bit this way and a bit that way. Finally

satisfied, he took an oar and gave the boulder one hard shove with the paddle end. The great rock toppled down into

the stream, sending up a shower of water; then it rolled back downhill and lodged itself squarely across the spot where

the flow vanished underground. Moles and otters dashed down to pack the edges with a mixture of mud, pebbles, and

whatever bits of timber came to paw.

The flow of the stream halted and backed up on itself until it became a becalmed creek. A short celebratory meal at

the creekside would have been appropriate, but the otter crew had eaten all the food, so they drank the last of the

October Ale and plum cordial, then got the boats headed out. Log-a-Log called out to the moles, who had remained

onshore, “Come on, mateys, back to the Abbey. ’Twill be a fine fast sail downriver, we’ll be back afore ye knows it!”

Foremole wrinkled his nose, trundling off along the bank-side. “You’m go, zurr Log, an’ gudd lukk to ee. Us’n’s

be walkin’ back even if’n it takes ten season t’do et. No more sailin’ fur molers!”

Tammo watched, fascinated, as Midge Manycoats applied his disguise before a burnished copper mirror in Sister

Viola’s dormitory. The small hare explained as he went along.

“Alter the face first, that’s half the trick. See, I roll my own ears down and put on this ole greasy cap with false

ears stickin’ out the side of it, one’s only half an ear an’ the other has a slice out of it, just like some smelly ole

vermin. Now, I rub m’face with this oily brown stuff—pass me that candle, Tamm. Singe the whiskers down an’ rub

’em ’til they’re scrubby. Good! Put a patch over one eye, and paste a thin bit o’ bark over the other, givin’ it a nasty

slant. Aye, that’s more like it. Look, a little black limpet shell, stick it on the end of my handsome nose with a blob o’

gum, an’ presto! Snidgey pointed vermin hooter, wot! Few bits o’ darkened wax over the teeth, two long thorns stuck

in the wax just under the top lip. Haharr, fangs! Pass me that greasy charcoal stick, hmm, two wicked downcurved

lines, one either side of the mouth, that’s it! Righto, I throw this filthy tattered sack over me, belt it with a loose cob o’

rope, crouch down a bit, hunch shoulders, shuffle footpaws. What d’you see, Tammo?”

The young hare gasped in amazement. Standing before him was an aged vermin creature, neither wholly rat, ferret,

or stoat, but definitely vermin of some type.

“Great seasons o1 soup! No wonder they call you Midge Manycoats!”

Midge adopted the whining vermin slang. “Harr, wait’ll yer sees yerself when I’m done wid ye, cully!”

Rockjaw Grang was having what he figured would be his last good hot meal for a while, working his way through

an immense potato, mushroom, and carrot pastie oozing rich dark herb gravy. Dibbuns surrounded the big hare,

watching his throat bob up and down as he polished off a tankard of dandelion and burdock cordial. Gubbio the

molebabe pushed a steaming cherry and damson pudding in front of Rockjaw, and Sloey, none the worse for her

adventure, poured yellow mea-dowcream plentifully over it.

“Whoo! A you goin’ to eat alia dat up, mista G’ang?”

Rockjaw sat the mousebabe up on the table. “Sithee, jus’ you watch me, liddle lass, but keep out of t’way, else I’ll

scoff thee an’ all. Aye, y’d be right tasty wi’ a plum in yore mouth an’ some cream o’er yore ’ead!”

Clapping their paws and jumping up and down, the Dibbuns chortled, “Goo on, mista G’ang, eat Sloey alia up!”

The giant hare set Sloey back down on the floor. “Only if she’s very naughty. ’Ey up, wot’s this?”

Two thoroughly evil-looking vermin shuffled into the kitchens and began dirtying their blades by coating them

with vegetable oil and soot from the stovepipes. The Dibbuns shrieked and leapt upon Rockjaw, clinging tearfully to

his neck. He patted the tiny heads soothingly.

“Shush now, liddle ’uns, ’tis only Midge an’ Tammo actin’ at bein’ varmints. You go an’ play with the babby owls

an’ Russano now. I’ll eat those two up if’n they frightens any more Dibbuns.”

Shad the Gatekeeper took Abbess Tansy and Craklyn down to the platform beneath the south wall. They lowered

two lanterns on a rope and saw that the water had dwindled away to a mere trickle.

Shad grunted with satisfaction. “Y’see, marms, they found the stream an’ likely blocked it off. Soon it’ll be dry

down there. May’aps then we’ll go down an’ take a look around. I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m real curious t’see wot

’tis like. I know you are too, miz Craklyn.”

The old Recorder peered down at the drying stream bed. “It’s my duty to see what’s down there. Everything has to

be recorded and written up for future generations of our Abbey. Which leads me to think I’ve been looking in the

wrong place to find out more about this—the answer might lie in your gatehouse, Shad. I suspect that if we look

through Redwall’s first records, the truth about all this may emerge.”

Tansy kissed her old friend’s cheek. “But of course! What a clever old Recorder you are, Craklyn.”

The Recorder of Redwall turned away from the pit, signaling Shad to escort them aboveground. “You’re no spring

daisy yourself, Mother Abbess. Come on, we’ve a long dusty job ahead of us.”

Shad hastily excused himself from the task. “Beggin’ yore pardons, but I got other chores t’do. You ladies ’elp

yoreselves to anythin’ y’need in my gate’ouse. I can’t abide the dust an’ disorder when you starts unpackin’ those ole

record books’n’scrolls off the shelves, miz Craklyn.”

Tansy watched the otter hurrying off across the Abbey lawns. “Other chores to do, indeed, great wallopin’ water-

dog!”

Craklyn chuckled as she took her friend’s paw. “Don’t be too hard on poor Shad. Otters never made good scholars.

He’s probably off to play with little Russano and the baby owls.”

37

The south wallgate had been jammed shut by the subsidence, so Tammo, Midge, and Rockjaw were leaving by the

little east wallgate. Major Perigord and Pasque Valerian saw them off. Perigord was none too happy about Tammo

going.

“Now remember, you chaps, keep y’heads down an’ don’t attract too much attention to yourselves. Normally I

would have sent Tare or Tuny with Midge, but as the rhyme names you, Tamm, well it seems you’re the one to go. So

take it easy, young bucko, an’ report back to Rockjaw whenever you can. We’ll get news of the battleground to you as

soon as we hear back from Torgoch and Mono. Look after ’em, Rock. I’ve no need to tell you of the danger they’ll be

in.”

Rockjaw Grang saluted the Major. “Never fear, sah, y’can rely on me!”

The soft brown eyes of Pasque looked full of concern. Tammo winked roguishly at her from beneath his vermin

disguise. “Don’t fret, chum, we’ll be back before you know it!”

Perigord watched them threading their way south through the woodland until the three figures were lost among the

trees. He locked the east wallgate carefully, then, turning to the dejected Pasque, he chucked her gently beneath the

chin. “C’mon now, missie, you’ll bring on the rain with a face like that, wot! Your Tammo’ll be back in a day or two,

full o’ tales of how he outwitted the Rapscallions. Cheer up, that’s an order!”

Midge Manycoats had done an excellent job of disguising Tammo, making him look old and thoroughly evil by

giving him shaggy beetling brows to hide his eyes and a matted straggling beard. To this he added a greasy flop hat,

lots of jangling brass ornaments, and an old dormitory blanket that was literally in frayed tatters, after he had finished

trouncing it about in the orchard compost heap. Tammo not only looked villainous, but smelled highly disreputable.

Both hares found themselves gasping for breath under their camouflage. Leaning against an oak tree, they pleaded

with the long-striding Rockjaw.

“I say, Rock, ease off a bit, will you, you’ve got the pair of us whacked with that pace o’ yours!”

“Aye, slow down, mate, or we’ll perish long before we find the vermin camp. Whew! I’m roasted under this lot!”

The big fellow turned and retraced his path, halting several paces from them and wafting a paw across his nostrils.

“By ’eck, you lads don’t mind if’n I stands well upwind of ye?”

Tammo leered nastily and tried out his vermin accent. “Ho harr, me ole matey, you don’t expect us t’go sailin’

inter a Rapscallion camp smellin’ like dewy roses now, do yer?”

Beneath his disguise, Midge winced at the pitiful attempt. “I think you’d best keep your Up buttoned an’ pretend to

be my dumb assistant, Tamm. That vermin accent o’ yours is awful!”

Rockjaw agreed with Midge’s assessment. “Aye, yore too nice-spoken, Tammo, prob’ly ’cos you was well brung

up!”

Young Friar Butty brought a tray to the gatehouse that afternoon because neither Tansy nor Craklyn had been back

to the Abbey building for anything to eat. Both windows and the door were wide open to counteract the dust. Butty

blinked as ne entered, and looked about for somewhere to set the tray down.

“I was beginnin’ t’get worried about you, marm, an’ you too, miz Craklyn. So I brought you a snack. There’s

turnip an’ carrot bake, cold mint tea, some blackberry tarts, an’ a small rhubarb an’ strawberry crumble I made special

for you. They’re fresh strawberries from the orchard, nice an’ early this season.”

Tansy looked up over the top of her tiny glasses. “Thank you, Friar Butty, how thoughtful. Just put the tray on that

chair, please. Let’s take a break, Craklyn.”

While they ate their food, Butty looked around at the piles of books, ledgers, scrolls, and charts piled everywhere,

lots of them browny-yellow with age.

Craklyn watched him as she sipped gratefully at a beaker of cool mint tea. “Those are our Abbey records going

right back to when Redwall was first built. Unfortunately they’re mixed in with lots of old recipes, poems, songs,

herbalists’ notes and remedies. Help yourself to any recipes that you like—they may come in useful when you get

stuck for cooking ideas.”

Butty, however, was looking at the latest piece of writing, the parchment on which Craklyn had recorded the words

sent via Tammo from Martin the Warrior. He read aloud the second part of the verse.

“One day Redwall a badger will see, But the badger may never see Redwall, Darkness will set the Warrior free,

The young must answer a mountain’s call.”

Abbess Tansy glanced up from her seat in a deep armchair. “Why did you pick that part of the poem to read, Friar?

”

The young squirrel tapped the parchment thoughtfully. “Well, it seemed to me at the time that the first part of the

thing was all that you were interested in, that bit about the battle taking place elsewhere and Tammo goin’ along with

Midge Manycoats. Nobeast took an interest in the second part. What d’you suppose it means?”—.

Craklyn pointed out the first two words of the ninth line. “See here, this line begins with the words ‘One day.’ So

we take that to mean at some distant time in the future. All we were looking for in the poem was Martin’s immediate

message to save Redwall from danger. But you’re right, Butty, it is a very mysterious and interesting part you read

out. Alas, we cannot see the future, so we will just have to wait for time itself to unroll the message it contains.”

Friar Butty put the parchment down and riffled through the mass of papers piled on a nearby shelf. He withdrew a

thick and aged-looking volume, blowing the dust from it. “Aye, I suppose you’re right, marm, time reveals all sooner

or later, probably even the secrets that this old volume contains.”

Tansy liked young Butty; he was a fast learner. “My word, that is an ancient-looking thing. Does it say who wrote

it? The name will be inside the front cover.”

Butty opened the book and read the faded script therein. “The journal of Abbess Germaine, formerly of Loam-

hedge.’”

Mint tea spilled down Craklyn’s gown as she jumped upright. “The architect of the Abbey! That’s the very volume

we’re looking for! Well done, young sir!” Hurrying out into the sunlight, the trio seated themselves on the broad stone

steps leading to the gatehouse threshold. Craklyn turned carefully to the first page. “I’ll wager an acorn to a bushel of

apples that the answer to what lies beneath our south wall is in these pages somewhere!”

The crews of the logboats strode into the kitchens, refreshed by their fast trip downstream and hungry as

hunters. Skipper whacked his rudderlike tail against a big pan. “Ahoy, Friar Butty, any vittles fer pore starvin’

creatures?”

Mother Buscol waddled from the corner cupboard, waving a threatening ladle at the otter. “Look, you great noisy

riverdog, Butty ain’t ’ere, see. So don’t you come with yore rough gang a shoutin’ an’ hollerin”round these kitchens

when we just got the owlbabes takin’ their noontide nap!”

Gurgan Spearback touched his headspikes respectfully. Thee’ll ’scuse us, marm, we’ll be well satisfied t’sit out in

your dinin’ room an’ wait t’be served by one as pretty as yoreself.”

Taken by surprise at the Waterhog’s courtly manner, Mother

Buscol smiled and dipped a deep curtsy. “Indeed to goodness, sir, I’ll just warm up the pasties and heat some soup.

Would you be takin’ gooseberry cordial with it?”

Gurgan bowed, sticking one of his immense boots forward as he made what he considered to be an elegant leg.

“’Twould be more’n sufficient, m’lady, ’specially if it were served by yore own fair paws!”

Chuckling, the old squirrelmother set about her task.

Log-a-Log nudged Gurgan. “You fat ole flatterer, all she was about t’give us was a swipe with ’er ladle. ’Ow

d’you do it, matey?”

Gurgan led them out to the tables, winking slyly. “A smidgeon o’ sugar’s worth ten barrels o’ rocks, friend.

Lackaday, who did that to yore nose, Shad?”

The burly otter Gatekeeper was seated at the table, feeding candied chestnuts to the little badger Russano. He

touched the dock leaf wrapped tenderly ’round his snout. “Never lean too close to owlchicks, matey, they got beaks on

’em like liddle scissors. I just found that out when I was playin’ with ’em. Savage beasts they are, they’ll eat anythin’

at all!”

Skipper laughed and tickled the badgerbabe’s footpaws. “An”ow’s my liddte mate ’ere behavin”imself, eh?”

Shad patted Russano proudly. “I just taught ’im a new word. Watch!”

He held a candied chestnut up, just out of Russano’s reach. The tiny fellow reached out his paws, uttering the word

gruffly. “Nut! Nut!”

The otters and shrews thought Russano’s new word was a source of great hilarity. They gathered ’round him,

chanting, “Nut! Nut! Nut! Nut!”

The two little owls, Orocca and her husband, Taunoc, came flying out of the kitchens. They landed on the tabletop,

contracting and dilating their massive golden eyes and flexing their talons.

“Whichbeast is making all the noise out here?”

“Waking our eggchicks with that silly nut-nut call!”

Straightfaced and serious, all the otters and shrews pointed at the badgerbabe Russano, who lay innocent and

smiling. “‘Twasn’t us, it was him!”

38

Skaup the ferret and a dozen or more Rapscallions were out foraging, roaming farther than they usually did. Skaup

was pleased: they had slain several birds and in addition had two clutches of waterfowl eggs and a fat old perch they

had found floating dead in a stream. They were seated in a patch of shrub that had a blackberry sprig growing through

it. Although the berries were only partially ripe, the vermin crew readily picked and ate them, the reddish-purple juice

staining their paws and mouths.

Suddenly a stoat pointed to the left. “Over there, three beasts. Look!”

Rockjaw Grang dropped swiftly out of sight at the sound of the stoat’s shout. He scurried off backward, bent

double. “I ain’t sure they got a proper glimpse o’ me. You’ll have to bluff ’em, Midge. Good luck, you two!”

Swords drawn, the Rapscallions advanced on the pair. Midge muttered urgently to Tammo, “Remember, you’re

dumb. Leave this t’me!”

A moment later the tip of Skaup’s blade was touching Midge’s throat. “Who are yer an’ where’d you come from?”

Midge stood his ground fearlessly, curling his lip at the ferret. “I could ask you th’ same question, bucko!”

“You ain’t in no position to ask questions, rag’ead,” Skaup sneered back at him. “There was three o’ yer. Where’d

the other one go to?”

Ignoring the swordtip, Midge shook his head pityingly. “If you seen three of us then you’ve either bin swiggin’

grog or yer eyes are playin’ tricks on yer. I’m Miggo an’ this is me matey Burial. There ain’t nobeast with us.”

The stoat who first sighted Rockjaw scratched his head. “I’d swear I saw another, a big ’un ’e was, I’m sure of it!”

Midge pushed Skaup’s blade aside and grabbed the stoat, pulling him close. “Ho, so yore the one seen three of us?

Well wotta useless lump you are! I wager yer don’t even know there’s a chestnut in yore ear, do yer?”

Reaching out quickly, Midge gave the stoat’s ear a sharp tug. The vermin yelped in pain, but his companions stood

goggle-eyed, staring at the candied chestnut which the stranger had apparently pulled from the stoat’s ear.

Tammo caught on right away to Midge’s trick. Sliding a candied chestnut from the pouch under his blanket, he

hobbled past Skaup, who had lowered his sword. Midge noted what Tammo had done, and gave the ferret a snaggle-

toothed grin. “Look at yer swordpoint, mate!”

Skaup lifted the sword level with his eyes and found himself gazing at a candied chestnut impaled upon it. “But ...

’ow did that get there?”

Midge cackled as he performed a shuffling little jig. “Hee-heehee! An’ how did two of us turn up ’ere when we’re

supposed ter be three? I dunno, do you, mate?”

Midge looked so comical that some of the vermin started laughing. Tammo joined in with his friend’s dance, the

pair of them whirling and stamping, rags and tatters jouncing and twirling. Soon all the vermin were laughing at their

antics, even Skaup.

From his hiding place behind a stately elm, Rockjaw smiled. Midge and Tammo were safe for the moment.

Keeping a safe distance, the big hare shadowed the party as they made their way back to the Rapscallion camp.

Skaup trudged alongside Midge, eyeing him curiously.

“Yore a clever ole beast, Miggo. Let’s see yer pull a chestnut out o’ my ear, go on!”

Midge’s unpatched eye twinkled slyly. “No need to, bucko. Look, there’s one stuck to yer cloak!”

Skaup shook his head in wonderment as he pulled the sticky nut from the cloak across his shoulders and munched

happily on it “Yore pal there, Burfal, why don’t ’e never say any-thin’?”

Midge passed a paw across his throat, grinning wickedly. “We ’ad an argument when we was both young ’uns.

Burial called me some bad names, so I cut ’is throat. Haharr, ’e lived through it, but ’e ain’t never spoke a single word

since that day. Heeheehee! Ole Burfal won’t call anybeast bad names no more!”

It was getting toward evening when they reached the Rapscallion camp on the hillside above the stream. A shudder

passed through Tammo as he followed Skaup’s party. There were countless vermin crouched around fires, cooking,

resting, squabbling, and arguing with their neighbors. Drums throbbed ceaselessly, and hideously painted faces glared

curiously at the two disguised hares. Everybeast was armed with an ugly array of weaponry, from cutlasses and spears

down to what looked like sharpened hooks set on long poles.

Smoke from the fires swirled around them as they reached the stream bank. Skaup halted his party in front of a tent

with four rats guarding the entrance, and laid the supplies they had foraged for on the ground.

Tammo and Midge were pushed forward. Suddenly the tent flap was thrown back and they found themselves face-

to-face with Damug Warfang, Firstblade of all Rapscallions. Though the fur on his back stood rigid with fright,

Tammo could not help being impressed by Damug’s barbarically splendid appearance. The Greatrat was wearing the

helmet with a skull on its spike, and his slitted feral eyes glared at them out of a scarlet and blue painted face. He wore

a close-meshed tunic of silver mail, belted about with a broad snakeskin band. Sandals and gauntlets of green lizard

skin covered his paws.

Damug Warfang leaned forward, his powerful frame like a coiled steel spring as he pointed at the hares with his

symbol of office, the sword with two edges, one straight, the other like the waves of the sea.

“What do you want here? You are not Rapscallions!”

Midge nodded his head knowingly as he spoke out boldly, “I was a Rapscallion long afore you was born. I served

under yore father, Gormad Tunn. Wait now, don’t tell me, you’ll be Damug the youngest son, or was it the eldest? I

forget. Didn’t you ’ave a brother? Haharr, I remember now, ’twas Byral. Where’s ’e got to these days?”

Damug’s eyes glinted dangerously. “You ask a lot of questions for a ragged old creature. Silence is the best policy

for one such as you when I am holding a sword!”

Midge sat down on the ground. He pulled an assortment of colored pebbles and some carved twigs from beneath

his sacking gown, and tossed them in the air. Totally ignoring the Warlord, he studied the jumble of wood and stone

on the grass in front of him. Then in a sing-song voice he said, “I got no need to ask questions, my signs tell me all.

The moon an’ stars, the wind in the trees, an’ water that runs through the land, all these things whisper their secrets to

me.”

Midge could tell by the look in Damug’s eyes that he had captured the Warlord’s interest. The Greatrat sheathed

his sword. “You are a Seer, one who can look into the future?”

“Somebeasts have called me Seer. Maybe they’re right, who can tell?”

“Who is that beast with you, is he a Seer also?”

“Not Burfal. He is called the Silent One an’ must be allowed to roam free an’ unhindered. Burfal, go!”

Tammo sensed that Midge was giving him an excuse to find Rockjaw and report to him. Smiling foolishly he

wandered off,

Damug turned to Skaup. “Let nobeast harm Burfal; he may go where he pleases. Seer, what do they call you?”

“My name is Miggo. ’Twas given to me on the night of the dark moon by a black fox.”

Damug stared at Midge for a long time, then beckoned to him, “Come into my tent, Miggo. You there, bring food

and drink for this creature. The rest of you, get about your business.”

Tammo’s footpaws shook as he made his way through the camp. He could feel Skaup watching him, so instead of

traveling in a straight line he wandered willy nilly. The aim of his walk was to take him over the hilltop, away from the

camp, where he would seek out Rockjaw Grang.

Night had fallen now, and all over the hillside the vermin campfires burnt small islands of light into the darkness.

Tammo was threading his way ’round one fire when he stumbled awkwardly. A hardwood stick had been thrust

between his footpaws by one of the vermin seated at the edge of the fire. It was the ferret Rinkul. As Tammo tried to

pull himself upright, Rinkul kicked him flat.

“Wot are you doin’ skulkin”round our camp, yer dirty ole bundle of smells? Well, speak up!”

Tammo shook his head wildly, pointing dumbly to his mouth.

One of Rinkul’s friends, a wily-looking vixen, snatched the dirk from Tammo’s rope belt and held it to the

firelight. “An ole slobberpaws like you shouldn’t be carryin’ a blade like this’n ’round. Bit o’ cleanin’ up an’ this’ll

make a fine weapon fer me.”

Suddenly Skaup was on the pair of mem, whacking both Rinkul and the vixen heftily with his spear haft. “Don’t

y’dare put a paw near Burfal again, either o’ ye!”

Tammo retrieved his dirk from where the vixen had dropped it, then he staggered off into the night as Skaup

continued beating Rinkul and the vixen.

“Owch! Yaagh! We was only ’avin’ a bit o’ fun. Yowch! Aargh!”

“Fun, was it? I’ll give ye fun! Firstblade’s orders is that nobeast is to bother ole Burfal. Either o’ ye lay paw on ’im

agin an’ Warfang’ll slay yer good’n’slow. See!”

Skaup thwacked away with the spearhaft until he decided they had been punished thoroughly.

Tammo was relieved to be away from the Rapscallion camp. It was calm and peaceful on the other side of the hill;

only the distant throb of drums on the night air reminded him of the vermin encampment. Suddenly a big dark figure

detached itself from a clump of boulders and waved to him.

“Sithee, Tamm, over here, mate!”

Good old Rockjaw Grang. They crouched together in the outcrop, and Rockjaw dug oat scones, cheese, and cider

from his sizeable pack. He shared the food with Tammo as the young hare made his report.

“Midge has got his jolly old paws well under the table there. Damug thinks he’s some kind o’ Seer. Any news of

the battleground yet, Rock?”

The giant hare demolished a scone in one bite. “Nay, ’tis too early yet. May’aps the Major’11 get word to me on

the morrow.”

Tammo squinted uncomfortably from beneath his odious rags. “Sooner the better, wot. I don’t want t’stay in that

foul place a moment longer’n I have to, chum.”

“Aye, well, that’s wot y’get for runnin’ with Long Patrol, young Tamm. You’d best finish up vittlin’ an’ get back

afore yore missed. I’ll be here tomorrow night, same place.”

39?

Midge knew he was playing a risky game. Damug was no fool. He sat staring at the disguised hare across a small

fire, which was laid in a pit at the center of his tent.

“Speak to me, Miggo, tell me something.”

Midge stared into the flames awhile, then he spoke: “I see a mountain and a badger Warrior with eyes like blood. I

see Gormad Tunn and a fleet defeated there.”

Damug Warfang rose and, reaching across the fire, seized Midge around the neck. Lifting him high, Damug shook

him like a rag. “Anybeast could have told you that, you sniveling wreck. Tell me of my future and tell me quickly,

before your future ebbs away as I strangle you!”

Fighting for breath and with colored lights dancing before his eyes, Midge Manycoats dangled above Damug’s

head. Grabbing what he needed from beneath his ragged garb, he planted the object, at the same time kicking out with

a footpaw and catching the Warlord in one eye.

Midge managed to shout hoarsely, “I see! I see your future!”

Damug dropped him, squinting hard, and pawed at his eye to make sure no damage had been done. Midge sat up,

massaging his throat. Damug was sitting in his former position, the eye watering and smarting slightly. He stared

unruffled at Midge, unwilling to let him see that fie had been hurt. “Well then, what do you see? Tell me.” Midge went

back to his former seat at the other side of the fire. Again he took out his pebbles and twigs, tossing them in the air and

watching how they fell. He spoke like one in a trance.

“Here are ten twigs, each of them represents one hundred Rapscallions; this means you command a thousand.

These stones are red, the color of blood, the color of a red sandstone Abbey. Only one stone can rule that place, that is

your stone, the brown one. Brown, the color of the earth and the symbol of the Firstblade who will conquer all the

earth.”

Midge closed his eyes and lapsed into silence. After a while, Damug became impatient, wanting to know more.

“Where is this brown stone? I see only twigs and red stones on the floor. Tell me quickly, Seer, where is the brown

stone?”

Reaching into his rags, Midge cast a pawful of powder into the fire. The flames gave forth smoke as they burned

blue.

“Aaaahh! Tis up to ye to find it, Firstblade. The stone cannot be found in yore heart. Allbeasts know that a

Warlord’s heart is made o’ stone, so how can a stone be found within a stone? But ’tis also known that you are wise—

mayhaps the stone is in yore brain. Can you look inside yore skull, Damug Warfang?”

Mystified, the Greatrat took off his helmet and placed it on the ground. He touched his own head, back, front, and

beside both ears, all the time glaring through the firesmoke at Midge. “Find a brown stone inside my own skull? Do

you take me for an idiot? Let me warn you, Miggo, if you think you’re going to pull something from my ear, I’ve seen

that done before—try it and you’re a deadbeast!”

Midge folded his paws, staring back at Damug. “I’ll sit over here, Sire. If I tried anythin’ you’d say it was a trick.

My voices tell me the brown stone is inside yore skull; more’n that I cannot say.”

Damug touched his head again, this time more carefullyrunning both paws along his jawline, around his eyes and

the base of his skull. Suddenly he jumped up angrily, shaking his head. “This is stupid! You talk in riddles. How could

there be a brown stone inside my skull? Rubbish!”

He kicked the war helmet to one side. From the mouth of the rabbit skull impaled on its spike, a brown stone rolled

forth.

Trying not to show his immense relief, Midge pointed. “See, the skull belongs t’you. Did I not say the brown stone

could be found inside yore skull?”

Midge Manycoats had guessed correctly. Damug Warfang was like any other conqueror, superstitious and ready to

believe in omens and signs.

Damug picked up the simple brown pebble and gazed in wonder at it. “You spoke truly, Miggo. You have the gift

of a Seer. What is my future? Tell me—I must know!”

Midge knew now that he had his fish well hooked. Closing his eyes, he sat back, remote and aloof. “I need food

and drink now, rest too. Have quarters prepared for me and my friend, Burfal the Silent One. Tomorrow we will talk.”

Rinkul the ferret was smarting from the beating he had received, but that did not stop him. He limped about the

Rapscallion camp, looking for the one called Burfal. There was something about the dumb creature that disturbed him.

Using the hardwood stick to aid his walking, he crisscrossed the hillside, checking the creatures around their

campfires. Maybe it was something in Burfal’s eyes, in the way he had looked at him.

“If yer after vittles, we ain’t got none ’ere, mate!”

Rinkul ignored Sneezewort and questioned Lousewort. “May’aps you’ve seen a raggy ole beast about, one o’ the

two who came inter camp earlier on? Did ’e pass this way?”

Lousewort sucked on a fishbone and thought for a moment. “Er, er, y’mean the Silent One? Stay away from ’im,

matey, Firstblade’s orders. Did you ’ear, Cap’n Skaup knocked die livin’ daylights out o’ a few smarty-chops that tried

interferin’ wid that dumb beast. Stupid fools, serves ’em right, I say!”

Rinkul’s hardwood stick rapped Lousewort’s nose viciously. “When I wants yore opinion I’ll ask for it,

mudbottom. Now, which way did the dumb beast go?”

Sneezewort pointed toward the stream. “Went by us a moment back, ’eaded thataways.”

Supported by his stick, Rinkul hobbled off to the stream. Lousewort hugged his nose tenderly as he watched the

ferret go. “There wath no need for him to do that, wath there!”

Tammo had seen the caged squirrel on the stream bank. Pulling faces, and pushing the two stoats guarding the

cage, he made it clear that he did not want them around. The guards retreated a distance to the nearest fire, where they

sat warming themselves. Word had got around regarding the Silent One, and they were careful not to offend him.

Drawing his dirk, Tammo pushed it through the bars and began prodding the old squirrel, pretending to have some

cruel fun with him. Moving to the cage’s far side to ,ivoid the blade, the old creature cast a withering glance at his

tormentor. “Do yore worst, vermin. I ain’t afeared of ye!” Tammo’s whisper barely reached his ears. “Sorry, old chap.

Can’t speak up, they think I’m dumb, y’see. I’m no vermin, this is a disguise. Really I’m a hare of the Long Patrol. I’ll

help you if I can.”

Lying flat, the squirrel rolled over, closer to Tammo so that he could whisper back. “Get me some food an’ a

blade!”

“I’ll try, but don’t attempt anything on your own. Leave this to me an’ my friend—he’s disguised like me.”

Before he spoke further, Tammo took a swift look about and saw Rinkul leaning on his stick, watching him.

Throwing caution to the winds, Tammo dashed at the ferret and dove on him. They went down together. Tammo

grabbed Rinkul, pulling him on top of himself and uttering little mute squeaks of distress.

A Rapmark stoat named Bluggach, who was seated by the fire with the two guards, grabbed his cutlass. “Lookit

that, the addle-brained oaf, don’t ’e know no better? Damug gave orders not t’touch the dumb ’un! Cummon, mates!”

Rinkul found himself roughly hauled off Tammo, his protests lost among the angry roars of Bluggach and the two

guards as they thrashed him with the flats of their blades. “Git off that beast. Wot d’yer think yore doin’?”

“We’ve all been ordered to stay clear of ’im!”

“You wanna dig the soil out’n yore ears, ferret!”

“I ain’t gonna report this or Lord Damug’d kill yer, but you gotta learn to obey orders. Teach ’im a lesson, mates!”

Gathering his rags about him, Tammo fled the scene.

Midge stuck his head out of a canvas shelter that had been erected between a bush and a rock. He peered into the

night at the lumpy figure ambling aimlessly about.

“Tamm, over here, pal! We’ve got our own special quarters!”

Tammo scrambled gratefully into the shelter and crouched by the fire. Midge passed him some rough-looking

barley-cakes, a piece of cooked fish, and a canteen of strong grog, but Tammo put it aside, saying, “Thanks, Midge,

but I’ve already eaten. I contacted Rockjaw and he gave me supper. But tell me your news first—how did y’get on

with old thingummy Warface?”

The friends exchanged information, telling each other all they had experienced since arriving at the Rapscallion

camp. Tammo tightened his paw ’round the dirk handle, gritting his teeth. “Those vermin we were tracking—

remember the one that got away? I’ve seen him, the ferret they call Rinkul. He was the last of the murderers who slew

the old badgerlady and my friend Russa; the scum still carries her stick. First chance I get I’ll make him pay for

them!”

Midge shook his head. “That’s not what we were sent here for, Tamm. You’ll get your chance at Rinkul, but not

here—it could cost our lives an’ the safety of Redwall. Let’s rest up a bit, then when all’s quiet we’ll take food to the

squirrel. I’ve got a small blade with me, we’ll deliver that to him as well. Rest awhile now.”

Long after the midnight hour had passed and the sprawling Rapscallion camp lay silent, two figures made their

way carefully down to the prisoner in his cage by the stream.

40?

Redwall’s twin bells had tolled out the midnight hour, but their muted tones were heard only by the three creatures

who were still awake. Abbess Tansy, Friar Butty, and Craklyn the Recorder sat around a table in the kitchens,

studying the journal of Abbess Germaine. It had been written countless seasons ago when the Abbey was actually

under construction. The little owl Orocca had watched them awhile, waiting for Taunoc, who had gone off under the

command of Major Perigord. When it became apparent he would not be returning that night, Orocca retired to care for

her three owlchicks in the kitchen cupboard.

Butty selected some hot muffins, which his helpers had baked for next morning’s breakfast, took a bowl of curds,

flavored it with honey, and stirred in roasted almonds. He brewed a jug of rose-petal and plum-flower tea and set the

lot on the table, inviting his friends to help themselves.

“It’s sort of half breakfast an’ half supper, suppfast, I calls it, when I’m up very late cookin’ down here. Tell us

more about this place called Kotir, marm.”

Craklyn opened the journal at an illustrated page. “This is what it must have looked like, an old crumbling castle,

damp, dark, and ruled over by fearsome wildcats, backed by a vermin horde. Martin the Warrior and his friends

destroyed it and defeated the enemy, long before Redwall was built. They diverted a river and flooded the valley in

which Castle Kotir stood. It sank beneath the waters and was never seen again. Redwall was built from the north side

first, I think the south wall was to have been bordered by the lake that had covered Kotir. But our Abbey was not built

in one season, nor ten, nor even twenty. You can see by these sketches farther on that by the time the north wall was

erected, the lake had begun to dry up. Abbess Germaine states that all the soil and rock dug up for

the Abbey

foundations was dumped into the lake. Well, over a number of seasons the lake became little more than a swamp, the

only trace of it being a spring that bubbled up in a hollow some distance from the original lake site. This kept throwing

up clear water until it became incorporated in the Redwall plans as an Abbey pond.”

Tansy blew upon her tea and sipped noisily. “The very same pond we have in our grounds today, how clever! But

carry on, Craklyn. What happened next?”

“Hmm, it says here that by the time the main Abbey building was in progress, a drought arrived after the winter.

Spring, summer, and autumn were intensely hot and dry, not a drop of rain throughout all three seasons. Even the

Abbey pond shrunk by half its length and breadth. What had once been swamp became firm and hard ground, with tree

seedlings taking root on its east side. So they ignored the fact that Castle Kotir, or a lake, or even a swamp had once

been there, and carried on to build Redwall Abbey.”

Craklyn closed the journal and dipped a hot muffin in the sweetened curd mixture. Friar Butty flipped through the

pages; yellowed and dusty, they seemed to breathe ancient history. He paused at one page with a small illustration at

its chapter heading.

“Here ’tis, see! A sketch of the completed Abbey with a dotted line representin’ Kotir an’ where it once stood.

There’s the answer!”

Abbess Tansy brushed muffin crumbs from the parchment. “Well, I never. They built the south wall right over the

part where Castle Kotir’s northwest walltower stood. So after all these seasons the ground has decided to give way, and

that hole we were looking down must be the inside of Kotir’s wall-tower. It would be fascinating to climb down there

if it was dry and safe enough.”

Orocca’s head appeared around the partially open cupboard door. “You’ll beg my pardon saying, Abbess, but I

wish you’d stop all your noisy yammering and go now. These eggchicks need their sleep!”

Tansy began gathering up the remains of the meal carefully. “I’m sorry, Orocca. Right, let’s away to our beds.

We’ll take a look down there first thing in the morning. Shad and Fore-mole will go with us, I’m sure.”

As dawn shed its light over the flatlands west of Redwall, Major Perigord sat up in the dry ditch bed where he had

passed the night. Captain Twayblade was balancing on a thick protruding root, scanning the dewy fields in front of her.

Perigord reached up and tugged her footpaw. “My watch I think, old gel. Any sign of ’em yet?”

Twayblade climbed down from her perch. “Not a bally ear-tip. Where d’you s’pose they’ve got to, sah?”

The Major drew the rags of his once-splendid green velvet tunic about him and yawned. “Who knows? Torgoch

an’ Mono are a blinkin’ law unto themselves when they’re on the loose together. I say there, come on, Taunoc, you

jolly old bundle of feathers, up in the air with you an’ scout the terrain, wot!”

Taunoc peered from under his wing, then struggled from beneath the fems where he had been sleeping, and

blinked owlishly.

“Strictly speaking, I am a nocturnal bird, not widely given to flapping about in dawnlight like a skylark. What is it

you want?”

With a flourish, Perigord drew his saber and poked at the sky. “I require your fine-feathered frame cleaving the

upper atmosphere, lookin’ out for any sign of our friends. That too much trouble?”

With a short hopping run the little owl launched into flight. “After a night in a ditch, nothing is too much trouble.”

He soared high, wheeling several times before dropping like a stone. “Your Sergeant and Lieutenant are coming

now, west and slightly south of here. I suggest you wave to denote your presence, Major.”

Perigord climbed out of the ditch and waved his saber. It glittered in the early sunlight as he hallooed the two

hares. “What ho, you chaps, what time d’you call this to come rollin’ back home? Come on, Torgoch, on the double

now!”

Sergeant and Lieutenant came panting up to the ditch. Throwing themselves flat in the damp grass, they lay recov-

ering breath.

Mono raised himself up on one paw, his normally saturnine face glowing with pride. “We found the place, sah, day

an’ a half’s march sou’west o’ here. There’s a rock stickin’ up like an otter’s tail top of a rollin’ hill range, and beyond

that a valley with a gorge runnin’ through. Looks somethin’ like this,” In the bare earth of the ditch top he scraped out

a rough outline with his knifepoint.

Twayblade nodded approvingly. “Well done, chaps, looks a great spot for a picnic, eh, wot?”

Perigord studied it, obviously pleased by what he saw. “Aye, we could shell a few acorns there! Stretch our forces

along the ridge and send out a decoy party t’lead ’em into the valley from the south side. If we can get ’em with the

gorge at their backs and the hill in front, ’twill be an ideal battle-ground. Taunoc, time for you t’do your bit, old lad.

Fly out an’ scout this place. When you’re satisfied as to its location, seek out Rockjaw Grang and tell him exactly

where the battlefield is to be. Got that?”

Once again the little owl heaved himself into the air. “I think I am reasonably intelligent enough to understand you,

Major. After all, I am an owl, not a hare!”

When the owl was well away, Sergeant Torgoch grinned at Twayblade. “Well curl me ears, marm, there goes an

’uffy bird if ever I saw one. Bet ’e counts ’is feathers regular!”

“You, sir, would find yourself counting your ears after an encounter with me, I can assure you!”

Torgoch almost leapt with fright as the owl landed beside him. The bird stared accusingly at Perigord. “You gave

me the location and told me to whom I should deliver the inforraation, but you did not mention when the battle is to

take place.”

The Major bowed courteously to Taunoc. “Beg pardon, I stand corrected. Shall we say three days, or however long

after that the Rapscallions can be delayed? We need to play for all the time we can get. My thanks to ye, sir!”

Long after the owl had flown, Sergeant Torgoch looked mortified. “I really opened me big mouth an’ put me

footpaw in it there!”

41

Abbess Tansy and her party were ready for the descent into the pit beneath the south wall. Friar Butty was armed

with a stout copper ladle, his chosen weapon. Foremole Diggum and Shad the Gatekeeper had lengths of rope,

lanterns, and a fine rope ladder that Ginko the Bellringer had loaned them. Tansy and Craklyn had donned their oldest

smocks, and between them they carried a hamper of food.

It was a good hot summer morning. Tare and Tuny of the Long Patrol were pushing a wheelbarrow about on the

lawn. Three little owlchicks and the badgerbabe Russano sat on a heap of dry straw in the barrow, taking their daily

perambulation.

Tansy waved to them as they passed. “See you later. Bye bye!”

Waving back, the babies repeated the word they used most often. “Nut! Nut!”

Craklyn fell about laughing. Shad opened the food hamper and tossed a pawful of candied chestnuts into the

barrow for them. “Bye bye, hah! These Eiddle tykes know wot’s good for ’em!”

Having lit the lanterns, Friar Butty strung them at regular intervals upon a long rope and lowered it into the depths,

providing illumination all the way down. Shad secured the rope ladder and let it unroll into the void. “I’ll go first,” he

said. “Butty next, then Abbess an’ Craklyn. Foremole, you follow last. Remember now, take y’time an’ step easy!”

One by one they descended into the silent pit, lantern light and shadows dancing eerily around the rough rock walls

mat surrounded them. Scarcely a quarter of the way down, Fore-mole pointed a digging claw at the wall in front of

him.

“Yurr, thurr be’s ee writin’ that Bunto see’d!”

Foremole Diggum had remembered that Bunto, one of his mole crew, had seen writing carved upon the wall.

Craklyn studied it “See these broken rock ends and bits of shattered timber? There must have been a spiral

stairway running from top to bottom of the walltower once. There’s a space that may have been a window, all blocked

with earth now. This carving is beside it—probably some vermin soldier did it while he was idling away the hours on

guard duty at that very window.”

Tansy tweaked at her friend’s footpaw, which was directly above her head on the ladder. “Never mind the

architecture, what does the writing say?”

The Recorder’s voice echoed boomingly as she read out aloud.

“Turn at the lowest stair, Right is the left down there, Every pace you must count, At ten times paws amount, See

where a deathbird flies, Under the hunter’s eyes, Radiant in splendor fair, Ever mine, hidden where?

Verdauga, Lord of Kotir.”

Clinging to the ladder, Tansy looked up at her friend as the echoes faded to silence in the strange atmosphere.

“Sounds like some sort of riddle to me. Craklyn, what are you doing up there—writing?”

“Scrap o’ parchment and a stick of charcoal always come in useful,” the old Recorder muttered busily as she

scraped away. “I never go anywhere without them. This won’t lake long. Hmm, Verdauga, he was mentioned in

Abbess Ger-maine’s journal, some sort of wildcat who ruled Mossflower before Martin the Warrior arrived. There,

I’ve got it!”

Foremole Diggum, who was last on the ladder, grunted impatiently. “Ho, gudd for ee, marm. Can us’n’s git down

thurr naow? Oi’m not gurtly pleased ’angin”round up yurr!”

It was a long and arduous descent. When they touched ground at the pit bottom, Friar Butty peered upward to the

platform. It looked very small and far off.

“Phew!” he said, nodding in admiration. “Just think, Skipper dove from up there, what a brave an’ darin’ beast! I

think if I tried it I’d prob’ly die of fright halfway down.”

Shad tapped his tail against the mud-coated rocks. “Since the waters dried up, mate, you’d die fer sure if you

landed ’ere. Right, let’s git the lay o’ the land.”

He lit another lantern and they moved gingerly on the slippery stones of the dried streambed, staring at tiieir

surroundings. It was little more than a stone chamber, with a gaping hole at eye level where the water had flowed in

from the right, and another hole beneath their paws to the left, where the stream had exited downward.

Tansy found a dry rock and sat down. “It’s very smelly and cold. We’d best watch we don’t slip and fall down that

hole—goodness knows where we’d end up. Well, anyone got some bright ideas? This place looks like a dead end.”

Craklyn studied the verse she had copied, then took a careful look around. She pointed to a spot not far above their

heads. “Look there, up to the left. There’s a hole in the wall, but it’s blocked by rubble and old timbers. I think that

was where the stairs finished originally. We must be standing below the old ground level now, where the water carved

the floor away.”

Shad climbed back up the ladder, swinging it inward until he could reach the hole in the side of the wall. He

secured the rope ladder to a splintered wood beam that stuck out. “Aye, yore right, marm, this is where the last stair

was. I think we might’ve found a passage ’ere. Stand clear while I try an’ unblock it.”

Huddling beneath an overhang at the cave’s far side, they watched rock, timber, and masonry pouring from the

hole as the husky otter cleared away the debris. It was not long before he called down to them, “Haharr, ’tis a passage

sure enough—dry, too. C’mon up, mateys!”

One by one Shad helped them from the rope ladder into the passage. Foremole discovered a shattered pine beam

and, using a dash of lantern oil, soon had a fire burning cheerily.

“Thurr ee go. Oi thinks us’n’s be ’avin’ a warm an’ summ vitties afore us do ought else, bo urr!”

Abbess Tansy wanned her paws gratefully. “What would we do without a good and sensible Foremole?”

Friar Butty unpacked a latticed fruit tart, some nutbread, and a flask of elderberry wine, which he set by the fire to

warm. As the friends ate they discussed the verse that Craklyn had copied.

“So,” said Tansy, “it wasn’t an idle sentry who carved those words, it was the Lord of the castle himself. But why

put it there in plain view?”

Craklyn explained what she had seen. “It wasn’t exactly in plain view, though. I noticed some spike holes in the

stone; there must have been a wall hanging or a curtain hiding the verse. Maybe Verdauga was getting old and he

carved it there to remind himself.”

Foremole sliced the tart evenly, shaking his head. “Hurr, ’tis a gurt puzzlement tho’, marm. ‘Roight is ee left

daown thurr,’ wot do that mean?”

“I know it sounds odd, but it’s not really. Creatures who hide something and write about it usually try to trick

others by arranging the words so they sound strange. ‘Right is the left down there’ means that the left passage is the

right one to take. I could say that two ways; either the left is the right one to take, or as Verdauga put it, right is the

left to take. See?”

Butty poured out small amounts of the warm wine for them. “I’m with you, miz Craklyn, ’tis right to take the left

passage, an’ that’s the one we’re in now, lucky enough. I think I’ve got the next two lines as well.

‘Every pace you must count,

At ten times paws amount.’

Everybeast has four paws, so add ten to that an’ it makes fourteen paces we must count.”

A smile hovered on the Recorder’s lips as she challenged the Friar. “Is that right? Go on then, young Butty, take

the lantern and walk fourteen paces down this passage. Tell us what you find.”

The young squirrel marched off, counting precisely. He was lost to sight at the count of eight, where the passage

took a bend. Shortly he returned to sit by the fire, scratching his chin. “Hmph! Wasn’t a thing there, nothin’ except

stone walls!”

Craklyn shook a paw at him in mock severity. “That’s because your arithmetic was wrong, Friar. Work it out

properly now. You have four paws, and the line says ‘Ten times paws amount.’ Times!”

The answer dawned upon Butty suddenly. “Of course, ten times four is forty—it means take forty paces!”

Tansy passed him a slice of tart. “Well done, sir, but let’s have our meal, then we’ll all go and count it out

together.”

Beyond the turn a long passage stretched before them, dark and gloomy, layered with the dust of untold ages. So

intense was the silence that they paced on tip-paws, whispering out the count. Tansy looked left and right at the

forbidding bare stone walls and the worn paved floor. What sort of creatures had walked them in the distant past? How

long had it been since a living beast set paw down here?

“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty!”

“Well wallop me rudder, look at this, messmates!”

A great shuttered window stood before them, broad and high, its lintel, sill, and corbels intricately carved with

sinister designs. Shad unlatched the shutters, announcing jokingly, “Wonderful view o’ Mossflower countryside from

’ere. Take a look!”

Cobwebs parted as Shad drew back the creaking shutters, revealing the entire frame, packed solid with stone and

dark earth. He shut them again and pushed the rusty latch into place.

“Too far down even for roots or worms to travel. Question is, wot are we supposed t’look for now?”

Craklyn repeated the fifth and sixth lines of the verse:

“See where a deathbird flies,

Under the hunter’s eyes.”

Tansy shuddered as she held up the lantern to inspect the sil!. “These carvings are skillfully done, but they’re

horrible. See here, there’s a snake swallowing a little mouse, and here, two rats are cutting up a skylark with curved

knives. Everywhere you look there’s cruelty and murder being done. No wonder Martin and his friends fought so hard

against the vermin who lived here. But where’s the deathbird and the hunter?”

Piece by piece they went over the grisly scenes until Shad, being the tallest, stood on the sill and held up the

lantern to view the lintel overhead.

“Is this wot yore lookin’ for, marm?”

He was pointing to a picture of a raven. The big black bird was trying to fly away, but it was trapped by a leaping

wildcat that had bitten deep into the raven’s back.

Craklyn clenched her paws tightly, fascinated yet repulsed by the dreadful image. “Yes, that’s it, Shad! The wildcat

is the hunter, and the raven has long been known as the deathbird for the way that it feasts upon carcasses of dead

creatures. I’m sure that is it!”

They sat upon the windowsill, looking at one another in the flickering lamplight. Tansy read out the final two lines:

“Radiant in splendor fair,

Ever mine, hidden where?”

Young Friar Butty hunched his shoulders, shivering slightly. “I couldn’t imagine anythin’ radiant or splendidly fair

down here, but if there is I’ll bet ’tis behind the carvin’l”

Shad took out his knife and stood up on the sill. “Well, let’s see, shall we!”

He tapped with the knife handle, rapping the corbels and the surrounding wall, finally hitting the lintel several

smart raps. “Aye, yore right, Friar. Sounds as if there’s a cavity wall above this lintel. Pass me the lantern.”

The light was passed up to Shad. He dug and scraped away with his blade until they were forced to vacate the sill

beneath him.

“You’m sendin’ daown a tumble dust, zurr. Wot be you’m a doin’?”

“Oh! Sorry ’bout that, mates, but there’s a big stone that’s stickin’ out a bit up ’ere. I’m just diggin’ out the mortar

wot’s holdin1 it in. I reckon wot we’re after lies be’ind it.”

“Yurr, oi’ll coom up an”elp ee. Lend oi yore young shoulders thur, Butty, let oi git moi diggen claws worken on

et.”

Butty stood on the sill, grunting as Foremole Diggum clambered up onto his shoulders.

Shad and Foremole blinked mortar dust from their eyes as they dug, tugged, and probed. The otter grasped the

lantern ring in his mouth to leave both paws free.

Craklyn watched them anxiously. “Do be careful now, mind your paws don’t get jammed in the cracks.”

“Stan’ asoide, lukkee owt naow, yurr ee comes!”

With a few mighty heaves the two creatures pulled the big oblong wallstone free and dropped it.

Boom!

It shattered a section of the paved floor as it fell, sending up a choking dust cloud, through which Shad could be

seen, one paw rummaging deep in the hole as he held out several glittering objects with the other.

“Ahoy there, hearties, lookit wot I found! Owowooh! Me paw!”

There was a rumbling, crumbling sound as the stones above collapsed down, trapping the paw Shad had buried in

the wall space. He hung there awkwardly, gritting his teeth against the pain. Then everything happened without an

instant’s notice.

Foremole slipped from Butty’s shoulders and fell backward as, with a dull roar, the entire wall and ceiling

disintegrated in an avalanche of stone, mortar, and thick choking dust!

42?

Vermin snored and muttered in their sleep, fighting imaginary battles, some of them even singing snatches of songs

as they lay around their campfire embers in the warm summer night. The guards of the cage were still at the fire of the

stoat Bluggach, within easy distance of the prisoner they were supposed to be watching. Like Bluggach, they too were

flat on their backs, mouths open wide to the sounds of then—painful rasping snores.

The old squirrel watched the two ragged figures’ silent approach to his cage. He grabbed at the food they pushed

through the bars to him, and his throat moved up and down as he gulped water from a canteen, drinking until the

vessel was empty. With his head bent low he gave a long sigh of satisfaction, then began chewing the food slowly,

while Midge whispered questions at him.

“What do they call you, and how did y’come to be here?”

“My name is Fourdun. I live alone in Mossflower. They took me by surprise—I must be gettin’ old.”

Midge passed the small knife through to him. “We’re both Long Patrol hares. I’m Midge, he’s Tammo. Listen to

me, old feller—don’t do anythin’ silly. We’ll get you free. Maybe tomorrow night or the night after, but we’ll do it. So

watch out for us an’ don’t try escapin’ by yourself.”

Nudging Midge, Tammo hissed urgently, “Look out, that big stoat Cap’n’s awake!”

Bluggach woke with a throat that was both sore and dry from snoring. Coughing hoarsely several times, he

staggered down to the stream. Crouching in the shallows, the stoat pawed water into his mouth until he had drunk

enough, then he straightened up and belched.

There was no place for Tammo or Midge to hide—one movement from either of them and they would be

discovered. Midge shoved Tammo toward the stream, muttering to him, “Sit by the water an’ look as if you’re

meditatin’—hurry!”

Tammo walked straight for the stoat, bumping into him as he slumped by the shallows, and stared intently into the

water. Bluggach was about to say something when Midge strolled up.

“Pleasant night to ye, Cap’n. Take no notice of ole Burfal, ’e goes off doin’ odd things any hour o’ the day or

dark.”

The stoat drew his cutlass, eyeing Midge suspiciously. “Wot are yew doin”round ’ere?”

Midge produced the flask of grog he had been about to give Fourdun. “Oh, jus’ keepin’ an’ eye on Burfal, seein”e

don’t disturb nobeast. ’Ere, take a pull o’ this, sir, Warfang’s own private grog. Twill put a throat on ye like a cob o’

velvet.”

Bluggach was still not quite convinced by Midge, but he took a good swig of the fiery grog as he weighed the

ragged beast up. “You’ll be the Seer, then? Some sez yore a magic creature.”

Smiling craftily, Midge moved close to the stoat and reached out. “I ain’t magic, Cap’n. You are, though. Wot’s

this candied chestnut doin’ in yore earlug?”

Grinning widely, the big stoat tossed the nut into his mouth and gave Midge a friendly shove that almost knocked

him flat. “I knew you was magic the moment I clapped eyes on ya, haharrharr!”

Midge laughed along with him, urging Bluggach to drink some more. “Bein’ magic ain’t as good as bein’ a

Rapmark Cap’n like you, sir.”

The stoat warmed to the tattered Seer. Throwing a paw about him, he said, “Ho, ain’t it though? I tell yer, matey,

sometimes I wish I c’d magic some discipline inter this lot. Lookit those two, snorin’ like weasels at a weddin’, an’

they’re supposed t’be on guard! But tell me more about yore magic. Y’know wot I like, haharr, I likes beasts like

yerself who know clever riddles. Go on, do a riddle fer me. ’Tis ages since I ’eard a good ’un.”

Midge tapped a dirty paw against his stained teeth. “Hmm, a riddle, now lemme see ... Ah, ’ere’s a riddle fer ye.

Wot goes gurgle gurgle snuffle trickle blubber ripple scrawf scrawf? D’yer know the answer to that one, Cap’n?”

Bluggach took another good pull at the grog and sat down, narrowing one eye and scratching his head. Midge

beckoned Tammo silently, and together they began moving away. The stoat Captain drank some more, halting them

with an unsteady wave.

“Er, burgle sniffle truckle sprawl, wot goes like that? Hah! That’s a good ’un, mate. I dunno, tell me the answer.”

Midge pointed at the two sentries sleeping by the fire at the water’s edge. “There’s yore answer, Cap’n. Two fat

lazy guards sleepin’ their ’eads off by a stream all night. C’mon, Burfal, time we was goin1.”

They departed as the joke’s punch line dawned on Bluggach, and made their way back to the shelter and their own

fire with the stoat Captain’s laughter ringing out behind them.

“Oh harrharrhair, that’s a good ’un, hohohoho! Wake up, you two, an’ lissen t’this. Harrharrhohoho! Wot goes

grungle snirtle, worf worf an’ sleeps like youse two by the stream all night? Yarrharrhahaha! Betcha don’t know the

answer, do yer?”

Sitting beside their own fire, the two hares discussed their plans.

“If Rockjaw gets a message from the Major tomorrow, we’ll be able to quit this place once I’ve worked more of

my magic on Warfang.”

Gathering his rags about him, Tammo lay back to rest. “Aye, but we’d best wait until late night to make our

escape. That’ll be a good time to break Fourdun out, too—we can’t leave him there for the vermin to starve an’

torment, he must go with us.”

Midge smiled at the determination on his young friend’s face. “Of course Fourdun’s goin’ with us, wouldn’t have it

any other way, Tamm. But it ain’t goin’ to be easy, by the left it ain’t!”

43?

By mid-morning of the following day, Rockjaw Grang had shifted his hiding place. Moving farther downhill, he

settled himself in a dip, surrounded by rock and bushes. Not knowing how long it would be before he could once more

sample the good food of Redwall, the giant hare ate sparingly. Munching on a russet apple, he checked his weapons.

He laid out his heavy arrows and counted them, then rubbed beeswax on the stout string of his great yew bow.

Rockjaw tested his sling, refilled the pebble bag, and set himself to honing a long dagger .on a smooth stone.

Taunoc appeared beside him suddenly. Without raising an eye, the big fellow continued whetting his blade,

commenting drily, “Sithee, bird, where’st thou been? Much longer sittin”ere alone an’ I’d be talkin’ to mahself!”

The little owl folded his wings rather moodily. “Continue with that attitude and you will be talking to yourself, sir!

My late arrival was due entirely to the tardiness of your own compatriots. However, I am not here to bandy words with

you. I bring important news, so listen carefully.”

Lady Cregga Rose Eyes was lost in strange country. She had plunged forward in the darkness, driven by the

Bloodwrath, running all night until she could go no farther. Now, with her massive axpike clutched in both paws, the

Badger Warrior lay amid the ferned fringe of an ash grove. She slept a fevered sleep, shivering, with her tongue lolling

out and eyes half open, but unseeing.

From the grove, a colony of rooks watched, hoping the badger was so ill that she would soon be weak and dying.

A young rook made as if to hop forward, but the leader, a hefty older male, buffeted him flat with a single wingsweep.

“Chakkarakk! We wait, take no chances with a stripedog. When the sun sets we will fall on that one. Never have

we tasted stripedog; there will be plenty there for all!”

The Long Patrol had risen at dawn. Picking up Sergeant Club-rush’s trail, they pressed forward on the double. The

Drill Sergeant was sitting cooling his paws in a brook. He watched them approach, gnawing his lip in disappointment.

Ellbrig halted the column in front of Clubrush, who shook his head.

“Must be gettin’ old lettin”er give me the blinkin’ slip. I lost Lady Cregga’s trail sometime in the night. But even if

I ’adn’t, what beast can keep up with a badger travelin’ at ’er speed?”

“Sah, beg t’report,” Trowbaggs called out from the back ranks. “Lady Cregga’s tracks are here to the left, travelin’

due west by the look of it!”