Several leagues away from Camp Tussock, down the far southeast coast, Damug Warfang turned his face to the wind. Before him on the tide line of a shingled beach lay the wave-washed and tattered remnants of a battered ship fleet. Behind him sprawled myriad crazy hovels, built from dunnage and flotsam. Black and gray smoke wisped off the cooking fires among them.

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

The drums beat louder, making the very air thrum to their deep insistent throbbing. Damug Warfang watched the sea, pounding, hissing among the pebbles as it clawed its way up the shore. Soon Gormad Tunn’s spirit would be at the gates of Dark Forest.

Only a Greatrat could become Firstblade of all Rapscallions. Damug cast a sideways glance at Byral standing farther along the beach, and smiled thinly. Gormad would have company at Dark Forest gates before the sun set.

Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was close to death.

*

Greatrats were a strange breed, twice the size of any normal rat. Gormad had been the greatest. Now his sun was setting, and one of his two sons would rule as Firstblade when he was gone. The two sons, Damug Warfang and Byral Fleetclaw, stood with their backs to the death tent where their father lay, in accordance with the Law of the Rapscallion vermin. Neither would rest, eat, or drink until the great Firstblade breathed his last. Then would come the combat between them. Only one would remain alive as Firstblade of the mighty army.

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

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

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

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

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

The drums began to pound louder, booming and banging, small drums competing with larger ones until the entire shoreline reverberated to their beat.

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

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

“Gormad has left us for Dark Forest’s shade,

And the wind cannot lead Rapscallions.

Let the beast stand forth who would be Firstblade,

To rule all these wild battalions!”

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

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

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

A mighty roar arose from the Rapscallion army, then the hordes rushed forward like autumn leaves upon the gale, surrounding the two brothers as they strode to the place of combat.

A ring had been marked out higher up on the shore. There the contestants stood, facing each other. Damug smiled wolfishly at his brother, Byral, who smirked and spat upon the ground between them. Wagers of food and weapons, plunder and strong drink were being yelled out between supporters of one or the other.

Two seconds entered the circle and prepared both brothers for the strange combat that would settle the leadership of the Rapscallion hordes. A short length of tough vinerope was tied around both rats’ left footpaws, attaching them one to the other, so they could not run away. They were issued their weapons: a short, stout hardwood club and a cord apiece. The cords were about two swordblades’ length, each with a boulder twice the size of a good apple attached to its end.

Damug and Byral drew back from each other, stretching the footpaw rope tight. Gripping their clubs firmly, they glared fiercely at each other, winding the cords around their paws a few turns so they would not lose them.

Now all eyes were on the old ferret who had announced Gormad Tunn’s death, as he drew forth a scrap of red silk and threw it upward. Caught on the breeze for a moment, it seemed to float in midair, then it dropped to the floor of the ring. A wild cheer arose from a thousand throats as the fight started. Brandishing their clubs and whirling the boulder-laden cords, the two Greatrats circled, each seeking an opening, while the bloodthirsty onlookers roared encouragement.

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

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

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

“Fling the club straight betwixt ’is eyes!”

Being fairly equally matched, each gave as good as he got. Soon Byral and Damug were both aching from hefty blows dealt by their clubs, but as yet neither had room to bring cord and boulder into play. Circling, tugging, tripping, and stumbling, they scattered sand and pebbles widespread, biting and kicking when they got the opportunity, each knowing that only one would walk away alive from the encounter. Then Byral saw his chance. Hopping nimbly back, he stretched the footpaw rope to its limits and swung at Damug’s head with the boulder-loaded cord. It was just what Damug was waiting for. Grabbing his club in both paws, he ducked, allowing the cord to twirl itself around his club until the rock clacked against it. Then Damug gave a sharp tug and the cord snapped off short close to Byral’s paw.

A gasp went up from the spectators. Nobeast had expected the cord to snap—except Lugworm. Byral hesitated a fatal second, gaping at the broken cord—and that was all Damug needed. He let go of his club, tossed a swift pawful of sand into his opponent’s face, and swung hard with his cord and boulder. The noise was like a bar of iron smacking into a wet side of meat. Byral looked surprised before his eyes rolled backward and he sank slowly onto all fours. Damug swung twice more, though there was little need to; he had slain his brother with the first blow.

A silence descended on the watchers. Damug held out his paw, and Lugworm passed him a knife. With one quick slash he severed the rope holding his footpaw to Byral’s. Without a word he strode through the crowd, and the massed ranks fell apart before him. Straight into his father’s death tent he went, emerging a moment later holding aloft a sword. It had a curious blade: one edge was wavy, the other straight, representing land and sea.

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