The rats Sneezewort and Lousewort were merely two common, low-ranked Rapscallions in the Firstblade’s great army. The pair scrabbled for position on a clump of boulders at the rear of massed hordes of vermin warriors, who had all gathered to witness the Throwing of the Sword ceremony. They jostled and pushed, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on in the stone circle where the duel had taken place. High-ranking officers called Rapmarks occupied the immediate edge of the ring, as was their right. The ordinary rank and file struggled, standing tip-pawed to get a view of the proceedings.

Sneezewort hauled himself up on Lousewort’s back, and the dull, stolid Lousewort staggered forward under the added weight, muttering, “Er, er, wot’s goin’ on down there, mate?”

Sneezewort flicked his companion’s ear with a grimy claw. “Straighten up, jellyback, I can’t see much from ’ere. ’Ang on, I think ole Firstblade’s gonna say sumpin’.”

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

Staggering farther forward he bumped into a big, fat, nasty-looking weasel, who turned on them with a snarl. “Hoi! If you two boggletops don’t stop bangin’ inter me an’ shoutin’ like that y’ll ’ave more’n wounded ears ter worry about. I’ll stuff yore tails up yore snotty noses an’ rip ’em off, so back off an’ shut yer gobs!”

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

“The spirit of my father, the great Gormad Tunn, appeared to me in my dreams. He said that the sword will fall land side up and seasons of glory will reward all who follow Damug Warfang. Plunder, slaves, land, and wealth for even the lowest paw soldier of the mighty army of Rapscallions. I, your Firstblade, pass the words of my beloved father on to you, my loyal comrades!”

Sneezewort could not resist a snigger as a thought occurred to him. “Yeeheehee! ‘Beloved father’? They couldn’t stan’ the sight o’ each other. Huh, Damug’ll be in trouble if’n the sword lands wavy side up after shootin’ ’is mouth off like that, I tell yer, mate!”

The big weasel turned ’round, testing the tip of a rusty iron hook. “Damug won’t be in ’arf the trouble you’ll be in if’n yer don’t put a stopper on that blatherin’ jaw o’ yourn, snipenose!” He turned back in time to see the sword rise above the crowd. There was a vast silence, followed by a rousing cheer.

“Land up! Land up!”

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

The big nasty weasel whirled around and dealt two swift punches, one to Lousewort’s stomach, the other to Sneezewort’s nose. They both collapsed to the ground in a jumbled heap, and the weasel stood, paws akimbo, sneering at them. “It means you need yer ears washin’ out an’ yer mate needs his lip buttoned! Any more questions, dimwits?”

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

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

“Our seasons of petty coast raids are over. We march straight up the center of the land, taking all before us. Scouts must be continuously sent out on both sides to report any area that is ripe for plundering. Leave the ships to rot where they lie, burn your dwellings, let the army eat the last of our old supplies here today. We march at first light tomorrow. Now bring me the armor of the Firstblade!”

*

That night Damug stood garbed in his barbaric regalia, the swirling orange cloak of his father blowing open to reveal a highly polished breastplate of silver, a short kilt of snakeskin, and a belt fashioned from many small links of beaten gold, set with twinkling gemstones. On his head he wore a burnished brass helmet surmounted by a spike, with iron mesh hanging from it to protect his neck. The front dipped almost to his muzzle tip; it had two narrow eye slits.

Oily smoke swirled to the moonless skies as the lights of myriad dwellings going up in flames glimmered off the armor of Damug Warfang, Firstblade. Roaring, drinking, singing, and eating their last supplies, the Rapscallion regiments celebrated their final night on the southeast shores. They gambled and stole from one another, fought, argued, and tore the waterlogged fleet apart in their search for any last bits of booty to be had.

Damug leaned on his sword, watching them. Beside him, Lugworm cooked a fish over glowing charcoal for his Chief’s supper. He looked up at the Firstblade’s question.

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

“Aye sirrah, they are.”

“All?”

“Save two, Chief. Borumm the weasel and Vendace the fox. Those two were allies of your brother, Byral, so watch your back whilst they’re about.”

Smiling humorlessly, Damug patted his adviser’s head.

“Well answered, Lugworm. I already knew of Borumm and Vendace. Also I knew that you were aware of them, so you have just saved your own life by not staying silent.”

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

*

Lousewort staggered up over the tide line under the weight of a large circular ship’s steering wheel. It was a great heavy piece of work, solid oak, decorated with copper studding, now moldy and green.

Sneezewort stood tending their fire, over which he was roasting some old roots and the dried frame of a long-dead seabird. He shook his head in despair. “Ahoy, puddenbum, where d’yer think yore goin’ wid that thing?”

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

Sneezewort snorted at his slow-witted companion. “Oh, it’s a beauty, all right, and it will be worth somethin’. After you’ve carried it back an’ forth across the country fer seven seasons an’ found a new ship to match up wirrit. Great ole useless chunk o’ rubbish, wot do we need wid that thing? Get rid of it afore ye cripple yerself carryin’ it!”

He gave the wheel a hearty push, sending it rolling crazily off into the darkness. There was a crash, followed by the outraged roar of the big nasty weasel.

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

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

*

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

“Keep an eye open whilst I sleep. Oh, and pass the word around: I want every Rapscallion painted red for war when we march tomorrow, fully armed and ready for slaughter!”