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 footpaws of the hare marching in front.

“Oops! Sorry, old chap, the blinkin’ footpaws y’know, gettin’ 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 left!”

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 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.

Furgale 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 night!”

Veins stood out on the Sergeant’s brow as he roared at the hapless blunderer, “Sleepin’? Who said you could sleep, sah? Get that equipment cleaned, lay out yore mess kit, line up for supper! Forget sleep, Trowbaggs, stay awake! Yore on second watch!”

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 cut out for it, wot!”

“Never mind, scout,” a kindly older hare named Shangle Widepad 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, marm, 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 fashioned from animal sinew. Winding it around both paws, 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, kicking, snapping, and scratching at each other. The vermin broke cover and dashed to assist their officer, tearing the fighting 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 reception 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 who’s Firstblade of Rapscallions now. Where’ve y’been?”

Rinkul sat down on a rotting stump. “Been? That’s a long story, mate. Our ship was driven off course an’ wrecked up near the northeast coast. I’ve been through a lot o’ things an’ I’m the onlybeast left alive out o’ a shipload. But that’s by the by. Get me ter Damug Warfang, I’ve got news fer ’is ears alone—urgent news!”