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 cold-blooded killer. I was watchin’ Damug’s face—that’n was enjoyin’ 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 askin’ 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 lullabies 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 degrees 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 marchin’ 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 stranglin’ 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 molewives 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. “Oofh, 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!”