Furgale and Algador Swiftback had been out scouting the land ahead of the Salamandastron contingent. They returned at mid-noon and made their report to Lady Cregga and Sergeant Clubrush.

“I’m afraid we haven’t sighted the ridge you described, marm. It must be further than you estimated.”

The badger leaned on her fearsome axpike. “No matter, ’tis there somewhere, I know it is. Did you sight vermin or anything else of interest?”

“Well, m’lady, about two hours ahead there’s a dip in the land, sort of forming itself into a windin’ ravine. It goes north and slightly west . . .”

Cregga exchanged a knowing glance with the Sergeant. “Good work! We’ll camp there tonight and follow the course of this ravine you speak of. That way we won’t betray our presence; ’twill keep us well hidden as we march.”

Drill Sergeant Clubrush winked at the two recruits. “Top marks, you two, that’s wot I calls usin’ the old h’initiative. Go an’ join yore pals in the ranks now.”

Twilight was falling as they entered the ravine’s shallow end. Within moments nobeast within a league’s distance could tell there were five hundred hares on the march. The columns were reduced to three wide in the narrow gorge; they pressed forward with the rough earthen walls rearing high either side of them.

Trowbaggs accosted Corporal Ellbrig in quaint rustic speech. “Hurr, ’ow furr be et afore us’n’s makes camp, zurr?”

Ellbrig looked at him strangely. “Wot’re you talkin’ like that for, y’pudden-’eaded young rogue?”

Trowbaggs continued with his mimicry. “Hurr hurr hurr! ’Cos oi feels just loik ee mole bein’ underground loik this, zurr, bo urr!”

The Corporal nodded sympathetically. “Do you now? Well you keep bein’ a mole, Trowbaggs, an’ when we makes camp you kin dig out a nice liddle sleepin’ cave in the ravine wall fer yore officers.”

Trowbaggs did a speedy change back to being a hare. “Oh, I say, Corp, why not let old Shangle do the diggin’? He looks a jolly sight more like a mole than I do.”

Shangle Widepad fixed the young recruit with a beady eye. “One more squeak out o’ you, laddie buck, an’ y’won’t be either mole or hare, y’ll be a dead duck!”

It was chilly sleeping in the ravine. After a cold meal of thick barley biscuit and apple slices, the hares settled down for the night, wrapped in their groundsheets. However, Lady Cregga Rose Eyes felt her blood run hot as she lay there, dreaming of meeting Rapscallion vermin in a valley beneath a far-off ridge.

*

Standing as high as he could on the pine trunk at the ridgetop, Arven watched the Rapscallion campfires. They dotted the far plains like tiny fallen stars. Skipper of Otters climbed up beside him and passed the Redwall Champion a beaker of vegetable soup, steaming hot.

“All quiet down there, mate?”

Arven blew on the soup and sipped gratefully. “Aye, Skip. If they break camp just before dawn, I figure they’ll arrive in the valley below at midday tomorrow. By the fur’n’fang, though, there’s going to be a lot of ’em facin’ us!”

The big otter set his jaw grimly. “Mebbe, but there’ll be a lot less of ’em by the time we’re done! Wot makes ’em act like that, Arven? Why can’t they just be like ordinary peace-lovin’ creatures an’ leave us alone?”

Paw on swordhilt, the squirrel Champion shrugged. “Hard to say, really, Skip. There’ll always be vermin of that kind, with no respect for any creature, takin’ what they please an’ never carin’ who they have to slay, as long as they get what they want. Peaceful creatures to them are weak fools. But every once in a while they come up against beasts like us, peace-lovin’ an’ easy-goin’ until we’re threatened. Win or lose then, we won’t be killed, enslaved, or walked on just for their cruel satisfaction. No, we’ll band together an’ fight for what is ours!”

*

Far away from the ridge, in the safety and warmth of Redwall Abbey kitchens, the badgerbabe Russano lay in his barrel cradle, his soft dark eyes watching a chill blue mist forming across the ceiling. From somewhere, slow muffled drumbeats sounded, sweet voices humming in time with them.

A scene appeared out of the mists. The army from Redwall lay in slumber amid shattered spears, broken swords, and a tattered banner. Other creatures came then, warriors he had never met, yet a voice in the babe’s mind told him he knew them. Martin, Matthias, Mattimeo, Mariel, Gonff, all heroic-looking mice. There were badgers, too, great fierce-eyed creatures with names like Old Lord Brocktree, Boar the Fighter, Sunflash the Mace, Urthclaw, Urthwyte, Rawnblade, and many more. They wandered the ridge, and each time they touched a creature he or she stood and went with them.

Finally they stood in a group together, pale and spectral, and another joined them. It was Rockjaw Grang, the big hare who had carried and nursed Russano on the long trek to Redwall Abbey. Though he did not speak, the little badger heard his voice.

“Remember us when you are grown, Russano the Wise!”

Mother Buscol was awakened by the babe’s unhappy cries. Not knowing what he had witnessed, she laid him on her lap and stroked his head, whispering soothingly, “There, there, my liddle one, sleep now, ’twas only a dream.”

Back and forth she rocked the little badger until he drifted back to sleep, far too young to tell her what he had seen. Russano had witnessed the Redwall army upon the ridge in the aftermath of battle; he had beheld all those who lived, and the ones who did not.