A ring had been marked out higher up 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 which 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 with 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 mid-air, 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, whilst 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 backwards and he sank slowly on to 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!’
* * *
3
SOME CREATURES SAID that Russa came from the deep south, others thought she was from the west coast, but even Russa could not say with any degree of certainty where she had come from. The red female squirrel had neither family nor tribe, nor any place to call home: she was a wanderer who just loved to travel. Russa Nodrey she was often called, owing to the fact that squirrels’ homes were called dreys and she did not have one, hence, no drey.
Nobeast knew more about country ways than Russa. She could live where others would starve, she knew the way in woods and field when many would be hopelessly lost. Neither old nor young looking, quite small and lean, Russa carried no great traveller’s haversack or intricate equipment. A small pouch at the back of the rough green tunic she always wore was sufficient for her needs. The only other thing she possessed was a stick, which she had picked up from the flotsam of a tideline. It was about walking stick size and must have come from far away, because it was hard and dark and had a lustre of its own – even seawater could not rot or warp it.
Russa liked her stick. There was no piece of wood like it in all the land, nor any tree that produced such wood. It was also a good weapon, because besides being a lone wanderer, Russa Nodrey was also an expert fighter and a very dangerous warrior, in her own quiet way.
Off again on her latest odyssey, Russa stopped to rest among the cliff ledges not far from Camp Tussock. Happy with her own company, she sat by the stream edge, drank her fill of the sweet cold water and settled down to enjoy the late afternoon sun in a nook protected from the wind. The sound of another creature nearby did not bother Russa unduly; she knew it was a mole and therefore friendly. With both eyes closed, as if napping, Russa waited until the creature was right up close, then she spoke in perfect molespeech to it.
‘Hurr, gudd day to ee, zurr, wot you’m be a doin’ yurrabouts?’
Roolee, the husband of Osmunda, was taken aback, though he did not show it. He sat down next to Russa and raised a hefty digging claw in greeting. ‘Gudd day to ee, marm, noice weather us’n’s be ’avin’, burr aye!’
Russa answered in normal speech. ‘Aye, a pity that somebeasts blunder along to disturb a body’s rest when all she craves is peace an’ quiet.’
‘Yurr, so ’tis, marm, so ’tis.’ Roolee nodded agreement. ‘Tho’ if ee be who oi think ee be, marm Mem at Camp Tussock will be pleased to see ee. May’ap you’m koindly drop boi furr vittles?’
Russa was up on her paws immediately. ‘Why didn’t you just say that instead of yappin’ about the weather? I’d travel three rough leagues ’fore breakfast if I knew me old friend Mem Divinia was still cookin’ those pancakes an’ hotpots of hers!’
Roolee led the way, his velvety head nodding. ‘Burr aye, marm, ee Mem still be ee gurtest cook yurrabouts, she’m doin’ pannycakes, ottenpots an’ all manner o’ gudd vittles!’
Russa ran several steps ahead of Roolee coming into Camp Tussock. Lynum was doing sentry duty at the stockade entrance. In the fading twilight he saw the strange squirrel approaching and decided to exercise his authority.
Barring the way with a long oak quarterstave he called officiously, ‘Halt an’ be recognized, who goes there, stranger at the gate!’
Russa was hungry, and she had little time for such foolishness. She gave the husky hare a smart rap across his footpaw with her stick. ‘Hmm, you’ve grown since I last saw ye,’ she commented as she stepped over him. ‘Y’were only a fuzzy babe then – fine big hare now though, eh? Pity your wits never grew up like your limbs, y’were far nicer as a little ’un.’
Mem Divinia wiped floury paws on her apron hem and rushed to meet the visitor, her face alight with joy. ‘Well, fortunes smile on us! Russa Nodrey, you roamin’ rascal, how are you?’
Russa avoided Mem’s flourdusted hug and made for the corner seat at table, as she remembered it was the most comfortable and best for access to the food. She winked at Mem.
‘Oh, I’m same as I always was, Mem, when I’m not travellin’ up an’ down the country I’m roamin’ sideways across the land.’
Mem winked back at Russa and whispered, ‘Your visit is very timely, friend. I have something to ask of you.’ Then, on seeing the Colonel approaching the table, she quickly mouthed the word ‘later’. Russa understood.
Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock viewed the guest with a jaundiced eye and a snort. ‘Hmph! Respects to ye, marm, I see you’ve installed y’self in my flippin’ seat! Comfortable are ye, wot?�
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Russa managed a rare smile. ‘Aye, one seat’s as good as another. How are ye, y’old fogey, still grouchin’ an’ throwin’ orders around like they’re goin’ out of style? I’ve seen boulders that’ve changed faster than you!’
The conversation was cut short by Osmunda thwacking a hollow gourd with a ladle, summoning the inhabitants of Camp Tussock to their evening meal.
Mem Divinia and her helpers always provided the best of victuals. There was steaming hot, early-spring vegetable soup, with flat crisp oatmeal bannocks, followed by the famous Tussock hotpot. In a huge earthenware basin coated with a golden piecrust was a delicious medley of corn, carrots, mushrooms, turnips, winter cabbage and onions, in a thick, rich gravy full of Mem’s secret herbs. This was followed by a hefty apple, blackberry and plum crumble topped with Osmunda’s greensap and maple sauce. Hot mint and comfrey tea was served, along with horsechestnut beer and redcurrant cordial. Afterwards there were honeyed barleyscones, white hazelnut cheese and elderflower bread, for those still wanting to nibble.
Tammo sat quiet, still out of favour with his father the Colonel, since the battleaxe incident. He listened as Russa related the latest news she had gathered in her wandering.
‘Last autumn a great storm in the west country sent the waves tearing up the cliffs, and a good part of ’em collapsed into the sea.’
The Colonel reached for cheese and bread with a grunt. ‘Hmph! Used to patrol down that way, y’know, lots of toads, nasty slimy types, murderous blighters, hope the cliffs fell on them, wot! Anythin’ happenin’ at Salamandastron of late?’
Tammo leaned forward eagerly at the name. Salamandastron, mountain of the Badger Lords, the mysterious place that was the headquarters of the Long Patrol.
Unfortunately Russa dismissed the subject. ‘Hah, the badger mountain, haven’t been there in many a long season. Place is still standin’ I suppose . . .’
The Colonel’s monocle dropped from his eye in righteous indignation. ‘You suppose, marm? Tchah! I should jolly well hope so! Why, if Salamandastron weren’t there the entire land would be overrun with Searats, Corsairs, vermin, Rapscallions, an’ . . . an’ . . . whatever!’
Russa leaned forward as if remembering something. ‘Spoke to an owl last winter, he said a whole fleet of Rapscallions had taken a right good thrashin’ on the shores near Salamandastron. Wotsisname, the old Warlord or Firstblade, or whatever they call him? Tunn! Gormad Tunn! He was wounded near to death. Anyhow, seems they’ve vanished into thin air to lick their wounds since then. I’ve seen no signs of Rapscallions, but if I were you I’d sleep with one eye open, y’can never tell where they’ll turn up next. Cruellest pack o’ slayers ever to draw breath, that lot!’
‘I don’t think we need worry too much about Rapscallions,’ Mem interrupted her friend. ‘They only plunder the coasts in their ships. Strange how they never sail the open seas like Searats an’ Corsairs. Who’s the Badger Lord at Salamandastron now, have y’heard?’
Russa poured herself a beaker of tea. ‘Big female they say, madder than midwinter, stronger than a four-topped oak, temper like lightnin’, full o’ the Bloodwrath. She’s called Cregga Rose Eyes, wields a pike that four otters couldn’t lift!’
Osmunda nodded in admiration. ‘Hurr, she’m got’n a purty name awright.’
Russa laughed mirthlessly. ‘There’s nought pretty about it! That one’s called Rose Eyes because her eyes are blood red with battle light. I’d hate to be the vermin that tried standin’ in her path.’
All eyes turned on Tammo as the question slipped from his mouth: ‘What’s a Rapscallion?’
The Colonel glared at his son. ‘Barbarian type vermin, too idle t’work, too stupid t’build a decent home. Like y’mother says, they only raid the coastlines, nothin’ for you t’worry your head over. Mind y’manners at table, young ’un, speak when y’spoken to an’ not before, sah!’
Russa shook her head at the Colonel’s statement. ‘You an’ Mem are both wrong. Rapscallions are unpredictable, they can raid inland as easily as on the coast. I saw their Chief’s sword once when I was young. It’s got two edges, one all wavy for the sea an’ the other straight for the land. There’s an old Rapscallion sayin’: Travel whither blade goes, anyside the sword shows.’
The Colonel cut himself a wedge of cheese. ‘Huh! What’s all that fol de rol s’posed t’mean, wot?’
‘Have we not had enough of this kind of talk, swords ’n’vermin an’ war?’ cried Mem Divinia, banging her beaker down on the table. ‘Change the subject, please. Roolee, what d’you make of this weather?’
The mole changed the conversation to suit Mem, who could see by the light in her husband’s eye that he was spoiling for an argument with Russa.
‘Ho urr, ee weather, marm . . . Hurr . . . umm . . . Well, ee burds be a tellin’ us’n’s ’twill be a foine springtoid, aye. May’ap missie Whinn’ll sing ee song abowt et.’
Mem coaxed a young hedgehog called Whinn to get on her paws and sing. Whinn had a good voice, clear and pretty; she liked to sing and did not need much urging.
‘Blow cobwebs out of corners, the corners, the corners,
Throw open all your windows,
To welcome in the spring.
Now icicles are shorter,
And turning fast to water,
Out yonder o’er the meadow,
I hear a skylark sing.
All through the earth a showing, a showing, a showing,
The greengrass is a growing,
So fresh is everything.
Around the flow’rs and heather,
The bees do hum together,
Their honey will be sweeter,
When ’tis made in spring.’
Tammo and the other creatures at table joined in as Whinn sang the song once more, and there was much tapping and clapping of paws. The evening wore on, with everybeast getting up to do their bit, singing, dancing, reciting, or playing simple instruments, mainly small drums or reed flutes.
Owing to the amount of food he had eaten and the warmth of the oven fire, Colonel Cornspurrey had great difficulty keeping awake. With a deep sigh he heaved himself up and took a final draught of chestnut beer, then swaying a little he peered sleepily at Russa Nodrey, and said, ‘Hmph, I take it you’ll be off travellin’ again in the mornin’, marm?’
Russa looked as fresh as a daisy as she nodded to him. ‘Crack o’ dawn’ll be early enough for me. Thank ye for your hospitality – Camp Tussock vittles were as good as ever.’
Shuffling off to the dormitory, Cornspurrey called back, ‘Indeed ’twill, keep the noise down when y’go, I’ll bid ye g’night now. An’ you others, don’t sit up too bally late, work t’be done on the morrow.’
* * *
4
WHEN HIS FATHER had gone to bed, Tammo watched his mother and Russa conversing earnestly in low voices. He knew they were discussing something important, but could only catch snatches of their conversation.
‘Nay, ’tis impossible, Mem. I travel alone, y’know that!’
‘Well, there’s a round score o’ pancakes to take along if you’ll help me, Russa.’
‘But I might not be goin’ anywhere near Salamandastron!’
‘Well then, take him as far as Redwall Abbey, he’ll meet other warriors there and the Long Patrol visits regularly. He won’t be any trouble, I promise you. The Colonel’s forbidden him t’go, but there’ll only be trouble ’twixt the two of ’em if he has to stay.’
‘A score o’ pancakes you say, Mem?’
‘Make it thirty if y’like! He’ll keep up with you, an’ obey every word you say, I know he will. Do it as a favour to me an’ you’ll always be welcome to a meal at Camp Tussock!’
‘Hmm, thirty pancakes eh, hah! And it’d be one in the monocle for that old waffler, somebeast disobeyin’ his orders. Right then, I’ll do it, but we’d best leave tonight an’ be well away from here by the morn. I’ll wait outside in the copse. Send him out when he’s ready.’
Rus
sa departed, muttering something about preferring to sleep out under the stars. Mem Divinia started clearing the table.
‘Come on now, all of you, off t’bed, mind what the Colonel said, work t’be done tomorrow. Tammo, you stay here an’ help me to clear away. Goodnight all, peaceful dreams!’
One by one they drifted off to the big dormitory cellar, which had been built beneath the stockade.
Osmunda nodded to Mem. ‘They’m all gone abed now, marm.’
Mem took a haversack from her wall cupboard and began adding pancakes to its contents. ‘Tammo, put those dishes down and come here. Hurry, son, there’s not much time.’
Mystified, Tammo came to sit on the table edge near his mother. ‘What’n the name o’ seasons is goin’ on, marm?’
Osmunda smacked his paw lightly with a ladle. ‘Do ee be ’ushed now, maister, an’ lissen to ee muther.’
Mem kept her eyes averted, fussing over the haversack. ‘Lackaday, I’m not sure whether I’m doin’ the right or the wrong thing now, Tammo, but I’m givin’ you a chance to see a bit o’ life out in the world. I think ’tis time you grew up an’ joined the Long Patrol.’
Tammo slid off the table edge, disbelief shrill in his voice. ‘Me, join the jolly ol’ Long Patrol. Oh, marm!’
Mem pulled the haversack drawstrings tight. ‘Keep y’voice down or you’ll waken the entire camp. Our friend Russa has agreed to take you in tow, she’ll keep you safe. Now don’t be a nuisance to that old squirrel, keep up and don’t dare cheek her. Russa ain’t as lenient as me an’ she’s a lot quicker on her paws than your father, so mind your manners. There’s enough food in the haversack to keep you going for a good while, also thirty of my pancakes for Russa. Come over here, Tamm, stand still whilst I put this on you.’
Mem Divinia took from the cupboard a twine and linen belt, strong and very skilfully woven. It had a silver buckle, fashioned in the image of a running hare. Attached to the belt was a weapon that was neither sword nor dagger, being about half the length of the former and twice the size of the latter. Tammo cast admiring glances at the beautiful thing as his mother set the belt sash fashion, running over his shoulder and across his chest, so that the buckle hung at his side.
The Long Patrol Page 2