Brian Jacques - [Redwall 10] - The Long Patrol

and sent it crashing to the floorstones. The noise of it smashing to fragments caused a momentary silence. That was

enough for Viola; she was in, her voice ringing out sternly: “Silence! Be quiet, I say! Have you no manners at all? You

there, Brother Sedum, and you, Pellit, take these babes off to bed right now! The rest of you, stop behaving like a pack

of wild vermin. Shame on you! Arven, you are Abbey Warrior, tell these silly creatures of your plans!”

Arven had made no plans at all, but he took the center floor and made them up boldly as he went along, his voice

ringing with confidence to reassure the listeners.

“My plans, yes—1 was just coming to that before all the shouting started. Foremole Diggum and his moles will

take care of the demolition and rebuilding, together with any of you he chooses to assist him. The work will be carried

out in shifts, so that the job will be completed as soon as possible. Meanwhile I’m sure our friend Shad will contact the

Skipper of Otters and his crew, and together with our own stout creatures they will form a force to guard and patrol

the immediate area. Really, friends, there is no cause to worry at all. Many seasons have passed since any vermin

bands were seen in this part of Mossflower Country.”

Tansy clapped her paws in appreciation of Arven’s fine speech, and soon the other Redwallers joined in, heartened

by his words.

Late that night when most other creatures were abed, Tansy presided over a meeting of the Abbey elders in Cavern

Hole, a smaller, more comfortable venue. While they were gathering she took the opportunity to murmur to Craklyn,

“What price a swift kick in the bustle now, marm? I think Viola behaved magnificently tonight in Great Hall. There’s

a lot more to our Infirmary Sister than mostbeasts would think, d’you agree?”

The squirrel Recorder nodded vigorously. “Indeed there is, she can be a proper little firebrand when she wants. All

right, Mother Abbess, I’ll eat my words. I’d sooner shake her by the paw than kick her in the bustle!”

Deep into the small hours they sat debating the issue of the south wall, its possibilities and its perils. The meeting

ended with Diggum’s irrefutable mole logic.

“Hurr well, so be’L Us’n’s caint do ennythin”til we foinds out wot maked ee wall go all of awobble. Oi’m thinkin’

us’n’s won’t be able t’do that proper lest us gets a gudd noight’s sleep.”

Arven tossed and turned in his bed, the question of the wall troubling him greatly, until finally sleep took over and

he settled down. In his dreams he was visited by Martin the Warrior, the guiding spirit of Redwall Abbey. Martin was

the Warrior who had been instrumental in founding Redwall long ages before. The dust of countless seasons had blown

over his grave, though his image was still fresh on the wall tapestry of Great Hall. It was often in times of trouble and

crisis that he would appear in dreams to one or another Redwaller of his choosing, comforting and counseling them.

On this night, however, his words carried a warning to Arven. Looming through the mists of slumber the

warriormouse strode, armored and carrying his legendary sword. Arven instinctively knew there would be a message

for both him and the Abbey, and as he watched Martin draw near, a great sense of peace and well-being swept over

him. He felt like some small creature folded within the security of a figure that was old, wise, compassionate, and

above all, safe. The Warrior spoke:

“Watch you ever the southlands,

And beware when summertide falls,

A price will be paid for these stones we hold dear,

Though war must not touch our walls.”

Arven had no recollection of his dream the next day.

11

On the southeast coastline the mighty Rapscallion army crouched, saturated, cold, and hungry, amid the wreckage

of their ships. Gray-black and bruised though it was, dawn proved a welcome sight for the dispirited vermin masses.

No-beast could have known that after they had burned their dwellings a storm would arrive in the night.

It came from the southeast, tearing across the seas with a vengeance, without warning. Battering torrents of rain

sheeted down to drown the campfires ’round which the vermin were sleeping. Hailstones big as pigeon eggs were

mixed with the deluge, while a gale-force wind drove the downpour sideways over the beach.

Shrieking and roaring, rats, ferrets, stoats, weasels, and foxes dashed about on the shingle, seeking shelter as the

storm’s intensity grew. Ships beached on the immediate tide line were seized upon by the mountainous seas and heaved

out upon the waves, where they were smashed like eggshells as they crashed into one another. Rigging and timbers,

ratlines and gallery rails flew through the air, slaying several unfortunates who were running panicked on the shore.

Only four vessels, beached high above the tide line, their hulls half buried by sand and shingle, were safe. Around the

lee sides of these ships the Rapscallions fought their comrades savagely, endeavoring to find shelter. Damug Warfang

and his Rapmark officers, together with a chosen few, occupied the cabin spaces, while the remainder fended for

themselves out in the open.

By daylight the rain and hailstones had passed, sweeping upward into the land, though the wind was still strong and

wild. Damug crouched over a guttering fire in the cabin of his father’s former ship, teeth chattering. Drawing his cloak

tighter, he watched Lugworm heating a pannikin of grog over the meager flames.

“That looks ready as it’ll ever be. Give it here!”

With his teeth rattling like castanets against the container, the Greatrat sipped gingerly at the scalding concoction.

When he had drunk enough the Firstblade gave the remainder to Lugworm, who choked it down before Damug could

change his mind. Peering through the broken timbers, Damug cast his eye over the low-spirited Rapscallions roaming

the shore.

“We’ll move right away, get inland where the weather’s a touch milder. First grove o’ woodland we find will do

for a camp; fire, water, whatever food we can forage, then they’ll be ready to gear up and march.”

Lugworm fussed around his Chief, brushing dirt and splinters from Damug’s cloak. “Aye, sir, they’ll be fine then,

fightin’ fit fer a journey o’er to the west, ter pay that badger back for yore father.”

Whack!

The Greatrat’s mailed paw caught Lugworm alongside his jaw, sending him crashing into a shattered bunk. Damug

was like a madbeast: flinging himself upon the hapless stoat he beat him unmercifully, punctuating each word with a

blow or kick.

“Don’t you ever mention that beast within my hearing again! We stay away from that cursed mountain! Aye, and

that rose-eyed destroyer, that blood-crazed badger! That ... That ...” He grabbed Lugworm by the throat and shook him

like a rag. “That ... badger! You even think about her again and I’ll kill you stone dead!”

Damug Warfang hurled the half-conscious Lugworm from himself, slammed the door clean off its hinges, and

strode quivering with rage out of the cabin. Grabbing a ferret called Skaup, he bellowed right into his face, “Get the

drums rolling, and tell my Rapmarks to line up their companies. We march north. Now!”

Within a very short time the Rapscallion soldiers were formed up into columns five wide and marching away from

the hostile coast.

Damug strode at the head of his army; on either side of him, six rats pounded their big drums. Ragged banners