Brian Jacques - [Redwall 10] - The Long Patrol

Damug’s footclaw. With a swift, light thrust he impaled it on his swordpoint and sat watching it wriggle its life away.

Behind him breakfast fires were being lit and drums were beginning their remorseless throb again as the

Rapscallion armies wakened to face the day. Damug sensed the presence of Lug-worm at his back, and did not bother

turning as the stoat spoke.

“Empty cookin’ pots cause rebellion, O Firstblade. You must throw the sword quickly, today!”

Damug flicked the swordblade sideways, sending the dying insect into the ebbing sea. Then he stood and turned to

face Lugworm. The Greatrat’s jaw was so tight with anger that it made his voice a harsh grate.

“I know what I’ve got to do, slopbrain, but supposing the sword falls wave side up? How could I take all of those

back there out to sea in a fleet of rotten, waterlogged ships? We’d go straight to the bottom. There’s not a seaworthy

vessel on this shore. So unless you’ve got a foolproof solution, don’t come around here with that idiotic grin on your

stupid face, telling me what I already know!”

Before Lugworm could answer, Damug whipped the swordpoint up under his chin. He jabbed a little, causing the

blade to nick skin. Lugworm was forced to stand tip-pawed as Da-mug snarled, “Enjoying yourself now, cleversnout?

I’ll teach you to come grinning at my predicament. Come on, let’s see you smile that silly smile you had plastered on

your useless face a moment ago.”

The stoat’s throat bobbed as he gulped visibly, and his words came out in a rush as the blade of the unpredictably

tempered Warlord dug a bit deeper. “Damug, Firstblade, I’ve got the answer, I know what t’do, that’s why I came to

see you!”

The swordpoint flicked downward, biting into the deck between Lugworm’s footpaws. Damug was smiling

sweetly, his swift mood swing and calm tone indicating that his servant was out of danger, for the moment.

“Lugworm, my trusty friend, I knew you’d come up with a solution to my problem. Pray tell me what I must do.”

Rubbing beneath his chin, where a thin trickle of blood showed, Lugworm sat upon the deck. From his belt pouch

he dug out a small, heavy brass clip. “Your father used this because he favored sailin’, always said it was better’n p.aw

slog-gin’ a horde over ’ill’n’dale. If y’ll allow me, Chief, I’ll show ye ’ow it works.”

Damug gave his sword to the stoat, who stood up to demonstrate.

“Y’see, the Rapscallions foller this sword. The Firstblade tosses it in the air, an’ they go whichever way it falls, but

it’s gotta fall wid one o’ these crosspieces stickin’ in the ground. Wave side of the blade up means we sail, smooth side

o’ the blade showing upward means we go by land.”

“I know that, you fool, get on with it!”

Lug worm heeded the danger in Damug’s terse voice. He attached the brass clip to the wave-side crosspiece and

tossed the sword up. It was not a hard throw; the flick of Lugworm’s paw caused the weapon to turn once, almost

lazily, as morning sunlight glimmered across the blade. With a soft thud it fell to the deck, the straight, sharp blade

edge upward.

“Y’see, Chief, it works every time ’cos the added weight on the wavy side hits the ground first. But don’t fling it

’igh in the air, toss it up jus’ like I did, slow like, wid a twist o’ yer paw. ’Tis easy, try it.”

Damug Warfang was not one to leave anything to luck. He tried the trick several times, each time with the same

result. The sword always landed smooth edge upward. Damug removed the brass clip and attached it to a bracelet he

wore.

“Good! You’re not as thick as you look, friend Lugworm.”

The stoat bowed his head respectfully to the new Firstblade, saying, “I served your father, Gormad Tunn, but he

became old and strange in the brain and would not listen to my advice. Heed my counsel, Chief, and I will make the

name Damug Warfang feared by all on land and sea. You will become the greatest Firstblade that Rapscallions have

ever known.”

Damug nodded. “So be it. You are my adviser and as such will be at my side to reap the benefit of all my

triumphs.”

Before Lugworm could voice his thanks, the blade was in his face, its point almost tickling his right eyeball. The

smile on Damug’s lips was cold enough to freeze water.

“Sly little Lugworm, eh? Counselor to mighty ones! Listen, stoat, if you even think about crossing me I’ll make

you scream half a season before you die!”

The rats Sneezewort and Lousewort were merely two common, low-ranked Rapscallions in the Firstblade’s great

army. The pair scrabbled for position on a clump of boulders at the rear of massed hordes of vermin warriors, who had

all gathered to witness the Throwing of the Sword ceremony. They jostled and pushed, trying to catch a glimpse of

what was going on in the stone circle where the duel had taken place. High-ranking officers called Rapmarks occupied

the immediate edge of the ring, as was their right. The ordinary rank and file struggled, standing tip-pawed to get a

view of the proceedings.

Sneezewort hauled himself up on Louse wort’s back, and the dull, stolid Lousewort staggered forward under the

added weight, muttering, “Er, er, wot’s goin’ on down there, mate?”

Sneezewort flicked his companion’s ear with a grimy claw. “Straighten up, jetlyback, I can’t see much from ’ere.

’Ang on, I think ole Firstblade’s gonna say sumpin’.”

Lousewort flinched as his ear was flicked harder. “Ouch-ouch! Stoppit, that’s me wounded ear!”

Staggering farther forward he bumped into a big, fat, nastylooking weasel, who turned on them with a snarl. “Hoi!

If you two boggletops don’t stop bangin’ inter me an’ shoutin’ like that y’H ’ave more’n wounded ears ter worry about.

I’ll stuff yore tails up yore snotty noses an’ rip ’em off, so back off an’ shut yer gobs!”

Damug’s voice rang harsh and clear across the savage crowd of vermin gathered on the shore.

“The spirit of my father, the great Gormad Tunn, appeared to me in my dreams. He said that the sword will fall

land side up and seasons of glory will reward all who follow Damug Warfang. Plunder, slaves, land, and wealth for

even the lowest paw soldier of the mighty army of Rapscallions. I, your First-blade, pass the words of my beloved

father on to you, my loyal comrades!”

Sneezewort could not resist a snigger as a thought occurred to him. “Yeeheehee! ‘Beloved father’? They couldn’t

stan’ the sight o’ each other. Huh, Damug’H be in trouble if’n the sword lands wavy side up after shootin”is mouth off

like that, I tell yer, mate!”

The big weasel turned ’round, testing the tip of a rusty iron hook. “Damug won’t be in ’arf the trouble you’ll be in

if’n yer don’t put a stopper on that blatherin’ jaw o’ yourn, snipe-nose!” He turned back in time to see the sword rise

above the crowd. There was a vast silence, followed by a rousing cheer.

“Land up! Land up!”

Lousewoit thrust a stained claw into his wounded ear and wiggled it. “Stand up? Wot’s that supposed ter mean?”

The big nasty weasel whirled around and dealt two swift punches, one to Lousewort’s stomach, the other to

Sneeze-wort’s nose. They both collapsed to the ground in a jumbled heap, and the weasel stood, paws akimbo,

sneering at them. “It means you need yer ears washin’ out an’ yer mate needs his lip buttoned! Any more questions,

dimwits?”

Clutching his injured nose, Sneezewort managed to gasp out, “No thir, it’th all quite clear, thank yew, thir!”