Brian Jacques - [Redwall 10] - The Long Patrol

useful.”

Everybeast joined in to roll the big dead trunk uphill. Gurgan, painted for war, wearing his club and ax, supervised

the job. “Put thy backs into it, thou slab-chopped ne’er-do-well rabble! A liddle twig like yon should give thee an

appetite for when we breakfast. Worry not about gettin’ lily-white paws dusty, by me spikes, come on, move it, afore I

move ye to bitter tears!”

Captain Twayblade levered hard at the pine with a pike, smiling in high good humor at the fat hedgehog’s insults.

One of Skipper’s crew working alongside her gritted his teeth as he threw his weight against the massive log, and

muttered, “Wot’s so funny, Cap’n?”

Twayblade leaned on the pikehaft, taking a short breather. “That Waterhog, old chap, Gurgan thingummy. I’d like

to put him in a contest against our Sergeant Torgoch. I wager they could insult a regiment for a full day without jolly

well re-peatin’ themselves. That Waterhog’s a born Color Sergeant!”

Pasque Valerian sat alone near the tall standing rock at the ridge center, her breakfast untouched, watching the

daybreak. Rising from behind a bank of dusky cream cloud, the sun appeared reddish-hued like a new copper coin,

burning the morning dew into tiny wraithlike tendrils. It was the start of a high summer’s day, but the young hare was

downcast.

Arven, the Champion of Redwall, had already eaten. He wandered across to where Pasque sat, and, leaning against

the rock, he watched her. “Gracious me, there’s a long face! D’you want it to rain?”

The young hare looked up into the squirrel’s kind features. “No sir, I hope the day stays fine.”

“Lost your appetite too, I see?”

“Oh, I’ll get ’round to eatin’ it, sir.”

“What is it, then? Are you afraid of the battle to come?”

“Not really, sir. I’ve seen quite a bit of action with Long Patrol.”

Arven drew the Sword of Martin from its sheath across his back. He touched Pasque’s paw lightly with the tip,

smiling secretly. “D’you see this sword? Did you know that it has the power to make pretty hare maidens happy?”

Pasque cast her eyes over the legendary blade. “I’ve never known a sword do that, sir, but if you say it does, then

I’ll have to take your word.”

Arven snorted impatiently and flourished the blade. “Hah! I see y’don’t believe me. Right, I’ll show you, missie.

C’mon, up off your hunkers and see where my blade is pointing!”

Pasque arose with a small sigh. She did not feel like being forced to laugh at sword tricks.

Arven pointed the blade out and downward to the back of the ridge. “Place your eye level with my sword and look

carefully.”

The young hare did as she was bid, and in an instant she was wreathed in smiles, jumping about excitedly. “It’s

Tammo, he’s coming! He’s coming here!”

Arven watched the small figure below on the plain, running in front of two others like a true Long Patrol Galloper.

“Y’see, I told you this is a powerful sword!”

Major Perigord had to lower his brows and glower a bit to prevent himself from smiling. “I say, Pasque, old thing,

d’you mind lettin’ go of young Tammo’s paw, just while he makes his blinkin’ report t’me, wot!”

Tammo flushed to his eartips and gave a smart salute. “Midge’ll be here soon, sah, our mission was successful.

Da-mug Warfang is headed this way with the Rapscallion army. Sorry to report that we lost Rockjaw Grang ...”

Tammo’s voice broke for a moment. “He ... he gave his life so we could escape. Brought a squirrel with us, name o’

Fourdun; he was a prisoner, y’see. I cut your trail ’twixt here, south o’ Redwall, and we’ve been runnin’ like

madbeasts all night t’get here. Sah!”

The Major turned aside and, taking out a spotted kerchief, he wiped his eyes. After a moment he faced Tammo

again, his face pale. “Big Rockjaw Grang, eh? A good an’ perilous hare. By my blood an’ blade, we’ll make the

vermin pay heavily for him! Go an’ get y’vittles, Tamm, you look quite done in. I’ll get the fine details from Midge.

Thank ye, y’may dismiss.”

50?

Bluggach the big stoat Rapmark, made his way to the head of the marching Rapscallions, pointing as he came level

with Damug Warfang.

“See, Firstblade, fires burnin’ on that ridge in the distance!”

The Greatrat kept his gaze locked on the trio of smoke columns rising against the distant sky. “I saw them a while

back. Send Henbit to me.”

Henbit was a wily-looking Rapmark officer. He appeared at Damug’s side with scarcely a sound. “Mightiness, you

wanted to see me?”

“Aye, listen now. Take a score of trackers, good ones who are able to hide and run silent. Get over to that ridge,

look for a rock like an otter’s tail, and see how many are waiting for us there. Then check the valley, it should have a

rift running along the far side of it. Take care that you are not seen. Go!”

Damug was confident that he could win. Who else could put an army of a thousand in the field? Where in all the

country east of Salamandastron was any serious force of fighters to be found? As he strode at the head of his powerful

force, Damug planned ahead.

He had learned the lesson of overconfidence from his father, Gormad Tunn, when they attacked Salamandastron

with disastrous results. Though this battle would be different and his opponents fewer, that was no reason not to take

precautions. He would split the army into two groups, sending them into the valley from both ends in a pincer

movement. This would catch any of his enemy who were lying in wait on the valley floor and prevent the Rapscallions

being outflanked.

Those Redwallers had a harsh lesson in death coming to them. Redwall—when the Abbey was his he would

change its name. Fort Damug! That had a good sound to it. His name would live forever when the place was

mentioned in far seasons to come. Fort Damug. Tales would be told of how he defeated the foe on open ground and

took the Abbey without disturbing a stone.

A keen-eyed squirrel, one of the friends from Mossflower Wood, stood erect on top of the standing rock. Shading

both eyes with a paw, he scanned all ’round. The way in which he halted, tail erect and head thrust forward, told

Lieutenant Mono that he had spotted something.

Mono hailed him. “What ho there, Lookout, any sign o’ movement?”

Holding his position, the squirrel called back, “Dust cloud comin’ out o’ the southeast, too faint yet t’see much!”

Morio’s long face lit up momentarily. “Keep your eye on it, bucko, looks like our visitors are on their flippin’ way.

Report if you note any change!”

The big pine trunk had become a kind of social gathering place; hares, mice, hedgehogs, shrews, moles, and

squirrels grouped about it when they were off duty. Perigord sat scratching his initials into the wood as he listened to

Morio’s report.

“That sounds like the blighters right enough. When d’you think we can expect them to arrive?”

“Can’t say, sah, have t’wait on the Lookout’s report.”

The Major winked at his waiting warriors. “Well, whenever it is, we’ll give the blackguards a warm welcome, eh?

”

Ribald comments greeted this statement.

“Aye, we’ll feed ’em a nice ’ot supper o’ cold steel!”

“Haharr, we’ll rap their scallions for ’em!”

“Give the villains rock cakes served wirh spearpoints!”

Perigord looked down to the (hick end of the trunk. Several creatures were throwing weapons at a shriveled leaf,