Brian Jacques - [Redwall 10] - The Long Patrol

which they had pinned to the trunk. A selection of axes, knives, and javelins quivered from the wood all ’round the

leaf.

A shrew called Spykel held up a ribbon of crimson silk. “First to pin the leaf dead center wins this!”

Log-a-Log balanced his rapier and threw it like a javelin.

“A hit! The Guosim Chief’s hit it!”

Gurgan Spearback inspected the leaf. “Nay, ’tis not dead center, a touch left, I’d say. Stand away now, yon

ribbon’d look fetchin’ in my wife, Rufftip’s, spikes!”

Gurgan stood on the ten-pace mark. Closing one eye, he licked the blade of his ax, sighted, and flung it spinning. It

struck the leaf, slicing it neatly in half through its middle. Gurgan pulled his ax loose and wound the ribbon on to his

paw. “See, that’s how a Water’og learns to cast his blade!”

Midge Manycoats stopped Gurgan strolling off with the prize. “If a chap could send his blade spot into the cut your

ax made, would you give him that nice fancy ribbon, old feller?”

Gurgan chuckled so that his oversized boots quaked. “Ho-hoho! Hearken to this ’un! ’Taint possible, master ’are!

No-beast can cast a blade good as that in one throw!”

Midge winked at Tammo, who was standing nearby with Pasque. “Show the Waterhog how our patrol chuck a

blade, Tamm, go on!”

The young hare blinked modestly. “Oh, really, Midge, I don’t go in for showin’ off.”

From his perch on the trunk, Perigord interrupted. “Go to it, Tamm, win the ribbon for young Pasque!”

Three paces farther out than the mark, Tammo drew his dirk. “Oh, well, if you say so, sah ...”

The weapon shot from Tammo’s paw like chain lightning. It hissed through the air and thudded deep into the center

of the split made by Gurgan’s ax. A roar went up from the onlookers.

Bewildered, the Waterhog Chieftain inspected the throw. “Lackaday, I never seen a beast sling steel like that,

young sir! What manner o’ creature taught thee such a skill?”

Tammo grunted as he used both paws to tug the dirk free. “One called Russa Nodrey, a far finer warrior than I’ll

ever hope t’be. Keep your ribbon, Gurgan, ’twas you split the leaf.”

But the Waterhog would not hear of it. He draped the crimson silken ribbon on Tammo’s paw and bowed formally.

“Nay, I’d like t’see thee give it to thy pretty friend!”

Tammo felt his ears turn bright pink as he draped the silk about Pasque Valerian’s neck. Everybeast cheered him,

and Perigord shook him warmly by the paw.

“Your mother’d be rather proud if she could see you now, Tamm!”

51

Furgale and Atgador 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 Clu-brush.

“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’ unnerground 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’H 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 Redwal! 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 slumbtr 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 Red-wall Abbey. Though he did not speak, the little