The Long Patrol

by Brian Jacques

  Behind her back, Shad had purloined a batch of hot scones, and now he slid past Mother Buscol, chuckling. ‘Where’s yore manners, mate? Put the pore creature down an’ we’ll wait in Cavern ‘Ole ’til brekkfist’s ready.’

  Laughing, Mother Buscol went about her business. ‘Indeed to goodness look you, shrimp’n’hotroot soup with the best October Ale an’ my good shortybreads. Whatever next?’

  Dibbuns hastily finished their meal and trundled into Cavern Hole to sport with the playful otters.

  ‘Skipper, Skipper, it me Sloey, I jump offa table an’ you catch me!’

  ‘Burr, ’old ee still, zurr h’otter, oi wants to ride on ee back!’

  ‘Teehee! We tella Muvver Buscol you steal ’er scones!’

  Otters rolled and wrestled happily about the floor with the babes, tickling, swinging and playfighting. Abbess Tansy and Craklyn came to see what all the noise was about, and Tansy shook her head at Skipper and his crew, sprawled on the floor.

  ‘Really, sir, I don’t know who’s the worse, you or these babes. Come on, Dibbuns, be off with you. The elders need to talk with Skipper while he has his breakfast.’

  Foremole Diggum scratched his head as he inspected the plans Craklyn had drawn up on a parchment. ‘Umm, can ee go through et all agin, marm, then may’ap oi’ll unnerstan’ wot ee wants a doin’!’

  The Redwall Recorder outlined her scheme for the second time. ‘As I said, the tree falling has started demolition on the wall, so it’s not all bad. But how to move the tree so we can continue with the job? Here’s my idea. First we need axes and saws to lop off all the top foliage of the beech, then, if it is not already broken clean of its stump, we must sever it. Once that job is done the tree must be supported by struts, to make sure it doesn’t fall any further. Then the remaining wall can be removed, the treetrunk dropped and rolled out of the way. Clear?’

  Diggum continued scratching his head. ‘Hurr, ’tis a pity oi be such a simplebeast, oi’m still all aswoggled with ee plan, marm.’

  Arven stood up decisively. ‘Oh, you’ll get the hang of it as we go along, Diggum. What’s the state of the weather outdoors now?’

  Gurrbowl the Cellar Keeper and Viola Bankvole went outside. They were back shortly to report. ‘The rain has stopped, though it’s still quite windy; sky over to the south is clearing. If the wind dies down ’twill be a fine afternoon.’

  Skipper quaffed his beaker of October Ale. ‘Right y’are, marm, then let’s get those axes an’ saws out o’ the tool-store an’ sharpen ’em up. We’ll start work after lunch!’

  Still mystified by the plan, Foremole Diggum decided to inspect the job from a different angle. He gathered together a few of his trusty moles for the task. ‘Yurr, Drubb, Bunto, Wuller, an’ ee Truggle, oi figger et’s toime us’n’s taked a lukk at ee wall proper loik!’

  Skipper was greasing a double paw saw when he noticed the moles leaving, carrying nothing but a few coiled ropes. ‘Ahoy, where d’you suppose they’re bound?’

  Arven glanced up from the axe blade he was whetting. ‘Leave them be, Skip. I could see Diggum wasn’t too happy with Craklyn’s plan, so I suppose he’s going to take a look for himself. You know moles, they always look at things in a different way from otherbeasts, and quite often theirs is the most sensible way. Maybe they’ll find out something we don’t know.’

  Foremole Diggum moved slowly along the wallbase on all fours, sniffing the ground, scratching the stone and probing the soil with his strong digging claws. About midway along the south wall he stopped and, pointing to a spot on the sandstone blocks three courses up, he addressed Truggle. ‘Roight thurr, marm!’

  The other moles nodded wisely; their Foremole had made a good choice. Truggle produced a small wooden mallet and began striking the place Diggum had indicated. Diggum placed an ear against the ground, directly below where she was hitting, and listened carefully, ignoring the wind and the wet grass. When he had heard enough the Foremole signalled Truggle to stop and straightened up.

  Drubb blinked earnestly at Diggum. ‘Boi ’okey, Gaffer, oi can tell by ee face you’m founded summat.’

  Foremole Diggum took a twig and stuck it into the ground on the place where his ear had been.

  ‘Ho oi found summat sure enuff, doant know ’ow oi missed et afore. Wot caused ee wall to sink’n’wobble? Ee answer’s daown thurr, ’tis a cave or may’ap summ sort o’ chamber!’

  Bunto shook his Foremole by the paw. ‘Hurr! Oi knowed ee’d foind ee answer. Wot now, Diggum zurr?’

  Foremole Diggum’s homely face wrinkled into a cheery smile. ‘Us’n’s got some diggin’ t’do!’

  Five sets of digging claws met over the twig.

  ‘Who’m dig deep’n’make best ’oles?

  Only us’n’s, we be moles!’

  * * *

  15

  LUGWORM HAD DONE his work well. The two rat sentries guarding Damug Warfang’s shelter of brush and canvas sat upright with four empty grog flasks between them. The crafty stoat had known that the strong drink would be irresistible to beasts standing guard through the cold lonely night hours. Lugworm watched them from his hiding place until he was sure the pair were sleeping soundly. Slipping away he found Borumm and Vendace waiting at the place he had arranged to meet them.

  Borumm drew his curved dagger, impatient to go about his business. ‘Everythin’ ready, mate, coast clear?’

  Lugworm nodded fearfully, wishing he had never been drawn into the conspiracy to slay the Firstblade. ‘Aye, ’tis ready, but go carefully, Damug’s a light sleeper.’

  Vendace drew his blade, suppressing a snigger. ‘Light sleeper, eh? Well ’e won’t be after tonight!’

  Lugworm edged away from the would-be assassins nervously. ‘There, I’ve done me bit, the rest’s up to youse two. But remember, if yer fail an’ get caught, then not a word about me!’

  Borumm the weasel kicked out, sending Lugworm sprawling.

  Vendace stood over him, snarling scornfully. ‘Gam, git outta my sight, stoat, yore in this up to yer slimy neck. The only consolation you’ve got is that we don’t intend ter fail, or git caught. Now beat it an’ keep yer gob shut!’

  As Lugworm scrambled away whimpering, the fox winked at his cohort. ‘We’ll deal wid him tomorrer, no use leavin’ loose ends lyin’ about. If Lugworm can betray Damug ’e’d do the same fer us someday. Come on, let’s pay the Firstblade a liddle visit.’

  Damug perched in the branches of the ash tree near his shelter, the rat Gribble crouching by his side. Together they watched the weasel and the fox as, daggers drawn, the pair slid by the two sleeping sentries, silent as night shadows. The Greatrat waited a moment, until he heard blades grating against the sack of stones he’d wrapped in his cloak and laid by the fire. Then he nodded to Gribble.

  The rat blew two sharp blasts upon a bone whistle.

  Pheep! Pheep!

  Ten heavily armed Rapmark officers broke cover, rushed in and surrounded Borumm and Vendace.

  It was fine and sunny next morning, a perfect spring day. Damug allowed Gribble to dress him in his splendid armour; choosing a cloak that did not have dagger slits in it he draped it loosely across one shoulder and strolled out to the woodland’s edge. The entire Rapscallion army was marshalled there, awaiting him, each beast fully armed and ready to march, their faces painted bright red. The face paint served a double purpose: it instilled fear into those they chose to attack, and marked them so they would not strike one another down in the heat of battle.

  Damug took up position on a knoll where he could be seen and heard. Whipping out the sword that was his symbol of office he shouted, ‘Rapscallions! Are you well rested and well fed?’

  A roar of assent greeted him. ‘Aye, Lord, aye!’

  He smiled approvingly. Now his horde looked like true Rapscallions. They bore little resemblance to the cringing vermin who had wintered on the cold shores after their defeat at Salamandastron.

  Damug yelled another question at them. ‘And are you rea
dy to conquer and slay with me as your Firstblade?’

  Again the wild roars of agreement echoed in his ears. He waited until they died down before saying, ‘Bring out the prisoners!’

  Over a single drumbeat the rattle of chains could be heard. Covered in wounds from the beatings they had received, three pitiful figures, chained together at neck and paw, were led forward. It was Borumm, Vendace and Lugworm, stumbling painfully against each other as they staggered to stay upright. Spearbutts knocked them down on all fours in front of Damug, and the vast crowd of Rapscallions pressed forward to hear Damug’s pronouncement.

  ‘Let these three wretches serve as a lesson to anybeast who thinks Damug Warfang is a fool. They are cowards and traitors, but I am not going to order them slain. No! I will give them a chance to show us all that they are warriors. At the first opportunity of battle, these three will lead the charge, their only weapons being the chains they wear. Those chains will stay on them, binding them together until death releases them. They will march, eat and sleep all their lives in chains. Let nobeast feed them or comfort them in any way. I am Firstblade of all Rapscallions, I have spoken!’

  The three prisoners were made to kneel facing Damug and thank him for sparing their lives. When they had finished he swept contemptuously by them. Waving his sword at two random vermin, he rapped out, ‘You there, and you, come here!’

  Sneezewort nudged his companion Lousewort. ‘Git up there, thick’ead, Lord Damug pointed at you, not me!’

  Lousewort approached the knoll where Damug stood. Sneezewort breathed a sigh of relief: whatever it was, Lousewort would be on the receiving end. The other beast Damug had indicated strode up before him. It was the big nasty weasel.

  The unpredictable Warlord circled them both. ‘Give me your names!’

  ‘Hogspit, they calls me Hogspit, Sire.’

  ‘Er er, I’m Lousewort, yore Lordness!’

  Damug leaned on his sword and stared at them closely. ‘Lousewort and Hogspit, eh! And are you both Rapscallions, true and loyal to your Firstblade?’

  Both heads bobbed dutifully. ‘Aye, Sire!’

  Damug laughed aloud and clapped their shoulders with his mailed paw. ‘Good! Then I promote you both to the rank of Rapscour. You two will take the places of Borumm and Vendace, with twoscore each to command. Take your scouts and go now, travel due north, and report back to me every two days on what lies ahead.’

  Sneezewort was livid. He followed his companion arguing and shouting at him. ‘Lord Damug never pointed at you, ’e pointed at me, I’d swear ’e did. Wot would the Firstblade want wid a fleabrain like you as a Rapscour officer?’

  Lousewort drew himself up importantly. ‘Er er, less o’ that, mate, I ain’t no fleabrain, I’m a Rapscour now. So don’t go tellin’ me no more of yer fibs. Lord Damug pointed t’me, you said so yerself, huh, you even shoved me forward!’

  Sneezewort was hopping with rage. He ran at Lousewort, shrieking, ‘I’ll shove yer forward an’ sideways an’ back’ards as well, y’great lump o’ lardbottomed crabmeat!’

  But Lousewort was a bit too large and solid to shove. He stood firm, shaking a cautionary paw at his friend. ‘Er er, stop that, you, y’can’t shove me, I’m an officer now!’

  Sneezewort advanced on him, sneering ominously. ‘So I can’t shove yer, eh? Who’s gonna stop me, Scrawfonk?’

  Lousewort grabbed hold of Sneezewort and held him firmly. ‘Ooh, you shouldn’t a called me that, that’s a bad name to call anybeast! Er er, I know who’ll stop yer, my brother officer. Hoi, Hogspit, there’s a low common pawrat ’ere, callin’ an officer naughty names an’ shovin’ ’im too.’

  The big nasty weasel strode aggressively up and punched Sneezewort hard in the stomach. ‘Lissen, popguts, don’t let me ever catch you givin’ cheek to a Rapscour. An’ you, blatherbonce, don’t let ’im shove yer, see!’

  Grabbing them both by the ears Hogspit banged their heads together resoundingly. He strode off, leaving them both ruefully rubbing their skulls.

  Lousewort looked at Sneezewort dazedly. ‘Er er, let that be a lesson to yer, matey!’ he muttered.

  A short while after the Rapscours had left with their scouts, the great army got under way. Drums beating to the pace of their march battered out at a ground-eating rate as the day advanced into warm sunny afternoon. Northward the Rapscallion host tramped, dust rising in a cloud behind their banners and drums – only three days away from the southernmost borders of Mossflower Country.

  * * *

  16

  A YOUNG FEMALE hare named Deodar stood on a hilltop close to the west shore. She nibbled at a fresh-plucked dandelion flower, watching a runner approaching from the northeast. Deodar knew it was Algador Swiftback, even though he was still a mere dot in the distance. His peculiar long leaping stride marked him out from all the others at Salamandastron.

  Now he would appear on a hilltop, then be lost to sight as he descended into the valley, but pop up shortly atop another dune, travelling well, with his graceful extended lope serving to eat up the miles easily. The sun was behind Deodar now, hovering over the immeasurable expanses of sea which lapped the coast right up to the shore in front of the mountain. She waved and was rewarded by the sight of Algador waving back. Deodar sat on the sandy tor, enjoying the heat of the sun on her back.

  Algador took the last lap at the same pace he had been running all day. He could run almost as fast as his brother, Riffle the Galloper of Major Perigord’s patrol. Breathing lightly, he sat down next to Deodar.

  ‘Hah! So you’re my relief. What’ll this be now, miss, your third run o’ the season?’

  Deodar stood, flexing her limbs. ‘Fifth, actually. Where did you cover, Algy?’

  Algador made a sweep with his paw. ‘Northeast from there to there. No sign of Perigord returning yet and no signs of Rapscallions or other vermin.’

  Deodar closed one eye, squinting along the pawtracks her friend had just made. ‘Righto, Algy, I’ll follow you out along your trail then cut west and come back coverin’ the jolly old shoreline.’

  Algador rose and turned to face Salamandastron further down the coastline. Between patches of green vegetation growing on its rocky slopes the mountain took on a light buff tinge. An extinct volcano crater jutted in a flat-topped pinnacle over the landscape. He nodded in its direction. ‘How’s Rose Eyes, showed herself lately?’

  His companion shook her head. ‘’Fraid not, you’ll have to shout your report through the forge door. Lady Cregga sees nobeast while she’s forgin’ her new weapon. D’you recall the day she broke her old spear, wot!’

  Algador could not resist a chuckle. ‘Hahaha! Will I ever forget it, missie! Standin’ neck high in the sea an’ sinkin’ two Rapscallion ships, was that ever a flippin’ sight. I thought she’d have burst with rage when the spearhaft snapped an’ she lost her blade in the water!’

  Deodar took off into a loping run, calling back, ‘Can’t stop jawin’ with the likes o’ you all day, must get goin’!’

  Algador waved to her. ‘Run easy, gel, watch out for those shore toads on the way back, don’t take any nonsense off the blighters. Take care!’

  The sun’s last rays were turning the sea into a sheet of fiery copper as Algador entered the mountain. Without breaking stride he took hallway, stairs and corridors as though they were hill and flatland, travelling upward from one level to another. Sometimes he swerved around other hares and called out a greeting, othertimes he caught a glimpse of the setting sun through narrow slitted rock windows. Arriving at a great oak double door he halted, waiting until his breathing was normal and mentally going over his report speech. Standing stiffly to attention, he reached out a paw and rapped smartly upon the door. There was no answer, though he could hear noises from inside the forge room. Algador waited a moment, knocked once more and gave a loud cough to emphasize his presence.

  A massively gruff voice boomed out, echoing round the forge room and the antechamber outside where the hare stood. ‘I’m not to be
disturbed. What d’you want?’

  Algador swallowed nervously before shouting back, ‘Ninth Spring Runner reportin’, marm, relieved nor’west o’ here this afternoon!’

  There was silence followed by a grunt. ‘Come in!’

  Algador entered the forge room and shut the door carefully behind him. It was only the second time he had been in there. A long unshuttered window, with its sill made into a seat, filtered the last rosy shafts of daylight on to the floor. Massive, rough-hewn rock walls were arrayed with weapons hung everywhere: great bows, quivers of arrows, lances, spears, javelins, daggers, cutlasses and swords. A blackened stone forge stood in the room’s centre, its bellows lying idle, the white and yellowy red charcoal fire embers smoking up through a wide copper flue.

  The hare’s eyes were riveted on a heroic figure standing hammer in paw over a chunk of metal glowing on the anvil. Lady Cregga Rose Eyes, legendary Badger Ruler of Salamandastron.

  Her size was impressive: even the big forge hammer in her paw seemed tiny, like a toy. Over a rough homespun tunic she wore a heavy, scarred, metal-studded apron. The glow from the red-hot metal caught her rose-coloured eyes, tingeing them scarlet as she glared down at Algador. His long back legs quivered visibly, and he felt like an acorn at the foot of a giant oak tree.

  The Badger Lady nodded wordlessly and Algador found himself babbling out his report in a rush.

  ‘Patrolled north by east beyond the dunes for two days, marm, spent one night by the river, saw no signs of anybeast. No track or word of Major Perigord so far, no sign of Rapscallions or vermin. Sighted a few traces of shrews yesterday morn, marm.’

  Lady Cregga rested the hammerhead on the anvil horn. ‘You didn’t contact the Guosim shrews or speak to them?’

  ‘No, marm, ’fraid I didn’t. Traces were at least three days old, campfire ashes an’ vegetable peelin’s, that was all, marm.’