The Long Patrol Read online

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  A Gathering of Warriors

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  20

  BETWEEN THEM BOTH, Hogspit and Lousewort knew virtually nothing about scouting ahead for the Rapscallion army. Their promotion to the rank of Rapscour was greeted with scorn by the twoscore vermin trackers each had under his command. All day they had trudged steadily north, with the eighty vermin ignoring their commands pointedly. They went their own way, foraging and fooling about, pleasing themselves entirely.

  Lousewort was completely bullied and cowed by Hogspit; the big nasty weasel took every available chance to beat or belittle his fellow officer. Lousewort bumbled along in Hogspit’s wake like some type of menial lackey.

  It was about early noon when they breasted a long rolling hill with a broad stream flowing through the fields below it. Hogspit immediately gave his verdict on the area.

  ‘It’ll do fer a camp tonight, I s’pose, good runnin’ water an’ plenty o’ space. Wot more could Damug ask fer ’is army?’

  Lousewort gave his opinion, for what it was worth. ‘Er er, not much shelter, though. Wot iffen it rains?’

  Hogspit fetched him a clip round the ear. ‘Iffen it rains then they’ll just ’ave ter get wet, blobberbrain. That’s unless you’ve got ideas of buildin’ lots o’ nice liddle wooden ’uts t’keep ’em dry.’

  Lousewort thought about this for a moment. ‘Er er, but there ain’t no wood around, mate, an’ even if there was it’d take too lon . . . Yowch!’ He jumped as the weasel booted him hard on the behind.

  ‘If brains wuz bread you’d a starved to death afore you was born!’

  The conversation was ended when a weasel came panting up the hillside and pointed down to where the stream curved round the far side of the tor. Throwing a smart salute, he rattled out breathlessly to the two officers, ‘Boatloads o’ scruffy-lookin’ mice down that way, sirs!’

  Hogspit swelled his chest officiously, sneering at the messenger. ‘Ho, ’tis “sirs” now, is it? A lick o’ trouble, a coupla foebeasts an’ all of a sudden we’re officers agin, eh! Right then, ’ow many o’ these scruffy-lookin’ mouses is there?’

  Lousewort tried hard to look like a commander of twoscore as he parroted Hogspit’s last words. ‘Er er, aye, ’ow many is there?’

  The big weasel silenced him with an ill-tempered stare before turning back to the tracker. ‘Never mind goin’ back t’count ’em. Get the others t’gether quick an’ meet us down there. Cummon, dunderpaws, let’s take a look!’

  Lying in a hollow not far from the streambank, both Rapscours saw the vessels come round the bend. There were six long logboats, each carved from the trunk of a large tree, and seated two abreast at the oars were small creatures, their fur wiry and sticking out at odd angles. Each of them wore a brightly coloured cloth headband and a kilt, held up by a broad belt, through which was thrust a little rapier. Others of them sat at prow and stern atop of supply sacks, and all of them seemed extremely short-tempered, for they argued and jabbered ceaselessly with one another. Only an older creature, slightly bigger than the rest, remained aloof, standing on the prow of the lead boat surveying the river ahead. In all, there were about seventy of them crewing the long logboats.

  Hogspit rubbed his paws together. Grinning wickedly, he glanced back to see the tracker leading thirty vermin into the defile. The weasel sniggered with delight. Thirty Rapscallions would be more than enough to take care of a gang of scruffy-looking mice. He stuck a grimy claw under Lousewort’s nose, issuing orders to him.

  ‘Huh, this’ll be simple as shellin’ peas. You stay ’ere with this lot, I’ll go out there an’ scare the livin’ daylights out of those mouses. Be ready t’come runnin’ when I shouts yer!’

  Swaggering out onto the streambank, Hogspit called out to the oldish creature in the prow of the first craft as it drew level.

  ‘Hoi, greybeard! Git them boats pulled in ’ere. I wants ter see wot you’ve got aboard – an’ move lively if y’know wot’s good for yer!’

  For a small beast, the leader had extremely dangerous eyes. He held up a paw and the crews ceased rowing. Steering the prow round with a long pole, he waited until his craft was close enough, then vaulted to dry land on the pole.

  One paw on his rapier, the other tucked into his belt, he looked the weasel up and down. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and gruff.

  ‘Lissen, swampguts, I know wot’s good fer me, an’ what’s aboard these boats is none o’ yore business – so back off!’

  Hogspit was amazed at the small beast’s insolence. Swelling out his chest, he laid paw to his cutlass handle. ‘Do you know who yer talkin’ to? I’m Rapscour Hogspit of Damug Warfang’s mighty Rapscallion army!’

  The creature drew his small rapier coolly, quite unimpressed. ‘Then clean the mud out yore ears an’ lissen t’me, Spit’og, or whatever name y’call yoreself. I wouldn’t know Damug wotsisname or his army if they fell on me out of a tree! I’m Log a Log, Chieftain o’ the Guosim Shrews. So pull steel if y’fancy dyin’!’

  Hogspit whipped out his cutlass and charged with a roar.

  In the hollow, Lousewort felt his belt tugged urgently by a rat, who squealed, ‘Is that it, do we charge too?’

  Lousewort pulled free of the rat’s tugging paw. ‘Er er no, I want t’see wot ’appens.’

  Log a Log faced the oncoming Rapscour until he was almost on top of him, then, stepping neatly aside, he tripped Hogspit, lashing his back smartly with the rapier blade as the big weasel went down.

  The shrew circled him teasingly. ‘Up on yore paws, y’great pudden, or I’ll finish ye where you lie!’

  His face ugly with rage, Hogspit scrambled up and began taking huge swings at the shrew with his cutlass. Each time the blade came down it was either on the ground or thin air. The shrews in the boats sat impassively watching their leader making a fool of the bigger creature.

  Turning aside the bludgeoning cutlass with a flick of his rapier, Log a Log mocked his opponent. ‘It must be a poor outlook fer this Damug cove if’n this is the way he teaches his officers t’handle a blade. Can’t yer do any better, bucketbum?’

  Slavering at the mouth and panting, Hogspit cleaved down, holding the cutlass with both paws. The blade tanged off a rock, sending a shock through him. He spat at his enemy, snarling, ‘I’ll carve yer guts inter frogmeat an’ dance on em!’

  Log a Log wiped the weasel’s spit from his headband, eyes flat with menace. ‘Nobeast ever spat on me an’ lived. I could’ve slain ye a dozen times. Here! There! Left! Right! Up’n’down!’ Whirling about he pricked Hogspit each time he spoke, showing him the truth of the statement. Halting, the shrew curled his lip scornfully at the Rapscour, and turned his back on him, saying, ‘Gerrout o’ my sight, vermin, you’ve done yoreself no honour here today!’

  Swinging the cutlass high, Hogspit charged at the shrew’s unprotected back. At the last possible second Log a Log turned and ran him through, gritting up into the coward’s shocked face, ‘No skill, no sense and no honour, now y’ve got no life!’

  * * *

  21

  WHEN THE DRUMBEATS ceased that evening Damug Warfang was standing on the streambank with the entire Rapscallion horde spread wide around the valley behind him. He sat down on the head of a drum the rat Gribble provided. Facing him in three ranks stood the remains of the trackers, with Lousewort at the front.

  The Firstblade shook his head in disbelief at the tale he had heard. ‘Three hundred shrews in twenty big boats, are you sure?’

  Lousewort nodded vigorously – his life depended on it. The others nodded too, backing him up.

  ‘Let me get this clear,’ Damug continued, ’they ambushed you, slew thirty of my trackers and a Rapscour, then got clean away?’

  The nodding continued dumbly.

  ‘And not one, not a single one, was slain or taken prisoner?’

  More nods. The Greatrat closed his eyes, and massaged their corners slowly. He was tired. Four times he had been over the same ground with them and
still they stuck firmly to their story. He glanced at the carcasses of the thirty-one vermin lying half in, half out of the stream shallows, creatures he could ill afford to lose, slow and stupid as they had been.

  Turning his gaze back to Lousewort and the living, he sighed wearily. ‘Three hundred shrews, twenty big boats, eh? Well take my word, I’ll find the truth of all this sooner or later, and when I do, if the answer is what I think, there’ll be some here begging me for a swift death before I’m finished with them. Understood?’

  The nodders’ necks were sore, but still they bobbed up and down wordlessly.

  Damug indicated the slain. ‘You will dig a pit, twelve times as deep as the length of my sword, and when you have buried these bodies you will stand in the water all night up to your necks. Nor will you eat or drink again until I give the order. Gribble, detail two officers to stand watch on them.’

  Dying campfires burned small red blossoms into the night all around the valley, throwing slivers of scarlet across the swift-flowing stream. Stars pierced moonless skies, and a wispy breeze played about the sleeping Rapscallion camp.

  Vendace gritted his teeth as the file scraped his neck. ‘Keep yer ’ead still,’ Borumm hissed at him impatiently as he worked on the fetters binding them together. ‘It won’t take long now!’

  Lugworm was already free – it was he who had managed to steal the file. Fearfully, the stoat whispered to the fox and the weasel, ‘You’ll ’ave ter work faster, we ain’t got all night!’

  Borumm stifled the rattle of the neckband with both paws. The chains chinked softly as they fell from Vendace’s body. The fox massaged his neck, eyes glittering furtively in the darkness. ‘Shut yer snivellin’ face, stoat. C’mon, let’s get movin’. We need t’be across that stream an’ long gone by dawn.’

  Clinging to the rocks in midstream, Lousewort and forty-odd trackers struggled to keep their chins up above water, sobbing and cursing as the cold numbed their limbs and the icy flow threatened to sweep them away. Already some of their number, the weaker ones, had been drowned by others trampling them under in their efforts to stay alive.

  Two Rapmark Captains sat hunched in sleep over a small fire on the bank. A ferret ground his chattering teeth as he glared in their direction. ‘Look at ’em, snoozin’ all nice’n’warm there, while we’re freezin’ an’ drownin’ out ’ere. It ain’t right, I tell yer!’

  Lousewort hugged a weed-covered nub of rock, coughing water from both nostrils miserably. ‘Er er, mebbe they’ll let us come ashore when it’s light.’

  Snorting mirthlessly, a sodden rat pulled himself higher to speak. ‘Who are you tryna fool, mate? ‘Ow many of us d’yer think’ll be left by tomorrer? Whether ’e knew it or not, Damug sentenced us to die by pullin’ this liddle trick!’

  The two sleeping Rapmark Captains were fated never to see dawn. They kicked briefly when the chains of Borumm and Vendace tightened about their necks. As the officers slumped lifeless, the escapers relieved them of their cloaks and weapons. Then, grabbing a coil of rope, Borumm plunged into the stream and waded out to where the wretched vermin clutched feebly at the rocks.

  Securing the rope to a jagged rut, Borumm held it tight, and hissed, ‘You know me’n’ Vendace – we’re your ole Rapscours. We’re gettin’ out of ’ere, and anybeast feels like quittin’ Damug an’ his army can come along. That one ain’t the Firstblade his father was!’

  A ferret took hold of the rope as Vendace and Lugworm waded up. ‘I’m wid yer, mate! An’ so would you lot be if y’ve got any sense. Warfang treats ’is own army worse’n ’is enemies. Lead on, Borumm!’

  Vendace silenced the general murmur of approval. ‘Keep the noise down there. I’ll make it to the other bank wid this rope an’ lash it tight round a rock Y’can grab on to it an’ make yore way over, but be quick, there’s no time ter lose!’

  Pulling themselves paw over paw along the taut line, the escapers made their way to the opposite side of the stream. Borumm perched on a rock with the last few, but when it was Lugworm’s turn to take the rope Borumm pushed him aside.

  ‘Where d’yer think yore off to, slimeface?’ he snarled.

  The stoat’s voice was shrill with surprise. ‘It was all part o’ the plan, we escape together, mate!’

  There was nowhere to run. Borumm grinned wolfishly at him. ‘I ain’t yore mate, an’ I just changed the plan. We don’t take no backstabbers an’ traitors wid us. You stay ’ere!’

  Borumm swung the bunched chains savagely, and Lugworm fell lifeless into the stream before he even had a chance to protest about the new arrangements. Lousewort was shocked by the weasel’s action. ‘Ooh! Wot didyer do that for? The pore beast wasn’t doin’ you no ’arm, mate!’

  Borumm was not prepared to argue. There was only himself and Lousewort left on the rock. He swung the chains once more, laying Lousewort senseless on the damp stones. Swinging off on to the rope the weasel hauled himself along, muttering, ‘Sorry about that, mate, but if’n you ain’t for us yore agin us!’

  * * *

  22

  BUBBLING AND HISSING furiously, the tank in Salamandastron’s forge room received a red-hot chunk of metal. Lady Cregga Rose Eyes held the piece there until she was sure it was sufficiently cooled. Then, slowly, she withdrew the wet grey steel. It was an axepike head, the top a straight-tipped, double-bladed spearpoint. Below that was a single battleaxe blade, thick at the stub, sweeping out smoothly to a broad flat edge, the other side of which was balanced by a down-curving pike hook.

  The Badger Warrior turned it this way and that, letting it rise and fall as she tested the heft of her new weapon. Satisfied that everything about the lethal object suited her, Cregga began reheating it in the fires of her forge. The next job was to put edges to the spear, axe and hook blades – not sharpened edges, but beaten ones that would never need to be honed on any stone.

  She straightened up as the long-awaited knock sounded upon the door, followed by Deodar’s voice.

  ‘Tenth Spring Runner reportin’, marm, relieved on the western tideline this afternoon!’

  The rose-eyed badger had waited two days to hear a Runner’s voice. She recognized it as female and roared out a gruff reply. ‘Well, don’t hang about out there, missie. Come in, come in!’

  The young haremaid entered boldly, slamming the door behind her and throwing a very elegant salute. ‘Patrolled north by west, marm, returnin’ along the coast. No signs of vermin or foebeast activity; still no sign or news of Major Perigord’s patrol whatsoever. Spotted a few shore toads but they kept their distance. Nothin’ else to report, marm!’

  Cregga put aside her work, great striped head nodding resolutely. ‘Well done, Runner, that’s all I needed to know. Stand easy.’

  Deodar took up the at ease position and waited. The Badger Lady picked up her red-hot axepike head with a pair of tongs. ‘What d’you think, missie? ‘Tis to be my new weapon.’

  The hare gazed round-eyed at the fearsome object. ‘Perilous, marm, a real destroyer!’

  Setting it to rest on the anvil, Cregga squinted at the Runner. ‘Answer me truly, young ’un, d’you think you’re about ready to join the Long Patrol?’

  Deodar sprang quivering to attention. ‘Oh I say! Rather! I mean, yes marm!’

  A formidable paw patted Deodar’s shoulder lightly. ‘Hmm, I think you are too. Do you own a weapon?’

  ‘A weapon, ’fraid not, marm, outside o’ sling or short dagger. Colonel Eyebright ain’t fussy on Runners goin’ heavy-armed.’

  Cregga’s big paw waved at the weapons ranged in rows on the walls. ‘Right, then let’s see you choose yourself something.’

  She checked Deodar’s instinctive rush to the weaponry. ‘No hurry, miss, take care, what you decide upon may have to last you a lifetime. Go ahead now, but choose wisely.’

  The young hare wandered round the array, letting her paw run over hilts and handles as she spoke her mind aloud. ‘Let me see now, marm, nothin’ too heavy for me, I’ll never be as big as R
ockjaw Grang or some others. Somethin’ simple to carry, quick to reach and light to the paw. Aha! I think this’d jolly well fit the bill, a fencing sabre!’

  Cregga smiled approvingly. ‘I’d have picked that for you myself. Go on, take it down and try it, see how it feels!’

  Reverently, Deodar took the sabre from its peg and held it, feeling the fine balance of the long, slightly curving single-edged blade. It had a cord-whipped handle, with a basket hilt to protect the paw. So keen was its edge that it whistled menacingly when she swung it sideways.

  Suddenly Lady Cregga was in front of her, brandishing a poker as if it were a sword. ‘On guard, miss, have at ye!’

  Steel clanged upon steel as they fenced around the glowing forge, Cregga calling out encouragement to her pupil as she parried blows and thrusts with the poker.

  ‘That’s the way, miss! Step step, swing counter! Now step step step, thrust! Backstep sideswing! Keep that paw up! Remember, the blade is an extension of the paw, keep it flexible! And one and two and thrust and parry! Counter, step step, figure of eight at shoulder level! Footpaws never flat, up up!’

  With a quick skirmishing movement the badger disarmed her pupil, sending the sabre quivering point first into the door. ‘Enough! Enough! Where did you learn sabre fighting, young ’un?’

  Deodar looked disappointed that she had been disarmed. ‘From my uncle, Lieutenant Morio, but evidently I didn’t learn too well, marm.’

  Cregga pulled the sabre from the door, presenting it back to Deodar hilt first. ‘Nonsense! If you’d learned any better I’d have been slain. What d’you want to do, beat the Ruler of Salamandastron on your first practice?’

  The young Runner took the sabre back, smiling gratefully. ‘No, marm! Thank you for this sabre – and the lesson too.’

  That same night the list of new recruits was posted at the entrance to the Dining Hall, and everyone clamoured around it to see who had been promoted to the Long Patrol. Drill Sergeant Clubrush, who was responsible for day to day discipline among the younger set, sat near the doorway of the Officers’ Mess with Colonel Eyebright. The hares were old friends, being of the same age and having served together many long seasons.