The Long Patrol Read online

  The long knife had no sheath, but fitted neatly through a slot in the belt buckle. Carefully, the young hare drew the weapon from, its holder. Double edged and keenly pointed, its blue steel blade was chased with curious designs. The cross hilt was of silver, set with green gems. Bound tightly with tough, red, braided twine, the handle seemed made for his paw. A highly polished piece of rock crystal formed the pommel stone.

  Mem tapped it lovingly, saying, ‘This was made by a Badger Lord in the forge at Salamandastron; ’tis called a dirk. No weapon ever served me better in the days when I ran with the Long Patrol. Your father always preferred the battleaxe, but the dirk was the weapon that I loved specially. It is the best gift I can give you, my son, take it and use it to defend yourself and those weaker than you. Never surrender it to a foebeast, or let any creature take it from you. Time is running short and you must leave now. Don’t look back. Go, make Camp Tussock proud of you. Promise me you’ll return here someday, your father loves you as much as I do. Fate and fortune go with you, Tamello De Fformelo Tussock – do honour to our name!’

  Osmunda patted his ears fondly. ‘Furr ee well, maister Tamm, oi’ll miss ee!’

  Seconds later Tammo was rushing out into the night, his face streaked with tears and covered in white flour dust from his mother’s goodbye embrace. Russa Nodrey materialized out of the pine shadows like a wraith.

  ‘I hope my pancakes aren’t gettin’ squashed in that there bag, looks like you’ve brought enough vittles with ye to feed a regiment for seven seasons. Right, come on, young ’un, let’s see if those paws o’ yours are any good after all the soft livin’ you’ve been brought up with. Shift y’self now. Move!’

  The young hare shot forward like an arrow from a bow, dashing away from his birthplace to face the unknown.

  * * *

  5

  THE NEW FIRSTBLADE of all Rapscallions sat alone on the creaking, weatherbeaten stem of his late father’s vessel which lay heeled half over on the southeast shore. Damug Warfang had watched dawn break over the horizon, a red glow at first, changing rapidly as the sun rose in a bloom of scarlet and gold. A few seabirds wheeled and called to each other, dipping towards the gentle swell of the placid sea. Hardly a wave showed on the face of the deep, pale green waters inshore, ranging out to mid-blue and aquamarine. A bank of fine cloud shone with pearl-like opalescence as the sunrays reflected off it. Now the wide vault of sky became blue, as only a fresh spring morn can make it; scarlet tinges of sun wisped away to become a faint rose thread where sea met sky as the great orb ascended, golden as a buttercup.

  All this beauty was lost on Damug as the ebb tide hissed and whispered its secrets to the shingled beach. Probing with his swordpoint he dug moodily at the vessel’s timbers. They were rotten, waterlogged, barnacle-crusted and coated with a sheen of green slime. Damug’s pale eyes registered anger and disgust. A bristletail crawled slowly out of the damp woodwork. With its antennae waving and grey, armour-plated back undulating, the insect lumbered close to 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 Lugworm 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 Damug 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 favoured sailin’, always said it was better’n paw sloggin’ 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!’

  Lugworm heeded the danger in Damug’s terse voice. Attaching the brass clip to the wave-side crosspiece he 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? Counsellor to mighty ones! Listen, stoat, if you even think about crossing me I’ll make you scream half a season before you die!’

  * * *

  6

  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 Lousewort’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, jellyback, 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. ‘Ouchouch! Stoppit, that’s me wounded ear!’

  Staggering further forward he bumped into a big, fat, nasty-looking weasel who turned on them with a snarl. ‘Hoi! If you two boggletops don’t stop bangin’ inter me an’ shoutin’ like that y’ll ’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 Firstblade, 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’ll 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, snipenose!’ 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!’

  Lousewort thrust a stained claw into his wounded ear and wiggled it. ‘Stand up, wot’s that supposed ter mean?’

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

  Damug gave his orders to the ten Rapmarks, each the commander of a hundred beasts.

  ‘Our seasons of petty coast raids are over. We march straight up the centre of the land taking all before us. Scouts must be continuously sent out on both sides to report any area that is ripe for plundering. Leave the ships to rot where they lie, burn your dwellings, let the army eat the last of our old supplies here today. We march at first light tomorrow. Now bring me the armour of the Firstblade!’

  That night Damug stood garbed in his barbaric regalia, the swirling orange cloak of his father blowing open to reveal a highly polished breastplate of silver, a short kilt of snakeskin and a belt fashioned from many small links of beaten gold, set with twinkling jetstones. On his head he wore a burnished brass helmet, surmounted by a spike, with iron mesh hanging from it to protect his neck. The front dipped almost to his muzzle tip; it had two narrow eye slits.

  Oily smoke swirled to the moonless skies as the lights of myriad dwellings going up in flames glimmered off the armour of Damug Warfang, Firstblade. Roaring, drinking, singing and eating their last supplies, the Rapscallion regiments celebrated their final night on the southeast shores. They gambled and stole from one another, fought, argued and tore the waterlogged fleet apart in their search for any last bits of booty to be had.

  Damug leaned on his sword, watching them. Beside him, Lugworm cooked a fish over glowing charcoal for his Chief’s supper. He looked up at the Firstblade’s question.

  ‘Are they all ready to follow and obey me, Lugworm?’

  ‘Aye sirrah, they are.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Save two, Chief. Borumm the weasel and Vendace the fox. Those two were allies of your brother Byral, so watch your back whilst they’re about.’

  Smiling humourlessly, Damug patted his adviser’s head.

  ‘Well answered, Lugworm. I already knew of Borumm and Vendace. Also I knew that you were aware of them, so you have just saved your own life by not staying silent.’

  Lugworm swallowed hard as he turned the fish over on the embers.

  Lousewort staggered up over the tideline under the weight of a large circular ship’s steering wheel. It was a great heavy piece of work, solid oak, decorated with copper studding, now mouldy and green.

  Sneezewort stood tending their fire, over which he was roasting some old roots and the dried frame of a long-dead seabird. He shook his head in despair. ‘Ahoy, puddenbum, where d’yer think yore goin’ wid that thing?’

  Smiling happily, Lousewort stood the wheel on its edge. ‘Er, er, looka this, it’s a beauty, izzenit, mate? I’ll wager ’tis worth a lot, thing like this . . .’

  Sneezewort snorted at his slow-witted companion. ‘Oh, it’s a beauty all right, and it will be worth somethin’. After you’ve carried it back an’ forth across the country fer seven seasons an’ found a new ship to match up wirrit. Great ole useless chunk o’ rubbish, wot do we need wid that thing? Get rid of it afore ye cripple yerself carryin’ it!’

  He gave the wheel a hearty push, sending it rolling crazily off into the darkness. There was a crash followed by the outraged roar of the big nasty weasel.

  ‘Belay, who threw that? Ooh, me footpaw! I’ll carve the blackguard up inter fishbait an’ ’ang ’im from me ’ook!’

  In their panic the two dithering rats ran slap into each other twice before tearing off to hide in the darkness.

  Damug tossed the remnants of the fish to Lugworm and wiped his lips upon the orange cloak.

  ‘Keep an eye open whilst I sleep. Oh, and pass the word around: I want every Rapscallion painted red for war when we march tomorrow, fully armed and ready for slaughter!’

  * * *

  7

  TAMMO HAD NEVER been so tired in all his young life. It was three hours after dawn and they were still running. His footpaws felt heavy as two millstones and the weight of the haversack on his back, which had been fairly light at first, was now like carrying another beast.

  Those open plains which had always looked smooth and slightly undulating from a distance, what had happened to them? Suddenly they had become a series of steep hills and deep valleys, with small sharp rocks hidden by the grass, areas of thorny thistle and slopes of treacherous gravelly scree. The welcome sunlight of dawn was now a burning eye which blinded him and added to the discomfort of his already overheated body.

  Staggering and gasping for breath, Tammo slumped down on the summit of a hill, unable to go another pace forward. Russa Nodrey was already there, still upright, breathing calmly as she viewed the prospect to the south. From the corner of her eye she watched the young hare with a tinge of admiration, which she kept well hidden from him.

  ‘Nothin’ like a brisk trot, eh, Tamm? How d’you feel?’

  Tammo was on all fours, head bent as he tried to regulate his breath. He spoke still facing the ground, unable to look up. ‘Not too blinkin’ chipper, marm. Need water, somethin’ to eat, and sleep. Give anythin’ for a jolly good snooze, marm!’

  Russa crouched down beside him. ‘Lissen, young ’un, call me Russa, pal, matey, anythin’ you like. But stop callin’ me marm, it makes me feel like some fat ole mother duck!’

  Tammo glanced sideways at her, mischief dancing in his eyes. ‘I’ll do that, matey, but you stop callin’ me young ’un or I’ll start callin’ you mother duck!’

  Standing behind him, Russa smiled as she pulled the haversack from his back. Despite her initial reluctance she was beginning, if a little grudgingly, to enjoy Tammo’s company.

  ‘Let’s have this thing off ye, Tamm. We can’t stop here, got to press on a bit afore we make camp.’ />
  Tammo flexed his shoulders and moved to a sitting position. ‘Why’s that? This looks like a jolly good spot, wot?’

  The squirrel pointed south indicating another two hilly tors. ‘We’ve got to land up across there by midday. Right, here’s where yore eddication starts, young ’un . . . er, pal. Tell me, why should we make camp there instead o’ here?’

  Tammo pondered the question a moment. ‘Haven’t a bally clue, old pal. Tell me.’

  Russa began shouldering the haversack. ‘Well for a start ’tis too open up here, we c’n be seen for miles. A good camp should be sheltered for two reasons: one in case o’ the weather, two t’stay hidden. Doesn’t do t’let everybeast know where ye are in open country.’

  The young hare stood up slowly. ‘Hmm, makes sense I suppose.’

  ‘You can bet yore life it does,’ the squirrel winked at him, ‘but afore y’go harin’ off let me tell you the rest. At midday it’ll be hottest, that’s when we should sleep a few hours an’ save energy. We can eat’n’drink too afore we nap, sleep’s good fer the digestion. If we ate an’ drank now, we’d be travellin’ on full bellies. It’d take us twice as long to get there in that state. All right, matey, let’s be on our way. I’ll carry this ’avvysack fer a while – ’tis only fair.’

  Tammo started down into the valley, digging his paws in against a shale drift. He felt much lighter and better for the brief rest. ‘Indeed ’tis only fair, considerin’ the weight of your pancakes, old pal!’ he called back.

  Russa caught up and quickly took the lead. ‘Less of the old, young scallywag, or I’ll put on a turn of speed that’ll have ye eatin’ me dust fer a full day!’