separated Searats from their gizzards’n’ garters, flayed ferrets out o’ their fur, whacked weasels, an’ shortened stoats
into stumps! An’ who was it chipped the blade? That layabout of a leveret, that’s who. Hmph!”
Tammo struggled free of Mem’s apron, his face thickened with white flour dust. He sneezed twice before speaking.
“I ain’t a leveret any longer, sir. If y’let me join the jolly ol’
Long Patrol, then I wouldn’t have t’get up to all sorts o’ mischief, ’specially with your ax, sah.”
The Colonel sighed and shook his head, the monocle falling to one side as he settled back wearily into his
armchair. “I’ve told you a hundred times, m’laddo, you’re far too young, too wild’n’wayward, not got the seasons
under y’belt yet. You speak to him, Mem, m’dear, the rogue’s got me worn out. Join the Long Patrol indeed. Hmph!
No self-respectin’ Badger Lord would tolerate a green b’hind the ears little pestilence like you, laddie buck. Run along
an’ play now, you’ve given me enough gray fur, go an’ bother some otherbeast. Be off, you’re dismissed, sah. Matter
closed!”
Tammo saluted smartly and hurried off, blinking back unshed tears at his father’s brusque command. Mem took
the pace stick from her husband’s lap and slapped it down hard into his paw.
“Shame on you, Cornspurrey,” she cried, “you’re nought but a heartless old bodger. How could y’talk to your own
son like that?”
The Colonel replaced his monocle and squinted challeng-ingly. “Bodger y’self, marm! I’d give me permission for
Lynum or Saithe t’join up with the Long Patrol, they’re both of a right age. Stap me, though, neither of ’em’s
interested, both want t’be bally soil-pawed farmbeasts, I think.” He smiled slightly and stroked his curled mustache.
“Young Tammo, now, there’s a wild ’un, full of fire’n’vinegar like I was in me green seasons. Hah! He’ll grow t’be a
dangerous an’ perilous beast one day, mark m’words, Mem!”
Mem Divinia spoke up on Tammo’s behalf: “Then why not let him join up? You know ’tis all he’s wanted since he
was a babe listenin’ to your tales around the fire. Poor Tammo, he lives, eats, an’ breathes Long Patrol. Let him go,
Corney, give him his chance.”
But the Colonel was resolute; he never went back on a decision. “Tammo’s far too young by half. Said all I’m
goin’ t’say, m’dear. Matter closed!”
Popping out his monocle with a wink, Comspurrey De Fformelo Tussock settled back into the armchair and closed
his good eye, indicating that this was his prelunch naptime. Mem Divinia knew further talk was pointless. She sighed
wearily and went back to her friend Osmunda the molewife, who was assisting with the cooking.
Osmunda shook her head knowingly, muttering away in the curious molespeech, “Burr aye, you’m roight, Mem,
ee be nought but an ole bodger. Oi wuddent be surproised if’ n mais-ter Tamm up’n runned a ways one mom. Hurr
hurt, ee faither can’t stop Tamm furrever.”
Mem added sprigs of young mint to the golden crust of a carrot, mushroom, and onion hotpot she had taken from
the oven. “That’s true, Osmunda, Tammo will run away, same as his father did at his age. He was a wayward one too,
y’know. His father never forgave him for running away, called him a deserter and never spoke his name again—but I
think he was secretly very proud of Comspurrey and the reputation he gained as a fighting hare with the Long Patrol.
He died long before his son retired from service and brought me back here to Camp Tussock. I was always very sorry
that they were never reconciled. I hope the Colonel isn’t as stubborn as his father, for Tammo’s sake.”
Osmunda was spooning honey into the scooped-out tops of the hot barley scones. She blinked curiously at Mem.
“Whoi do ee say that?”
Mem Divinia began mixing a batter of greensap milk, ha-zelnut, and almond flour to make pancakes. She kept her
eyes on the mix as she explained: “Because I’m going to help Tammo to run away and join the Long Patrol. If I don’t
he’ll only hang around here gettin’ into trouble an’ arguin’ with his father until they become enemies. Now don’t
mention what I’ve just said to anybeast, Osmunda.”
The faithful mole wife’s friendly face crinkled into a deep grin. “Moi snout be sealed, Mem! Ee be a doin’ the
roight thing, oi knows et, even tho’ ee Colonel won’t ’ave ’is temper improved boi et an’ you’ll miss maister Tamm
gurtly.”
A tear fell into the pancake mix. Tammo’s mother wiped her eyes hastily on her apron hem. “Oh, I’ll miss the
rascal, all right, never you fear, Osmunda. But Tammo will do well away from here. He’s got a good heart, he’s not
short of courage, and, like the Colonel said, he’ll grow to be a wild an’ perilous beast. What more could any creature
say of a hare? One day my son will make us proud of him!”
3?
Several leagues away from Camp Tussock, down the far southeast coast, Damug Warfang turned his face to the
wind. Before him on the tide line of a shingled beach lay the wave-washed and tattered remnants of a battered ship
fleet. Behind him sprawled myriad crazy hovels, built from dunnage and flotsam. Black and gray smoke wisped off the
cooking fires among them.
The drums began to beat. Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was dying.
The drums beat louder, making the very air thrum to their deep insistent throbbing. Damug Warfang watched the
sea, pounding, hissing among the pebbles as it clawed its way up the shore. Soon Gormad Tunn’s spirit would be at the
gates of Dark Forest.
Only a Greatrat could become Firstblade of all Rapscallions. Damug cast a sideways glance at Byral standing
farther along the beach, and smiled thinly. Gormad would have company at Dark Forest gates before the sun set.
Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was close to death. Greatrats were a strange breed, twice the size of
any normal rat. Gormad had been the greatest. Now his sun was setting, and one of his two sons would rule as
Firstblade when he was gone. The two sons, Damug Warfang and Byral Fleetclaw, stood with their backs to the death
tent where their father lay, in accordance with the Law of the Rapscallion vermin. Neither would rest, eat, or drink
until the great Firstblade breathed his last. Then would come the combat between them. Only one would remain alive
as Firstblade of the mighty army.
The day wore on; Gormad Tunn’s flame burned lower.
A small pebble struck Damug lightly on his back. “Lug-worm, is everything ready?” he whispered, lips scarcely
moving.
The stoat murmured low from his hiding place behind a rock, “Never readier ... O Firstblade.”
Damug kept his eyes riveted on the sea as he replied, “Don’t call me Firstblade yet, ’tis bad luck!”
A confident chuckle came from the stoat. “Luck has nothin’ to do with it. Everythin’ has been taken care of.”
The drums began to pound louder, booming and banging, small drums competing with larger ones until the entire
shoreline reverberated to their beat.
Gormad Tunn’s eyelids flickered once, and a harsh rattle of breath escaped from his dry lips. The Firstblade was
dead!
An old ferret who had been attending Gormad left the death tent. He threw up his paws and howled in a high
keening tone:
“Gormad has left us for Dark Forest’s shade, And the wind cannot lead Rapscallions. Let the beast stand forth who
would be Firstblade, To rule alt these wild battalions!”
The drums stopped. Silence flooded the coast like a sudden tide. Both brothers turned to face the speaker,