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 stream bank, both Rap-scours 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 colored 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 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 Louse wort’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 stream bank, Hogspit called out to the oldish creature in the prow of the first craft as it
drew level, “Hoi, graybeard! 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 War-fang’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,
bucket-bum?”
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 honor 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 honor, now y’ve
got no life!”
21?
When the drumbeats ceased that evening, Damug Warfang was standing on the stream bank with the entire
Rapscallion horde spread wide around the valley behind him. He sat down on the head of a drum the rat Gribble had
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 snivelin’ face, stoat. C’mon, let’s
get movin’. We need t’be across that stream an’ long gone by dawn.”