wot!”
Faint but urgent a faraway cry echoed through the woodlands.
“Eulaliaaa! Rally the troops! Death on the wind! Eulal-iaaaaa!”
Food and talk were instantly forgotten; weapons appeared as the Patrol leapt to the alert.
“Rally the troops! Eulaliaaaaaa!”
Captain Twayblade’s long rapier thrust toward the cries. “Over that way, I reckon! Eulaliaaaaaa! Chaaaaaaarge!”
They took off like a sheet of lightning, blades and slings whirling, roaring aloud the war cry to let Perigord know
help was on its way.
“Eulaliaaa! ’S death on the wind! Eulaliaaaaa!”
Despite his bandaged paw, Tammo was up with the front-runners, Twayblade, Riffle, and Midge. Straight on they
raced, through bush and shrub, loam flying, leaves swirling, twigs cracking, and startled birds whirring off through the
trees. Pawsounds thrummed fast against the earth like frenzied, muted drumbeats. Sunlight and shadow wove together
as they hurtled onward, bellowing and baying like wolves to the hunt.
25
Bursting over the brow of a humpbacked ridge, the wild charging hares crashed through a grove of rowans down
into a narrow rocky defile and flung themselves like madbeasts into the fray. Major Perigord was backed into a small
cave; beset by yelling vermin, he held the entrance gallantly. A broken javelin tip protruded from his right shoulder,
and he was slashed In several places, but still he wielded his saber like a drum major’s staff, fighting gamely against
overwhelming odds, which threatened to bring him down and get at whoever was behind him inside the cave.
Smashing into the rear of the vermin and scattering them like ninepins, the Long Patrol Hares arrived to their officer’s
rescue.
“Eulaliaaaa! Give ’em blood’n’vinegar! Eulaliaaaa!” Tammo’s dirk, Twayblade’s rapier, and Riffle’s dagger
claimed the first three foebeasts. Rockjaw Grang slew two with ferocious kicks from his mighty hindpaws. Lieutenant
Morio had his face laid open by a cutlass slash as he brought down another with his lance. Perigord flung his saber
after the remainder, who were scrabbling off up the far side of the small ravine. He fell on all fours, shouting hoarsely,
“Run ’em to earth, keep after the scum!”
More than a score of the remaining vermin ran off through the woodlands, with the hares hard on their heels.
Sergeant Torgoch ran alongside Twayblade, trying to keep his eye on the escapers as they fled into the deep tree cover.
“They’re splittin’ up, Cap’n. What now, marm?” he shouted.
Twayblade kept running, watching the vermin starting to fan out, issuing orders as she went. “Lieutenant Mono
stayed behind with the Major, so with Russa that makes us eleven. Torgoch, you take Rubbadub and Midge ...”
Tammo interrupted, his face full of concern. “But where is Russa?” he said. “Has anyone seen her?”
“Probably off somewheres finishing off a few dozen vermin with that stick of hers,” said Twayblade, sounding
more confident than she felt. “Torgoch, Rubbadub, Midge, keep after those to the left. Riffle, go after those who’ve
gone right—Tare’n’Turry, go with him. Tammo, Pasque, Rockjaw, stay with me, there’s about ten of ’em bunched
together keepin’ straight ahead. We’ll stick with them, and everyone keep your eyes skinned for Russa.”
Knowing they were running for their lives, the fleeing vermin dashed helter-skelter, south into Mossflower.
Tammo was beginning to feel weariness weighting his paws, owing to the headlong dash to the defile and the
subsequent fighting. However, he was running with the famed Long Patrol, so he tried hard not to show signs of
fatigue. Keeping his mouth closed, he breathed hard through his nostrils and whacked both foot-paws down resolutely.
As Twayblade shot ahead, a rat tripped over some protruding tree roots in front of her. Before the creature could
recover, she was upon him, dispatching him as he tried to rise. Tammo noted a weasel breaking off from the main body
and slipping behind a hornbeam. Shooting off to one side, he watched the tree as his companions raced past it. Slowing
his pace, Tammo came around the hornbeam. The weasel was smiling, thinking he had shaken off his pursuers.
Turning to head east, he ran straight into Tammo. A look of surprise crossed the vermin’s ugty face and he grabbed for
the hatchet shoved through his belt, but too late. Tammo slew him with a single thrust. The chilling feeling took
control of Tammo as he dashed to join the others, teeth chattering and limbs trembling uncontrollably. He sighted
them up ahead; they were halted, retreating slowly. Rockjaw Grang saw him and called, “Stay where thee are, .Tamm,
’tis bad swampland ’ereabouts!”
Tammo walked forward another few paces until the ground became squishy, where he joined his companions.
Farther out m the swamp the remaining vermin had rushed heedlessly into a dangerous quagmire.
Twayblade nodded in their direction. “Nothin’ we can do about ’em now, chaps. Put up y’weapons.”
Horrified, Tammo stood watching. Nearly all eight of the vermin were in over their waists. They shrieked and
struggled, making the position worse for themselves, grabbing at one another as the bottomless ooze sucked them
remorselessly down. One, a nimble ferret, pulled himself up onto a rotting and managed to scramble along its length as
his weight it down. Behind him, his comrades, who had only their I heads showing above the treacherous surface,
yelled piteously to him.
“Rinkul, ’elp us, mate, do somethin’, ’elp us!” But the ferret was intent on saving only his own skin. Hauling
himself upright, he streaked the length of the sinking trunk, flinging his body forward in an amazing leap. He landed in
some bushes where the ground became tinner and ran off, hop-skipping wildly until he was clear of the main swamp.
Tum-,ing, he watched, as did the hares, the remaining vermin gurgle horribly as the muddy depths claimed them for its
own. Seconds later there was nought but a smooth gray-brown patch i;’mid the green rotting vegetation to indicate
where they had gone down. The ferret, Rinkul, turned and shrugged.
As he squelched his way off over the swamp’s far side, Tammo noticed that he was twirling something.
A sick feeling swept over the already trembling young hare, he fell down on all fours. Pasque was right beside him,
wiping his face with some damp grass. “Tamm, what is it? Are you wounded?” Tammo’s face seemed to have aged
several seasons as he fought to stop shaking, muttering words at the ground in front of him.
Captain Twayblade assisted Pasque to pull the shivering hare upright. She cocked an eyebrow at the younger
creature. “I say, can y’make out what he’s chunnerin’ on about, wot?”
Tears began brimming in Pasque Valerian’s soft brown eyes. “Oh, Cap’n, he said that the ferret was carryin’
Russa’s stick!”
Twayblade sheathed her rapier, grim-faced. “Come on, Rock, we’d best get back to the Major, post haste. Stay
with Tammo, young gel, take y’time bringin’ him back, we’ll go ahead. If y’see the others, tell ’em where we are.”
The kindly Rockjaw Grang took off his tunic and draped it about Tammo’s quivering shoulders. It was so large that
it lapped his footpaws, but it was thick and warm. “There thou goes, sunshine, thee tek it easy now!” he said, patting
Tammo’s face.
It was full noontide when Pasque and Tammo made it back to the defile, accompanied by Sergeant Torgoch,
Rubbadub, and Midge, whom they had met up with on the way. Perigord was seated in front of a fire, his right paw in