had inflicted on the ten runaway rebels whom Skaup and his hunters had brought back.
Sneezewort shuddered as he added twigs to the flames. “Good job you never went with ’em, mate. Nobeast’ll ever
think o’ crossin’ the Firstblade after the way ’e dealt with Borumm an’ Vendace an’ the eight who was left!”
Lousewort gazed into the fire, nodding numbly. “Er, er, that’s true. Though if I ’ad gone wid ’em I’d ’ave sooner
been slain fightin’ to escape than ... Wot was that word Damug used?”
“Executed, mate, that was wot ’e said an’ that was wot ’e did. Ugh! Imagine bein’ slung inter the water like that,
wid a great rock tied around yer neck, screamin’ an’ pleadin’!”
Lousewort ran a paw around his own neck and cringed at the thought. “It was cruel, ’ard an’ merciless an’, an’ ...
cruel!”
Sneezewort moved closer to the fire and shrugged. “Aye, but that’s ’ow a beast becomes Firstblade, by bein’ a
coldblooded killer. I was watchin’ Damug’s face—that’n was en-joyin’ wot ’e did.”
Damug Warfang was indeed enjoying himself. Everything seemed to be going his way. Not only had he brought
the escapers to his own harsh justice, but his scouting expedition under the command of the weasel Gaduss had
yielded a double result.
Rinkul the ferret, whom he had supposed long dead, was back with news of Redwall Abbey. Damug had never
seen Redwall, though he had heard all about the place. What a prize it would be. From there he could truly rule. If all
he had heard from Rinkul was true, then it would not be too difficult to conquer Redwall, seeing as the entire outer
south wall looked like collapsing.
There was also the prisoner that Gaduss had brought in with him, an ancient male squirrel, but big and strong—one
of those hermit types living alone in Mossflower.
Damug circled the cage that held the creature, idly clacking his swordblade against the seasoned wood bars. The
squirrel lay on his side, all four paws bound, ignoring the Warlord, his eyes shut stubbornly.
Damug leaned close to the bars, his voice low and persuasive. “Food and freedom, two wonderful things, my
friend, think about them. All you have to do is tell me what is the Abbey’s strength, how many fighters, what sort of
creatures. Tell me and you can walk free from here with a full stomach and a supply of food.”
The reply was noncommittaclass="underline" “Don’t know, ’tis no use as-kin’ me. I’ve never been inside the place. I live alone in
the woodlands an’ keep meself to meself!”
The swordblade slid through the bars, prodding the captive. “You saw what I did to those creatures earlier on. Keep
lying to me and it could happen to you.”
The old squirrel’s eyes opened and glared scornfully at the Greatrat. “If you think that’d do ye any good yore a
bigger fool than I took ye t’be. I’ve told you, I know nothin’ about “Redwall!”
The swordblade thrust harder at the squirrel’s back. “There are ways of making you talk, far slower and more
painful than drowning. Has that notion penetrated your thick skull?”
“Huh! Then try ’em an’ see how far it gets ye, vermin!” Damug knew his captive spoke the truth. The old squirrel
would die out of pure spite and stubbornness rather than talk. Controlling his rising temper, the Firstblade withdrew his
sword. “A tough nut, eh? Well, we’ll see. After you’ve been lying there a day or two watching the cool fresh stream
water flowing by and sniffing the food on our campfires, I’ll come and have another word with you. Hunger and thirst
are the greatest persuaders of all.”
In a circle around a fire on the stream bank, the Rapmark Captains squatted, subdued by the memory of Damug’s
horrible executions, but eager to know more of the big Abbey whose wall was weakened to the point where it looked
like falling. Rinkul sat with them, though he would not say anything until Damug allowed him to.
Damug Warfang strode into the firelight, flame and shadow adding to his barbarous appearance: red-painted
features and glittering armor surmounted by a brass helmet that had a grinning skull fixed to its spike. Gathering his
long swirling black cloak about him, he sat down, eyes flicking from side to side.
“Three days! Just three more days, then we march to take the greatest prize any Rapscallion ever dreamed of. The
Abbey of Redwall!”
Beating their spearbutts against the ground, the Rapmarks growled their approval, until a glance from the Firstblade
silenced them.
“In three days’ time every Rapscallion will be rested, well fed, fully armed, painted for war, and ready to do battle.
You are my Rapmarks; this is your responsibility. If there is any more desertion or mutiny in this army, one soldier
unfit or unwilling to fight and die for his Firstblade, then I will look to you. You saw what happened to Borumm and
Vendace today; they were once officers too. Let me tell you, they got off lightly! Should I have to make any more
examples you will all see what I mean! Remember, three days!”
Damug swept off to his tent, leaving behind a circle of Captains staring in silence at the ground.
Mid-morning of the following day found the columns from Salamandastron marching under a high summer sun.
Lance Corporal Ellbrig watched young Trowbaggs suspiciously. The youngster was actually skipping along, but still
keeping in step with the rest, waggling his ears foolishly and twirling his sword. Ellbrig narrowed one eye as if
singling out his quarry.
“That hare there, Trowbaggs, you lollopin’ specimen, what d’you think you’re up to?”
The Long Patrol recruit chortled in a carefree manner, “G’mornin’, Corp, good t’be jolly well alive, wot?”
Ellbrig scratched his chin in bewilderment. “I was always a bit doubtful about young Trowbaggs, but now I’m sure.
He’s gone doodle ally, completely mad!”
Deodar, who was marching alongside Trowbaggs, reassured the Corporaclass="underline" “He’s all right, Corp, it’s just that he’s
learned to march properly and his footpaws aren’t so sore anymore. Sort of got his second wind, haven’t you, old lad?”
Trowbaggs gave his sword an extra twirl and sheathed it with a flourish. “Exactly! Y’make the old footpaws go left
right, ’stead of right left. A good night’s sleep, couple of lull-abies from the Sergeant, pinch some other chap’s spoon
an’ fork:, scoff a bally good breakfast, an’ heigh ho, I’m fit for anything at all, wot!”
Drill Sergeant Clubrush had caught up with Lance Corporal Ellbrig and had heard all that went on. “Very good,
young sir, fit fer anythin’ are we?” he said.
Trowbaggs leapt in the air, performed a pirouette, and carried on skipping. “Right you are, Sarge, brisk as a bee,
bright as a button, an’ carefree as crabs on a rock, that’s me!”
The Sergeant smiled and exchanged a wink with the Corporal. “Right then, we’re lookin’ for bushtailed buckoes
like you. Fall out an’ relieve some o’ those ration pack an’ cookin’ gear carriers in the rear ranks. Look sharp now,
young sah!”
The irrepressible Furgale stifled a giggle. “Poor old potty Trowbaggs. Serves him jolly well right for openin’ his
silly great mouth, I s’pose.”
Sergeant Clubrush’s voice grated close to Furgale’s ear. “Wot’s that, mister Furgale? Did I ’ear you sayin’ you’d
like t’join Trowbaggs? We’re always lookin’ for volunteers, y’know.”
“Who me, Sarge? No, Sarge, I never said a blinkin’ word Sarge!”
The Drill Sergeant smiled sweetly, an unusual sight. “That’s the spirit, young sir, less o’ the loosejaw an’ more o’
the footpaw, left right, left right, keep those shoulders squared!”