Russa looked as fresh as a daisy as she nodded to him. “Crack o’ dawn’ll be early enough for me. Thank ye for
your hospitality—Camp Tussock vittles were as good as ever.”
Shuffling off to the dormitory, Cornspurrey called back, “Indeed ’twill, keep the noise down when y’go, I’ll bid ye
g’night now. An’ you others, don’t sit up too bally late, work t’be done on the morrow.”
When his father had gone to bed, Tammo watched his mother and Russa conversing earnestly in low voices. He
knew they were discussing something important, but could catch only snatches of their conversation.
“Nay, ’tis impossible, Mem. I travel alone, y’know that!”
“Well, there’s a round score o’ pancakes to take along if you’ll help me, Russa.”
“But I might not be goin’ anywhere near Salamandastron!”
“Well then, take him as far as Redwall Abbey. He’ll meet other warriors there, and the Long Patrol visits regularly.
He won’t be any trouble, I promise you. The Colonel’s forbidden him t’go, but there’ll only be trouble ’twixt the two
of ’em if he has to stay.”
“A score o’ pancakes you say, Mem?”
“Make it thirty if y’like! He’ll keep up with you an’ obey every word you say, I know he will. Do it as a favor to
me an’ you’ll always be welcome to a meal at Camp Tussock!”
“Hmm, thirty pancakes, eh, hah! And it’d be one in the monocle for that old waffler, somebeast disobeyin’ his
orders. Right then, I’ll do it, but we’d best leave tonight an’ be well away from here by the morn. I’ll wait outside in
the copse. Send him out when he’s ready.”
Russa departed, muttering something about preferring to sleep out under the stars. Mem Divinia started clearing the
table.
“Come on now, all of you, off t’bed, mind what the Colonel said, work t’be done tomorrow. Tammo, you stay here
an’ help me to clear away. Good night all, peaceful dreams!”
One by one they drifted off to the big dormitory cellar, which had been built beneath the stockade.
Osmunda nodded to Mem. “They’m all gone abed now, marm.”
Mem took a haversack from her wall cupboard and began adding pancakes to its contents. “Tammo, put those
dishes down and come here. Hurry, son, there’s not much time.”
Mystified, Tammo came to sit on the table edge near his mother. “What’n the name o’ seasons is goin’ on, maim?”
Osmunda smacked his paw lightly with a ladle. “Do ee be ’ushed now, maister, an’ lissen to ee mother.”
Mem kept her eyes averted, fussing over the haversack. “Lackaday, I’m not sure whether I’m doin’ the right or the
wrong thing now, Tammo, but I’m givin’ you a chance to see a bit o’ life out in the world. I think ’tis time you grew
up an’ joined the Long Patrol.”
Tammo slid off the table edge, disbelief shrill in his voice. “Me, join the jolly ol’ Long Patrol? Oh, marm!”
Mem pulled the haversack drawstrings tight. “Keep y’voice down or you’ll waken the entire camp. Our friend
Russa has agreed to take you in tow. She’ll keep you safe. Now don’t be a nuisance to that old squirrel, keep up, and
don’t dare cheek her. Russa ain’t as lenient as me an’ she’s a lot quicker on her paws than your father, so mind your
manners. There’s enough food in the haversack to keep you going for a good while, also thirty of my pancakes for
Russa. Come over here, Tamm, stand still while I put this on you.”
Mem Divinia took from the cupboard a twine and linen belt, strong and very skillfully woven. It had a silver
buckle fashioned in the image of a running hare. Attached to the belt was a weapon that was neither sword nor dagger,
being about half the length of the former and twice the size of the latter. Tammo cast admiring glances at the beautiful
thing as his mother set the belt sash fashion, running over his shoulder and across his chest, so that the buckle hung at
his side.
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
battle-ax, 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 witii you, Tamello De Fformelo
Tussock—do honor 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 good-bye 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, weather-beaten stern 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 one
another, dipping toward 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 opal-escence 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 gray, armor-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 Lug-worm 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