now where’s that woodland trifle got to? Oh, dearie me, don’t you fret, my liddle babby, I won’t let ’im ’ave you!”
Russano stood up in his tiny nightshirt, chuckling. “Yee-heehee. Nut!”
Accompanied by Taunoc and Orocca, the old squirrel-mother brought out a heaped tray. Shad had to take it and
put it on the table, as she almost dropped it. In the lantern-lit area, Butty appeared normal.
Tansy waved at her. “Hello, Mother Buscol, Orocca, and Taunoc, my friends. How are your eggchicks? Well, I
hope?”
Taunoc bowed courteously and alighted on the table. “We are all healthy, thank you, Abbess. Welcome back to
Redwall!”
49?
Major Perigord Habile Sinistra looked around the high ridge in the dawn light, sizing up the hillside and valley
below.
“You an’ Mono did well, Sergeant Torgoch. This ridge could be held against many by a few. Top marks, wot!”
Morio threw a languid salute. “Best place we could find, sah. Looks like we’re first here.”
Brisk as ever, Torgoch was issuing orders. “Scout around now, see if y’can find stones, any kind, from pebbles to
blinkin’ boulders. Put ’em in piles along the ridge—always useful t’chuck down on the vermin.”
Perigord nodded approvingly. “Good show, Sar’nt, make use of the terrain, eh, wot. Chief Log-a-Log, what can I
do for you, old lad?”
The Guosim leader nodded, shrews not being in the habit of saluting. “ThinkirT about food fer the troops, Major.
Shall we risk lightin’ cookin’ fires?”
“Why not, old chap, why not, we want the blinkin’ enemy to see where we are. Light some whackin’ great
bonfires, if y’please.”
Log-a-Log took Perigord at his word, and soon three huge fires were alight and blazing out like beacons in the
gray of dawn.
Gurgan Spearback had a stroke of luck. His Waterhogs reported they had found a great, fallen pine trunk on the
ridge’s other side.
“Thee did well, ’ogs. Fetch rope an’ wedges. Methinks I’d like yon timber atop o’ the ridge—’twill come in
useful.”
Everybeast joined in to roll the big dead trunk uphill. Gurgan, painted for war, wearing his club and ax, supervised
the job. “Put thy backs into it, thou slab-chopped ne’er-do-well rabble! A liddle twig like yon should give thee an
appetite for when we breakfast. Worry not about gettin’ lily-white paws dusty, by me spikes, come on, move it, afore I
move ye to bitter tears!”
Captain Twayblade levered hard at the pine with a pike, smiling in high good humor at the fat hedgehog’s insults.
One of Skipper’s crew working alongside her gritted his teeth as he threw his weight against the massive log, and
muttered, “Wot’s so funny, Cap’n?”
Twayblade leaned on the pikehaft, taking a short breather. “That Waterhog, old chap, Gurgan thingummy. I’d like
to put him in a contest against our Sergeant Torgoch. I wager they could insult a regiment for a full day without jolly
well re-peatin’ themselves. That Waterhog’s a born Color Sergeant!”
Pasque Valerian sat alone near the tall standing rock at the ridge center, her breakfast untouched, watching the
daybreak. Rising from behind a bank of dusky cream cloud, the sun appeared reddish-hued like a new copper coin,
burning the morning dew into tiny wraithlike tendrils. It was the start of a high summer’s day, but the young hare was
downcast.
Arven, the Champion of Redwall, had already eaten. He wandered across to where Pasque sat, and, leaning against
the rock, he watched her. “Gracious me, there’s a long face! D’you want it to rain?”
The young hare looked up into the squirrel’s kind features. “No sir, I hope the day stays fine.”
“Lost your appetite too, I see?”
“Oh, I’ll get ’round to eatin’ it, sir.”
“What is it, then? Are you afraid of the battle to come?”
“Not really, sir. I’ve seen quite a bit of action with Long Patrol.”
Arven drew the Sword of Martin from its sheath across his back. He touched Pasque’s paw lightly with the tip,
smiling secretly. “D’you see this sword? Did you know that it has the power to make pretty hare maidens happy?”
Pasque cast her eyes over the legendary blade. “I’ve never known a sword do that, sir, but if you say it does, then
I’ll have to take your word.”
Arven snorted impatiently and flourished the blade. “Hah! I see y’don’t believe me. Right, I’ll show you, missie.
C’mon, up off your hunkers and see where my blade is pointing!”
Pasque arose with a small sigh. She did not feel like being forced to laugh at sword tricks.
Arven pointed the blade out and downward to the back of the ridge. “Place your eye level with my sword and look
carefully.”
The young hare did as she was bid, and in an instant she was wreathed in smiles, jumping about excitedly. “It’s
Tammo, he’s coming! He’s coming here!”
Arven watched the small figure below on the plain, running in front of two others like a true Long Patrol Galloper.
“Y’see, I told you this is a powerful sword!”
Major Perigord had to lower his brows and glower a bit to prevent himself from smiling. “I say, Pasque, old thing,
d’you mind lettin’ go of young Tammo’s paw, just while he makes his blinkin’ report t’me, wot!”
Tammo flushed to his eartips and gave a smart salute. “Midge’ll be here soon, sah, our mission was successful.
Da-mug Warfang is headed this way with the Rapscallion army. Sorry to report that we lost Rockjaw Grang ...”
Tammo’s voice broke for a moment. “He ... he gave his life so we could escape. Brought a squirrel with us, name o’
Fourdun; he was a prisoner, y’see. I cut your trail ’twixt here, south o’ Redwall, and we’ve been runnin’ like
madbeasts all night t’get here. Sah!”
The Major turned aside and, taking out a spotted kerchief, he wiped his eyes. After a moment he faced Tammo
again, his face pale. “Big Rockjaw Grang, eh? A good an’ perilous hare. By my blood an’ blade, we’ll make the
vermin pay heavily for him! Go an’ get y’vittles, Tamm, you look quite done in. I’ll get the fine details from Midge.
Thank ye, y’may dismiss.”
50?
Bluggach the big stoat Rapmark, made his way to the head of the marching Rapscallions, pointing as he came level
with Damug Warfang.
“See, Firstblade, fires burnin’ on that ridge in the distance!”
The Greatrat kept his gaze locked on the trio of smoke columns rising against the distant sky. “I saw them a while
back. Send Henbit to me.”
Henbit was a wily-looking Rapmark officer. He appeared at Damug’s side with scarcely a sound. “Mightiness, you
wanted to see me?”
“Aye, listen now. Take a score of trackers, good ones who are able to hide and run silent. Get over to that ridge,
look for a rock like an otter’s tail, and see how many are waiting for us there. Then check the valley, it should have a
rift running along the far side of it. Take care that you are not seen. Go!”
Damug was confident that he could win. Who else could put an army of a thousand in the field? Where in all the
country east of Salamandastron was any serious force of fighters to be found? As he strode at the head of his powerful
force, Damug planned ahead.
He had learned the lesson of overconfidence from his father, Gormad Tunn, when they attacked Salamandastron
with disastrous results. Though this battle would be different and his opponents fewer, that was no reason not to take
precautions. He would split the army into two groups, sending them into the valley from both ends in a pincer
movement. This would catch any of his enemy who were lying in wait on the valley floor and prevent the Rapscallions