being outflanked.
Those Redwallers had a harsh lesson in death coming to them. Redwall—when the Abbey was his he would
change its name. Fort Damug! That had a good sound to it. His name would live forever when the place was
mentioned in far seasons to come. Fort Damug. Tales would be told of how he defeated the foe on open ground and
took the Abbey without disturbing a stone.
A keen-eyed squirrel, one of the friends from Mossflower Wood, stood erect on top of the standing rock. Shading
both eyes with a paw, he scanned all ’round. The way in which he halted, tail erect and head thrust forward, told
Lieutenant Mono that he had spotted something.
Mono hailed him. “What ho there, Lookout, any sign o’ movement?”
Holding his position, the squirrel called back, “Dust cloud comin’ out o’ the southeast, too faint yet t’see much!”
Morio’s long face lit up momentarily. “Keep your eye on it, bucko, looks like our visitors are on their flippin’ way.
Report if you note any change!”
The big pine trunk had become a kind of social gathering place; hares, mice, hedgehogs, shrews, moles, and
squirrels grouped about it when they were off duty. Perigord sat scratching his initials into the wood as he listened to
Morio’s report.
“That sounds like the blighters right enough. When d’you think we can expect them to arrive?”
“Can’t say, sah, have t’wait on the Lookout’s report.”
The Major winked at his waiting warriors. “Well, whenever it is, we’ll give the blackguards a warm welcome, eh?
”
Ribald comments greeted this statement.
“Aye, we’ll feed ’em a nice ’ot supper o’ cold steel!”
“Haharr, we’ll rap their scallions for ’em!”
“Give the villains rock cakes served wirh spearpoints!”
Perigord looked down to the (hick end of the trunk. Several creatures were throwing weapons at a shriveled leaf,
which they had pinned to the trunk. A selection of axes, knives, and javelins quivered from the wood all ’round the
leaf.
A shrew called Spykel held up a ribbon of crimson silk. “First to pin the leaf dead center wins this!”
Log-a-Log balanced his rapier and threw it like a javelin.
“A hit! The Guosim Chief’s hit it!”
Gurgan Spearback inspected the leaf. “Nay, ’tis not dead center, a touch left, I’d say. Stand away now, yon
ribbon’d look fetchin’ in my wife, Rufftip’s, spikes!”
Gurgan stood on the ten-pace mark. Closing one eye, he licked the blade of his ax, sighted, and flung it spinning. It
struck the leaf, slicing it neatly in half through its middle. Gurgan pulled his ax loose and wound the ribbon on to his
paw. “See, that’s how a Water’og learns to cast his blade!”
Midge Manycoats stopped Gurgan strolling off with the prize. “If a chap could send his blade spot into the cut your
ax made, would you give him that nice fancy ribbon, old feller?”
Gurgan chuckled so that his oversized boots quaked. “Ho-hoho! Hearken to this ’un! ’Taint possible, master ’are!
No-beast can cast a blade good as that in one throw!”
Midge winked at Tammo, who was standing nearby with Pasque. “Show the Waterhog how our patrol chuck a
blade, Tamm, go on!”
The young hare blinked modestly. “Oh, really, Midge, I don’t go in for showin’ off.”
From his perch on the trunk, Perigord interrupted. “Go to it, Tamm, win the ribbon for young Pasque!”
Three paces farther out than the mark, Tammo drew his dirk. “Oh, well, if you say so, sah ...”
The weapon shot from Tammo’s paw like chain lightning. It hissed through the air and thudded deep into the center
of the split made by Gurgan’s ax. A roar went up from the onlookers.
Bewildered, the Waterhog Chieftain inspected the throw. “Lackaday, I never seen a beast sling steel like that,
young sir! What manner o’ creature taught thee such a skill?”
Tammo grunted as he used both paws to tug the dirk free. “One called Russa Nodrey, a far finer warrior than I’ll
ever hope t’be. Keep your ribbon, Gurgan, ’twas you split the leaf.”
But the Waterhog would not hear of it. He draped the crimson silken ribbon on Tammo’s paw and bowed formally.
“Nay, I’d like t’see thee give it to thy pretty friend!”
Tammo felt his ears turn bright pink as he draped the silk about Pasque Valerian’s neck. Everybeast cheered him,
and Perigord shook him warmly by the paw.
“Your mother’d be rather proud if she could see you now, Tamm!”
51
Furgale and Atgador Swiftback had been out scouting the land ahead of the Salamandastron contingent. They
returned at mid-noon and made their report to Lady Cregga and Sergeant Clu-brush.
“I’m afraid we haven’t sighted the ridge you described, marm. It must be further than you estimated.”
The badger leaned on her fearsome axpike. “No matter, ’tis there somewhere, I know it is. Did you sight vermin or
anything else of interest?”
“Well, m’lady, about two hours ahead there’s a dip in the land, sort of forming itself into a windin’ ravine. It goes
north and slightly west ...”
Cregga exchanged a knowing glance with the Sergeant. “Good work! We’ll camp there tonight and follow the
course of this ravine you speak of. That way we won’t betray our presence; ’twill keep us well hidden as we march.”
Drill Sergeant Clubrush winked at the two recruits. “Top marks, you two, that’s wot I calls usin’ the old
h’initiative. Go an’ join yore pals in the ranks now.”
Twilight was falling as they entered the ravine’s shallow end. Within moments nobeast within a league’s distance
could tell there were five hundred hares on the march. The columns were reduced to three wide in the narrow gorge;
they pressed forward with the rough earthen walls rearing high either side of them.
Trowbaggs accosted Corporal Ellbrig in quaint rustic speech. “Hurr, ’ow furr be et afore us’n’s makes camp, zurr?”
Ellbrig looked at him strangely. “Wot’re you talkin’ like that for, y’pudden-’eaded young rogue?”
Trowbaggs continued with his mimicry. “Hurr hurr hurr! ’Cos oi feels just loik ee mole bein’ unnerground loik
this, zurr, bo urr!”
The Corporal nodded sympathetically. “Do you now? Well you keep bein’ a mole, Trowbaggs, an’ when we makes
camp you kin dig out a nice liddle sleepin’ cave in the ravine wall fer yore officers.”
Trowbaggs did a speedy change back to being a hare. “Oh, I say, Corp, why not let old Shangle do the diggin’? He
looks a jolly sight more like a mole than I do.”
Shangle Widepad fixed the young recruit with a beady eye. “One more squeak out o’ you, laddie buck, an’ y’won’t
be either mole or hare, y’H be a dead duck!”
It was chilly sleeping in the ravine. After a cold meal of thick barley biscuit and apple slices, the hares settled down
for the night, wrapped in their groundsheets. However, Lady Cregga Rose Eyes felt her blood run hot as she lay there,
dreaming of meeting Rapscallion vermin in a valley beneath a far-off ridge.
Standing as high as he could on the pine trunk at the ridgetop, Arven watched the Rapscallion campfires. They
dotted the far plains like tiny fallen stars. Skipper of Otters climbed up beside him and passed the Redwal! Champion a
beaker of vegetable soup, steaming hot.
“All quiet down there, mate?”
Arven blew on the soup and sipped gratefully. “Aye, Skip. If they break camp just before dawn, I figure they’ll
arrive in the valley below at midday tomorrow. By the fur’n’fang, though, there’s going to be a lot of ’em facin’ us!”