Midnight

Tammo dreams of joining the Long Patrol, the legendary army of fighting hares who serve Lady Cregga Rose Eyes, ruler of Salamandastron. And with Damug Warfangs’s mighty battalion of savage vermin on the rampage, young Tammo’s dream is about to become a brutal reality . . .

BOOK ONE

The Runaway Recruit

MELTING SNOWDRIFTS WITH grassy knolls poking through made a patchwork of the far east lands as winter surrendered its icy grip of the earth to oncoming spring. Snowdrop, chickweed and shepherd’s purse nodded gratefully beneath a bright mid-morning sun, which beamed through small islands of breeze-chased clouds. Carrying half-melted icicles along, a tinkling, chuckling stream bounded from rocky cliff ledges, meandering around fir and pine groves towards broad open plains. Already a few hardy wood ants and honey bees were abroad in the copse fringes. Clamouring and gaggling, a skein of barnacle geese in wavering formation winged their way overhead towards the coastline. All around, the land was wakening to springtime, and it promised to be a fair season.

It is often said that a madness takes possession of certain hares in spring, and anybeast watching the performance of one such creature would have had their worst fears confirmed. Tamello De Fformelo Tussock, to give this young hare his full title, was doing battle with imaginary enemies. Armed with stick and slingshot he flung himself recklessly from a rock ledge, whirling the stone-loaded sling and thwacking left and right with his stick, yelling, ‘Eulaliaaaa! Have at you, villainous vermin, ’tis m’self, Captain Tammo of the Long Patrol! Take that, y’wicked weasel! Hah! Thought you’d sneak up behind a chap, eh? Well, have some o’ this, you ratten rot, beg pardon, rotten rat!’

Hurling himself down in the snow he lashed out powerfully with his long back legs. ‘What ho! That’ll give you a bellyache to last out the season, m’laddo. Want some more? Hahah! Thought y’didn’t, go on, run f’your lives, you cowardly crew! It’d take more’n five hundred of you t’bring down Cap’n Tammo, by the left it would!’

Satisfied that he had given a justly deserved thrashing to half a thousand fictitious foebeasts, Tammo sat up in the snow, eating a few pawfuls to cool himself down.

‘Just let ’em come back, I’ll show the blighters, wot! There ain’t a foebeast in the blinkin’ land can defeat me . . . Yaaagh, gerroff!’ He felt himself hauled roughly upright by both ears. Lynum and Saithe, Tammo’s elder brother and sister, had sneaked up and grabbed him.

‘Playing soldiers again?’ Lynum’s firm grip indicated that there would be no chance of escape.

Tammo’s embarrassment at being caught at his game made him even more indignant. ‘Unhand me at once, m’laddo, if you know what’s good for you,’ he said, struggling. ‘I can walk by myself.’

Saithe gave his ear an extra tweak as she admonished him. ‘Colonel wants a word with you, wretch, about his battleaxe!’

Tammo finally struggled free and reluctantly marched off between the two hulking hares, muttering rebelliously to himself. ‘Huh! I can tell you what he’s goin’ t’say, same thing as usual.’

The young hare imitated his father perfectly, bowing his legs, sticking out his stomach, puffing both cheeks up and pulling his lips down at the corners as he spoke. ‘Wot wot, stap me whiskers, if it ain’t the bold Tammo. Now then, laddie buck, what’ve y’got to say for y’self, eh? Speak up, sah!’

Lynum cuffed Tammo lightly to silence him. ‘Enough of that. Colonel’d have your tail if he saw you makin’ mock of him. Step lively now!’

Entering the largest of the conifer groves they headed for a telltale spiral of smoke which denoted Camp Tussock. It was a rambling stockade, the outer walls fashioned from treetrunks with a big dwellinghouse built of rock, timber, moss and mud chinking. This was known as the Barracks. Moles, squirrels, hedgehogs and a few woodmice wandered in and out of the homely place, living there by kind permission of the Colonel and his wife the Mem Divinia. Some of them shook their heads and tuttutted at the sight of Tammo being led in to answer for his latest escapade.

Seated close to the fire in his armchair, Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock was a formidable sight. He was immaculately attired in a buff-coloured campaign jacket covered with rows of jangling medals, his heavy-jowled face shadowed by the peak of a brown-bark forage helmet. The Colonel had one eye permanently closed, while the other glared through a monocle of polished crystal with a silken cord dangling from it. His wattled throat wobbled pendulously as he jabbed his pace stick pointedly at the miscreant standing before him.

‘Wot wot, stap me whiskers, if it ain’t the bold Tammo. Now then, laddie buck, what’ve y’got to say for y’self, eh? Speak up, sah!’

Tammo remained silent, staring at the floor as if to find inspiration there. Grunting laboriously the Colonel leaned forward, lifting Tammo’s chin with the pace stick until they were eye to eye.

“S matter, sah, frogs got y’tongue? C’mon now, speak y’piece, somethin’ about me battleaxe, wot wot?’

Tammo did what was expected of him and came smartly to attention. Chin up, chest out, he gazed fixedly at a point above his father’s head and barked out in true military fashion: ‘Colonel sah! ‘Pologies about y’battleaxe, only used it to play with. Promise upon me honour, won’t do it again. Sah!’

The old hare’s great head quivered with furious disbelief, and the monocle fell from his eye to dangle upon its string. He lifted the pace stick, and for a moment it looked as though he were about to strike his son. When he could find it, the Colonel’s voice rose several octaves to shrill indignation.

‘Playin’? You’ve got the brass nerye t’stand there an’ tell me you’ve been usin’ my battleaxe as a toy! Outrage, sir, outrage! Y’re a pollywoggle and a ripscutt! Hah, that’s it, a scruff-furred, lollop-eared, blather-pawed, doodle-tailed, jumped up never t’come down bogwhumper! What are yeh?’

Tammo’s mother, Mem Divinia, had been hovering in the background, tending a batch of barley scones on the griddle. Wiping floury paws upon an apron corner she bustled forward, placing herself firmly between husband and son.

‘That’s quite enough o’ that, Corney Fformelo, I’ll not have language like that under my roof. Where d’you think y’are, in the middle of a battlefield? I won’t have you roaring at my Tammo in such a manner.’

Instead of calming the Colonel’s wrath, his wife’s remarks had the opposite effect. Suffused with blood, his ears went bright pink and stood up like spearpoints. He flung down the pace stick and stamped so hard upon it that he hurt his footpaw.

Mem countered by drawing herself up regally, as she grabbed Tammo’s head and buried it in the floury folds of her apron. ‘Keep y’voice down, sir, no sense in settin’ bad example to your son an’ makin’ yourself ill over some battleaxe!’

The Colonel knew better than to ignore his wife. Rubbing ruefully at his footpaw he retrieved the pace stick then, fixing his monocle straight, he sat upright, struggling to moderate his tone.

‘Some battleaxe indeed, m’dear! I’m discussin’ one particular weapon. My battleaxe! This battleaxe! D’y’know, that young rip took a chip out o’ the blade, prob’ly hackin’ away at some boulder. A chip off my blade, marm! The same battleaxe that was the pride of the old Fifty-first Paw’n’fur Platoon of the Long Patrol. ’Twas a blade that separated Searats from their gizzards’n’ garters, flayed ferrets out o’ their fur, whacked weasels an’ shortened stoats into stumps! An’ who was it chipped the blade? That layabout of a leveret, that’s who. Hmph!’

Tammo struggled free of Mem’s apron, his face thickened with white flour dust. He sneezed twice before speaking. ‘I ain’t a leveret any longer, sir. If y’let me join the jolly ol’ Long Patrol then I wouldn’t have t’get up to all sorts o’ mischief, ’specially with your axe, sah.’

The Colonel sighed and shook his head, the monocle falling to one side as he settled back wearily into his armchair. ‘I’ve told you a hundred times, m’laddo, you’re far too young, too wild’n’wayward, not got the seasons under y’belt yet. You speak to him, Mem m’dear, the rogue’s got me worn out. Join the Long Patrol indeed. Hmph! No self-respectin’ Badger Lord would tolerate a green b’hind the ears little pestilence like you, laddie buck. Run along an’ play now, you’ve given me enough grey fur, go an’ bother some otherbeast. Be off, you’re dismissed, sah. Matter closed!’

Tammo saluted smartly and hurried off, blinking back unshed tears at his father’s brusque command. Mem took the pace stick from her husband’s lap and slapped it down hard into his paw.

‘Shame on you, Cornspurrey,’ she cried, ‘you’re nought but a heartless old bodger. How could y’talk to your own son like that?’

The Colonel replaced his monocle and squinted challengingly. ‘Bodger y’self, marm! I’d give me permission for Lynum or Saithe t’join up with the Long Patrol, they’re both of a right age. Stap me, though, neither of ’em’s interested, both want t’be bally soil-pawed farm-beasts, I think.’ He smiled slightly and stroked his curled moustache. ‘Young Tammo now, there’s a wild ’un, full of fire’n’vinegar, like I was in me green seasons. Hah! He’ll grow t’be a dangerous an’ perilous beast one day, mark m’words, Mem!’

Mem Divinia spoke up on Tammo’s behalf. ‘Then why not let him join up? You know ’tis all he’s wanted since he was a babe listenin’ to your tales around the fire. Poor Tammo, he lives, eats an’ breathes Long Patrol. Let him go, Corney, give him his chance.’

But the Colonel was resolute; he never went back on a decision. ‘Tammo’s far too young by half. Said all I’m goin’ t’say, m’dear. Matter closed!’

Popping out his monocle with a wink, Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock settled back into the armchair and closed his good eye, indicating that this was his pre-lunch naptime. Mem Divinia knew further talk was pointless. She sighed wearily and went back to her friend Osmunda the molewife, who was assisting with the cooking.

Osmunda shook her head knowingly, muttering away in the curious molespeech. ‘Burr aye, you’m roight, Mem, ee be nought but an ole bodger. Oi wuddent be surproised if’n maister Tamm up’n runned aways one morn. Hurr hurr, ee faither can’t stop Tamm furrever.’

Mem added sprigs of young mint to the golden crust of a carrot, mushroom and onion hotpot she had taken from the oven. ‘That’s true, Osmunda, Tammo will run away, same as his father did at his age. He was a wayward one too, y’know. His father never forgave him for running away, called him a deserter and never spoke his name again – but I think he was secretly very proud of Comspurrey and the reputation he gained as a fighting hare with the Long Patrol. He died long before his son retired from service and brought me back here to Camp Tussock. I was always very sorry that they were never reconciled. I hope the Colonel isn’t as stubborn as his father, for Tammo’s sake.’

Osmunda was spooning honey into the scooped out tops of the hot barley scones. She blinked curiously at Mem. ‘Whoi do ee say that?’

Mem Divinia began mixing a batter of greensap milk, hazelnut and almond flour to make pancakes. She kept her eyes on the mix as she explained. ‘Because I’m going to help Tammo to run away and join the Long Patrol. If I don’t he’ll only hang around here gettin’ into trouble an’ arguin’ with his father until they become enemies. Now don’t mention what I’ve just said to anybeast, Osmunda.’

The faithful molewife’s friendly face crinkled into a deep grin. ‘Moi snout be sealed, Mem! Ee be a doin’ the roight thing, oi knows et, even tho’ ee Colonel won’t ’ave ’is temper improved boi et an’ you’ll miss maister Tamm gurtly.’

A tear fell into the pancake mix. Tammo’s mother wiped her eyes hastily on her apron hem. ‘Oh, I’ll miss the rascal all right, never you fear, Osmunda. But Tammo will do well away from here. He’s got a good heart, he’s not short of courage and, like the Colonel said, he’ll grow to be a wild an’ perilous beast. What more could any creature say of a hare? One day my son will make us proud of him!’

SEVERAL LEAGUES AWAY from Camp Tussock, down the far southeast coast, Damug Warfang turned his face to the wind. Before him on the tideline of a shingled beach lay the wave-washed and tattered remnants of a battered ship fleet. Behind him sprawled myriad crazy hovels, built from dunnage and flotsam. Black and grey smoke wisped off the cooking fires among them.

The drums began to beat. Gormad Turin, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was dying.

The drums beat louder, making the very air thrum to their deep insistent throbbing. Damug Warfang watched the sea, pounding, hissing among the pebbles as it clawed its way up the shore. Soon Gormad Tunn’s spirit would be at the gates of Dark Forest.

Only a Greatrat could become Firstblade of all Rapscallions. Damug cast a sideways glance at Byral standing further along the beach and smiled thinly. Gormad would have company at Dark. Forest gates before the sun set.

Greatrats were a strange breed, twice the size of any normal rat. Gormad had been the greatest. Now his sun was setting, and one of his two sons would rule as Firstblade when he was gone. The two sons, Damug Warfang and Byral Fleetclaw, stood with their backs to the death tent where their father lay, in accordance with the Law of the Rapscallion vermin. Neither would rest, eat or drink until the great Firstblade breathed his last. Then would come the combat between them. Only one would remain alive as Firstblade of the mighty army.

A small pebble struck Damug lightly on his back. ‘Lugworm, is everything ready?’ he whispered, lips scarcely moving.

The stoat murmured low from his hiding place behind a rock, ‘Never readier . . . O Firstblade.’

Damug kept his eyes riveted on the sea as he replied, ‘Don’t call me Firstblade yet, ’tis bad luck!’

A confident chuckle came from the stoat. ‘Luck has nothin’ to do with it. Everythin’ has been taken care of.’

The drums began to pound louder, booming and banging, small drums competing with larger ones until the entire shoreline reverberated to their beat.

Gormad Tunn’s eyelids flickered once, and a harsh rattle of breath escaped from his dry lips. The Firstblade was dead!

An old ferret who had been attending Gormad left the death tent. He threw up his paws and howled in a high keening tone:

‘Gormad has left us for Dark Forest’s shade,

And the wind cannot lead Rapscallions.

Let the beast stand forth who would be Firstblade,

To rule all these wild battalions!’

The drums stopped. Silence flooded the coast like a sudden tide. Both brothers turned to face the speaker, answering the challenge.

‘I, Byral Fleetclaw, claim the right. The blood of Greatrats runs in my veins and I would fight to the death him who opposes me!’

‘I, Damug Warfang, challenge that right. My blood is pure Greatrat and I will prove it over your dead carcass!’

A mighty roar arose from the Rapscallion army, then they rushed forward like autumn leaves upon the gale, surrounding the two brothers as they strode to the place of combat.

A ring had been marked out higher up the shore. There the contestants stood, facing each other. Damug smiled wolfishly at his brother Byral, who smirked and spat upon the ground between them. Wagers of food and weapons, plunder and strong drink were being yelled out between supporters of one or the other.

Two seconds entered the circle and prepared both brothers for the strange combat which would settle the leadership of the Rapscallion hordes. A short length of tough vinerope was tied around both rats’ left footpaws, attaching them one to the other, so they could not run away. They were issued with their weapons: a short, stout hardwood club and a cord apiece. The cords were about two swordblades’ length, each with a boulder, twice the size of a good apple, attached to its end.

Damug and Byral drew back from each other, stretching the footpaw rope tight. Gripping their clubs firmly, they glared fiercely at each other, winding the cords around their paws a few turns so they would not lose them.

Now all eyes were on the old ferret who had announced Gormad Tunn’s death, as he drew forth a scrap of red silk and threw it upward. Caught on the breeze for a moment it seemed to float in mid-air, then it dropped to the floor of the ring. A wild cheer arose from a thousand throats as the fight started. Brandishing their clubs and whirling the boulder-laden cords the two Greatrats circled, each seeking an opening, whilst the bloodthirsty onlookers roared encouragement.

Being fairly equally matched, each gave as good as he got. Soon Byral and Damug were both aching from hefty blows dealt by their clubs, but as yet neither had room to bring cord and boulder into play. Circling, tugging, tripping and stumbling they scattered sand and pebbles widespread, biting and kicking when they got the opportunity, each knowing that only one would walk away alive from the encounter. Then Byral saw his chance. Hopping nimbly back, he stretched the footpaw rope to its limits and swung at Damug’s head with the boulder-loaded cord. It was just what Damug was waiting for. Grabbing his club in both paws he ducked, allowing the cord to twirl itself around his club until the rock clacked against it. Then Damug gave a sharp tug and the cord snapped off short close to Byral’s paw.

A gasp went up from the spectators. Nobeast had expected the cord to snap – except Lugworm. Byral hesitated a fatal second, gaping at the broken cord – and that was all Damug needed. He let go of his club, tossed a swift pawful of sand into his opponent’s face and swung hard with his cord and boulder. The noise was like a bar of iron smacking into a wet side of meat. Byral looked surprised before his eyes rolled backwards and he sank slowly on to all fours. Damug swung twice more, though there was little need to; he had slain his brother with the first blow.

A silence descended on the watchers. Damug held out his paw and Lugworm passed him a knife. With one quick slash he severed the rope holding his footpaw to Byral’s. Without a word he strode through the crowd, and the massed ranks fell apart before him. Straight into his father’s death tent he went, emerging a moment later holding aloft a sword. It had a curious blade: one edge was wavy, the other straight, representing land and sea.

The drums beat out loud and frenzied as the vast Rapscallion army roared their tribute to a new Leader.

SOME CREATURES SAID that Russa came from the deep south, others thought she was from the west coast, but even Russa could not say with any degree of certainty where she had come from. The red female squirrel had neither family nor tribe, nor any place to call home: she was a wanderer who just loved to travel. Russa Nodrey she was often called, owing to the fact that squirrels’ homes were called dreys and she did not have one, hence, no drey.

Nobeast knew more about country ways than Russa. She could live where others would starve, she knew the way in woods and field when many would be hopelessly lost. Neither old nor young looking, quite small and lean, Russa carried no great traveller’s haversack or intricate equipment. A small pouch at the back of the rough green tunic she always wore was sufficient for her needs. The only other thing she possessed was a stick, which she had picked up from the flotsam of a tideline. It was about walking stick size and must have come from far away, because it was hard and dark and had a lustre of its own – even seawater could not rot or warp it.

Russa liked her stick. There was no piece of wood like it in all the land, nor any tree that produced such wood. It was also a good weapon, because besides being a lone wanderer, Russa Nodrey was also an expert fighter and a very dangerous warrior, in her own quiet way.

Off again on her latest odyssey, Russa stopped to rest among the cliff ledges not far from Camp Tussock. Happy with her own company, she sat by the stream edge, drank her fill of the sweet cold water and settled down to enjoy the late afternoon sun in a nook protected from the wind. The sound of another creature nearby did not bother Russa unduly; she knew it was a mole and therefore friendly. With both eyes closed, as if napping, Russa waited until the creature was right up close, then she spoke in perfect molespeech to it.

Roolee, the husband of Osmunda, was taken aback, though he did not show it. He sat down next to Russa and raised a hefty digging claw in greeting. ‘Gudd day to ee, marm, noice weather us’n’s be ’avin’, burr aye!’

Russa answered in normal speech. ‘Aye, a pity that somebeasts blunder along to disturb a body’s rest when all she craves is peace an’ quiet.’

‘Yurr, so ’tis, marm, so ’tis.’ Roolee nodded agreement. ‘Tho’ if ee be who oi think ee be, marm Mem at Camp Tussock will be pleased to see ee. May’ap you’m koindly drop boi furr vittles?’

Russa was up on her paws immediately. ‘Why didn’t you just say that instead of yappin’ about the weather? I’d travel three rough leagues ’fore breakfast if I knew me old friend Mem Divinia was still cookin’ those pancakes an’ hotpots of hers!’

Roolee led the way, his velvety head nodding. ‘Burr aye, marm, ee Mem still be ee gurtest cook yurrabouts, she’m doin’ pannycakes, ottenpots an’ all manner o’ gudd vittles!’

Russa ran several steps ahead of Roolee coming into Camp Tussock. Lynum was doing sentry duty at the stockade entrance. In the fading twilight he saw the strange squirrel approaching and decided to exercise his authority.

Barring the way with a long oak quarterstave he called officiously, ‘Halt an’ be recognized, who goes there, stranger at the gate!’

Russa was hungry, and she had little time for such foolishness. She gave the husky hare a smart rap across his footpaw with her stick. ‘Hmm, you’ve grown since I last saw ye,’ she commented as she stepped over him. ‘Y’were only a fuzzy babe then – fine big hare now though, eh? Pity your wits never grew up like your limbs, y’were far nicer as a little ’un.’

Mem Divinia wiped floury paws on her apron hem and rushed to meet the visitor, her face alight with joy. ‘Well, fortunes smile on us! Russa Nodrey, you roamin’ rascal, how are you?’

Russa avoided Mem’s flourdusted hug and made for the corner seat at table, as she remembered it was the most comfortable and best for access to the food. She winked at Mem.

‘Oh, I’m same as I always was, Mem, when I’m not travellin’ up an’ down the country I’m roamin’ sideways across the land.’

Mem winked back at Russa and whispered, ‘Your visit is very timely, friend. I have something to ask of you.’ Then, on seeing the Colonel approaching the table, she quickly mouthed the word ‘later’. Russa understood.

Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock viewed the guest with a jaundiced eye and a snort. ‘Hmph! Respects to ye, marm, I see you’ve installed y’self in my flippin’ seat! Comfortable are ye, wot?’

Russa managed a rare smile. ‘Aye, one seat’s as good as another. How are ye, y’old fogey, still grouchin’ an’ throwin’ orders around like they’re goin’ out of style? I’ve seen boulders that’ve changed faster than you!’

The conversation was cut short by Osmunda thwacking a hollow gourd with a ladle, summoning the inhabitants of Camp Tussock to their evening meal.

Mem Divinia and her helpers always provided the best of victuals. There was steaming hot, early-spring vegetable soup, with flat crisp oatmeal bannocks, followed by the famous Tussock hotpot. In a huge earthenware basin coated with a golden piecrust was a delicious medley of corn, carrots, mushrooms, turnips, winter cabbage and onions, in a thick, rich gravy full of Mem’s secret herbs. This was followed by a hefty apple, blackberry and plum crumble topped with Osmunda’s greensap and maple sauce. Hot mint and comfrey tea was served, along with horsechestnut beer and redcurrant cordial. Afterwards there were honeyed barleyscones, white hazelnut cheese and elderflower bread, for those still wanting to nibble.

Tammo sat quiet, still out of favour with his father the Colonel, since the battleaxe incident. He listened as Russa related the latest news she had gathered in her wandering.

‘Last autumn a great storm in the west country sent the waves tearing up the cliffs, and a good part of ’em collapsed into the sea.’

The Colonel reached for cheese and bread with a grunt. ‘Hmph! Used to patrol down that way, y’know, lots of toads, nasty slimy types, murderous blighters, hope the cliffs fell on them, wot! Anythin’ happenin’ at Salamandastron of late?’

Tammo leaned forward eagerly at the name. Salamandastron, mountain of the Badger Lords, the mysterious place that was the headquarters of the Long Patrol.

Unfortunately Russa dismissed the subject. ‘Hah, the badger mountain, haven’t been there in many a long season. Place is still standin’ I suppose . . .’

The Colonel’s monocle dropped from his eye in righteous indignation. ‘You suppose, marm? Tchah! I should jolly well hope so! Why, if Salamandastron weren’t there the entire land would be overrun with Searats, Corsairs, vermin, Rapscallions, an’ . . . an’ . . . whatever!’

Russa leaned forward as if remembering something. ‘Spoke to an owl last winter, he said a whole fleet of Rapscallions had taken a right good thrashin’ on the shores near Salamandastron. Wotsisname, the old Warlord or Firstblade, or whatever they call him? Tunn! Gormad Tunn! He was wounded near to death. Anyhow, seems they’ve vanished into thin air to lick their wounds since then. I’ve seen no signs of Rapscallions, but if I were you I’d sleep with one eye open, y’can never tell where they’ll turn up next. Cruellest pack o’ slayers ever to draw breath, that lot!’

‘I don’t think we need worry too much about Rapscallions,’ Mem interrupted her friend. ‘They only plunder the coasts in their ships. Strange how they never sail the open seas like Searats an’ Corsairs. Who’s the Badger Lord at Salamandastron now, have y’heard?’

Russa poured herself a beaker of tea. ‘Big female they say, madder than midwinter, stronger than a four-topped oak, temper like lightnin’, full o’ the Bloodwrath. She’s called Cregga Rose Eyes, wields a pike that four otters couldn’t lift!’

Russa laughed mirthlessly. ‘There’s nought pretty about it! That one’s called Rose Eyes because her eyes are blood red with battle light. I’d hate to be the vermin that tried standin’ in her path.’

All eyes turned on Tammo as the question slipped from his mouth: ‘What’s a Rapscallion?’

The Colonel glared at his son. ‘Barbarian type vermin, too idle t’work, too stupid t’build a decent home. Like y’mother says, they only raid the coastlines, nothin’ for you t’worry your head over. Mind y’manners at table, young ’un, speak when y’spoken to an’ not before, sah!’

Russa shook her head at the Colonel’s statement. ‘You an’ Mem are both wrong. Rapscallions are unpredictable, they can raid inland as easily as on the coast. I saw their Chief’s sword once when I was young. It’s got two edges, one all wavy for the sea an’ the other straight for the land. There’s an old Rapscallion sayin’: Travel whither blade goes, anyside the sword shows.’

The Colonel cut himself a wedge of cheese. ‘Huh! What’s all that fol de rol s’posed t’mean, wot?’

‘Have we not had enough of this kind of talk, swords ’n’vermin an’ war?’ cried Mem Divinia, banging her beaker down on the table. ‘Change the subject, please. Roolee, what d’you make of this weather?’

The mole changed the conversation to suit Mem, who could see by the light in her husband’s eye that he was spoiling for an argument with Russa.

‘Ho urr, ee weather, marm . . . Hurr . . . umm . . . Well, ee burds be a tellin’ us’n’s ’twill be a foine springtoid, aye. May’ap missie Whinn’ll sing ee song abowt et.’

Mem coaxed a young hedgehog called Whinn to get on her paws and sing. Whinn had a good voice, clear and pretty; she liked to sing and did not need much urging.

‘Blow cobwebs out of corners, the corners, the corners,

Throw open all your windows,

To welcome in the spring.

Now icicles are shorter,

And turning fast to water,

Out yonder o’er the meadow,

I hear a skylark sing.

All through the earth a showing, a showing, a showing,

The greengrass is a growing,

So fresh is everything.

Around the flow’rs and heather,

The bees do hum together,

Their honey will be sweeter,

When ’tis made in spring.’

Tammo and the other creatures at table joined in as Whinn sang the song once more, and there was much tapping and clapping of paws. The evening wore on, with everybeast getting up to do their bit, singing, dancing, reciting, or playing simple instruments, mainly small drums or reed flutes.

Owing to the amount of food he had eaten and the warmth of the oven fire, Colonel Cornspurrey had great difficulty keeping awake. With a deep sigh he heaved himself up and took a final draught of chestnut beer, then swaying a little he peered sleepily at Russa Nodrey, and said, ‘Hmph, I take it you’ll be off travellin’ again in the mornin’, marm?’

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 only catch snatches of their conversation.

‘Well, there’s a round score o’ pancakes to take along if you’ll help me, Russa.’

‘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.’

‘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 favour 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. Goodnight all, peaceful dreams!’

One by one they drifted off to the big dormitory cellar, which had been built beneath the stockade.

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, marm?’

Osmunda smacked his paw lightly with a ladle. ‘Do ee be ’ushed now, maister, an’ lissen to ee muther.’

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 whilst I put this on you.’

Mem Divinia took from the cupboard a twine and linen belt, strong and very skilfully 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 battleaxe, 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 with you, Tamello De Fformelo Tussock – do honour 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 goodbye 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.

THE NEW FIRSTBLADE of all Rapscallions sat alone on the creaking, weatherbeaten stem 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 each other, dipping towards 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 opalescence 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 grey, armour-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 Lugworm 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 face Lugworm. The Greatrat’s jaw was so tight with anger that it made his voice a harsh grate.

‘I know what I’ve got to do, slopbrain, but supposing the sword falls wave side up? How could I take all of those back there out to sea in a fleet of rotten, waterlogged ships? We’d go straight to the bottom. There’s not a seaworthy vessel on this shore. So unless you’ve got a foolproof solution don’t come around here with that idiotic grin on your stupid face, telling me what I already know!’

Before Lugworm could answer, Damug whipped the swordpoint up under his chin. He jabbed a little, causing the blade to nick skin. Lugworm was forced to stand tip-pawed as Damug snarled, ‘Enjoying yourself now, cleversnout? I’ll teach you to come grinning at my predicament. Come on, let’s see you smile that silly smile you had plastered on your useless face a moment ago.’

The stoat’s throat bobbed as he gulped visibly, and his words came out in a rush as the blade of the unpredictably tempered Warlord dug a bit deeper. ‘Damug, Firstblade, I’ve got the answer, I know what t’do, that’s why I came to see you!’

The swordpoint flicked downward, biting into the deck between Lugworm’s footpaws. Damug was smiling sweetly, his swift mood swing and calm tone indicating that his servant was out of danger, for the moment.

‘Lugworm, my trusty friend, I knew you’d come up with a solution to my problem. Pray tell me what I must do.’

Rubbing beneath his chin, where a thin trickle of blood showed, Lugworm sat upon the deck. From his belt pouch he dug out a small, heavy brass clip. ‘Your father used this because he favoured sailin’, always said it was better’n paw sloggin’ a horde over ’ill’n’dale. If y’ll allow me, Chief, I’ll show ye ’ow it works.’

‘Y’see, the Rapscallions foller this sword. The Firstblade tosses it in the air an’ they go whichever way it falls, but it’s gotta fall wid one o’ these crosspieces stickin’ in the ground. Wave side of the blade up means we sail, smooth side o’ the blade showing upward means we go by land.’

Lugworm heeded the danger in Damug’s terse voice. Attaching the brass clip to the wave-side crosspiece he tossed the sword up. It was not a hard throw; the flick of Lugworm’s paw caused the weapon to turn once, almost lazily, as morning sunlight glimmered across the blade. With a soft thud it fell to the deck, the straight, sharp blade-edge upward.

‘Y’see, Chief, it works every time ’cos the added weight on the wavy side hits the ground first. But don’t fling it ’igh in the air, toss it up jus’ like I did, slow like, wid a twist o’ yer paw. ’Tis easy, try it.’

Damug Warfang was not one to leave anything to luck. He tried the trick several times, each time with the same result. The sword always landed smooth edge upward. Damug removed the brass clip and attached it to a bracelet he wore.

The stoat bowed his head respectfully to the new Firstblade, saying, ‘I served your father Gormad Tunn, but he became old and strange in the brain, and would not listen to my advice. Heed my counsel, Chief, and I will make the name Damug Warfang feared by all, on land and sea. You will become the greatest Firstblade that Rapscallions have ever known.’

Damug nodded. ‘So be it. You are my adviser and as such will be at my side to reap the benefit of all my triumphs.’

Before Lugworm could voice his thanks the blade was in his face, its point almost tickling his right eyeball. The smile on Damug’s lips was cold enough to freeze water.

‘Sly little Lugworm, eh? Counsellor to mighty ones! Listen, stoat, if you even think about crossing me I’ll make you scream half a season before you die!’

THE RATS SNEEZEWORT and Lousewort were merely two common, low-ranked Rapscallions in the Firstblade’s great army. The pair scrabbled for position on a clump of boulders at the rear of massed hordes of vermin warriors, who had all gathered to witness the Throwing of the Sword ceremony. They jostled and pushed, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on in the stone circle where the duel had taken place. High-ranking officers called Rapmarks occupied the immediate edge of the ring, as was their right. The ordinary rank and file struggled, standing tip-pawed to get a view of the proceedings.

Sneezewort hauled himself up on Lousewort’s back, and the dull, stolid Lousewort staggered forward under the added weight, muttering, ‘Er, er, wot’s goin’ on down there, mate?’

Sneezewort flicked his companion’s ear with a grimy claw. ‘Straighten up, jellyback, I can’t see much from ’ere. ‘Ang on, I think ole Firstblade’s gonna say sumpin’.’

Lousewort flinched as his ear was flicked harder. ‘Ouchouch! Stoppit, that’s me wounded ear!’

Staggering further forward he bumped into a big, fat, nasty-looking weasel who turned on them with a snarl. ‘Hoi! If you two boggletops don’t stop bangin’ inter me an’ shoutin’ like that y’ll ’ave more’n wounded ears ter worry about. I’ll stuff yore tails up yore snotty noses an’ rip ’em off, so back off an’ shut yer gobs!’

Damug’s voice rang harsh and clear across the savage crowd of vermin gathered on the shore.

‘The spirit of my father, the great Gormad Tunn, appeared to me in my dreams. He said that the sword will fall land side up and seasons of glory will reward all who follow Damug Warfang. Plunder, slaves, land and wealth for even the lowest paw soldier of the mighty army of Rapscallions. I, your Firstblade, pass the words of my beloved father on to you, my loyal comrades!’

Sneezewort could not resist a snigger as a thought occurred to him. ‘Yeeheehee! Beloved father? They couldn’t stan’ the sight o’ each other. Huh, Damug’ll be in trouble if’n the sword lands wavy side up after shootin’ ’is mouth off like that, I tell yer, mate!’

The big weasel turned round, testing the tip of a rusty iron hook. ‘Damug won’t be in ’arf the trouble you’ll be in if’n yer don’t put a stopper on that blatherin’ jaw o’ yourn, snipenose!’ He turned back in time to see the sword rise above the crowd. There was a vast silence, followed by a rousing cheer.

Lousewort thrust a stained claw into his wounded ear and wiggled it. ‘Stand up, wot’s that supposed ter mean?’

The big nasty weasel whirled round and dealt two swift punches, one to Lousewort’s stomach, the other to Sneezewort’s nose. They both collapsed to the ground in a jumbled heap, and the weasel stood paws akimbo, sneering at them. ‘It means you need yer ears washin’ out an’ yer mate needs his lip buttoned! Any more questions, dimwits?’

Clutching his injured nose, Sneezewort managed to gasp out, ‘No thir, it’th all quite clear thank yew, thir!’

Damug gave his orders to the ten Rapmarks, each the commander of a hundred beasts.

‘Our seasons of petty coast raids are over. We march straight up the centre of the land taking all before us. Scouts must be continuously sent out on both sides to report any area that is ripe for plundering. Leave the ships to rot where they lie, burn your dwellings, let the army eat the last of our old supplies here today. We march at first light tomorrow. Now bring me the armour of the Firstblade!’

That night Damug stood garbed in his barbaric regalia, the swirling orange cloak of his father blowing open to reveal a highly polished breastplate of silver, a short kilt of snakeskin and a belt fashioned from many small links of beaten gold, set with twinkling jetstones. On his head he wore a burnished brass helmet, surmounted by a spike, with iron mesh hanging from it to protect his neck. The front dipped almost to his muzzle tip; it had two narrow eye slits.

Oily smoke swirled to the moonless skies as the lights of myriad dwellings going up in flames glimmered off the armour of Damug Warfang, Firstblade. Roaring, drinking, singing and eating their last supplies, the Rapscallion regiments celebrated their final night on the southeast shores. They gambled and stole from one another, fought, argued and tore the waterlogged fleet apart in their search for any last bits of booty to be had.

Damug leaned on his sword, watching them. Beside him, Lugworm cooked a fish over glowing charcoal for his Chief’s supper. He looked up at the Firstblade’s question.

‘Save two, Chief. Borumm the weasel and Vendace the fox. Those two were allies of your brother Byral, so watch your back whilst they’re about.’

‘Well answered, Lugworm. I already knew of Borumm and Vendace. Also I knew that you were aware of them, so you have just saved your own life by not staying silent.’

Lousewort staggered up over the tideline under the weight of a large circular ship’s steering wheel. It was a great heavy piece of work, solid oak, decorated with copper studding, now mouldy and green.

Sneezewort stood tending their fire, over which he was roasting some old roots and the dried frame of a long-dead seabird. He shook his head in despair. ‘Ahoy, puddenbum, where d’yer think yore goin’ wid that thing?’

Smiling happily, Lousewort stood the wheel on its edge. ‘Er, er, looka this, it’s a beauty, izzenit, mate? I’ll wager ’tis worth a lot, thing like this . . .’

Sneezewort snorted at his slow-witted companion. ‘Oh, it’s a beauty all right, and it will be worth somethin’. After you’ve carried it back an’ forth across the country fer seven seasons an’ found a new ship to match up wirrit. Great ole useless chunk o’ rubbish, wot do we need wid that thing? Get rid of it afore ye cripple yerself carryin’ it!’

He gave the wheel a hearty push, sending it rolling crazily off into the darkness. There was a crash followed by the outraged roar of the big nasty weasel.

About the Book

BOOK ONE

The Runaway Recruit

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