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 the hordes 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 on the shore. There the contestants stood, facing each other. Damug smiled
wolf-ishly 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 that 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 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 midair, 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, while the bloodthirsty onlookers roared
encouragement.
“Crack ’is skull, Byral—go on, you kin do it!”
“Go fer ’is ribs wid yer club, Damug! Belt ’im a good ’un!”
“Swing up wid yer stone, smash ’is jaw!”
“Fling the club straight betwixt ’is eyes!”
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 foot-paw 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 backward and he sank slowly onto 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: “Damug
War-fang! Firstblade! Firstblade! Firstblade!”
4?
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 traveler’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 tide line. It was about walking-stick size and must have come from far away, because it was hard
and dark and had a luster 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’s 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.
“Hurr, gudd day to ee, zurr, wot you’m be a doin’ yurra-bouts?”
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 some-beasts 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 quarterstaff, 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