The big otter set his jaw grimly. “Mebbe, but there’ll be a lot less of ’em by the time we’re done! Wot makes ’em
act like that, Arven? Why can’t they just be like ordinary peace-lovin’ creatures an’ leave us alone?”
Paw on swordhilt, the squirrel Champion shrugged. “Hard to say, really, Skip. There’ll always be vermin of that
kind, with no respect for any creature, takin’ what they please an’ never carin’ who they have to slay, as long as they
get what they want. Peaceful creatures to them are weak fools. But every once in a while they come up against beasts
like us, peace-lovin’ an’ easy-goin’ until we’re threatened. Win or lose then, we won’t be killed, enslaved, or walked
on just for their cruel satisfaction. No, we’ll band together an’ fight for what is ours!”
Far away from the ridge, in the safety and warmth of Redwall Abbey kitchens, the badgerbabe Russano lay in his
barrel cradle, his soft dark eyes watching a chill blue mist forming across the ceiling. From somewhere, slow muffled
drumbeats sounded, sweet voices humming in time with them.
A scene appeared out of the mists. The army from Redwall lay in slumbtr amid shattered spears, broken swords,
and a tattered banner. Other creatures came then, warriors he had never met, yet a voice in the babe’s mind told him he
knew them. Martin, Matthias, Mattimeo, Mariel, Gonff, all heroic-looking mice. There were badgers, too, great fierce-
eyed creatures with names like Old Lord Brocktree, Boar the Fighter, Sunflash the Mace, Urthclaw, Urthwyte,
Rawnblade, and many more. They wandered the ridge, and each time they touched a creature he or she stood and went
with them.
Finally they stood in a group together, pale and spectral, and another joined them. It was Rockjaw Grang, the big
hare who had carried and nursed Russano on the long trek to Red-wall Abbey. Though he did not speak, the little
badger heard his voice.
“Remember us when you are grown, Russano the Wise!”
Mother Buscol was awakened by the babe’s unhappy cries. Not knowing what he had witnessed, she laid him on
her lap and stroked his head, whispering soothingly, “There, there, my liddle one, sleep now, ’twas only a dream.”
Back and forth she rocked the little badger until he drifted back to sleep, far too young to tell her what he had
seen. Russano had witnessed the Redwall army upon the ridge in the aftermath of battle; he had beheld all those who
lived, and the ones who did not.
52
Dawn brought a mad bustle of activity to the army on the ridge, with fires being relit, Corporal Rubbadub beating
all creatures to stations, and Chieftains roaring commands.
Damug Warfang had stolen a march on them. Perigord listened as the squirrel Lookout reported what he had seen
at daybreak.
“Major, those fires last night were nought but a bluff. Da-mug must’ve lit ’em an’ carried on marchin’ forward.
They split into two forces, and right now they’re lyin’ in the rift at both ends o’ the valley, waitin’ on some kind o’
signal to move!”
On the right flank, half of the Rapscallion army crouched, led by the Firstblade himself. He sat motionless as the rat
Henbit, who had headed the scouting expedition, told what he had discovered.
“Mightiness, there can’t be more’n three ’undred creatures atop of that ridge—a few hares’n’otters an’ some
Water’ogs. The rest ain’t much: squirrels, mice, an’ moles, wid a scatterin’ o’ those liddle raggy beasts that sail the
streams, shrews I think they call ’em. They got plenty of weapons, but no chance o’ winnin’ agin a thousand of us.
Back side of the ridge is too steep an’ rocky—you’d be best advised to attack from this side, Sire.”
Damug Warfang peered upward, noting the piles of rock heaped along the heights and the big tree trunk positioned
at its center. “A thousand won’t be needed to conquer three hundred. Bluggach, you take half of this five hundred.
Gribble, take word to Rapmark Skaup that he will send half of his force with Captain Bluggach’s fighters. Between
them they should take the ridge. That is my command. Go now.”
The little rat scurried along the defile to where the ferret Skaup lay waiting on the left flank.
Tammo stood with Pasque on one side of him and Galloper Riffle on the other. He leaned slightly forward and
looked down the line. Tight-jawed and silent, the front rank waited, while behind them the second rank, mainly
archers, checked shafts and bowstrings.
The young hare felt his limbs begin to tremble. He looked down and noticed that the footpaws of Pasque and Riffle
were shaking also. Behind him, Skipper drummed his tail nervously on the ground.
“Me ole tail’s just bumpin’ about for the want o’ somethin’ t’do,” the otter leader chuckled encouragingly. “‘Tis all
this waitin’, I s’pose, mates. Can y’see ’em, miss Pasque?”
Gripping the cord of her sling like a vise, Pasque nodded. “Indeed I can, Skip, they’re lyin’ in the rift down there,
waitin’ the same as we are. D’you suppose they’re nervous too?”
Sergeant Torgoch was pacing the ridge, keeping an eye on the front rank. He winked as he halted in front of her.
“Nervous, missie? I can see ’em quakin’ in their fur from ’ere!” He waved his pace stick to where Perigord was
perched on the pine trunk, leaning nonchalantly upon his saber. “Wot d’ye think, sir, shall we tell ’em wot we thinks o’
vermin?”
Waving back with his blade, the Major smiled. “Capital idea, Sar’nt, carry on!”
Swelling out his chest with a deep breath, the Sergeant roared in his best drill parade manner at the Rapscallion
army, “Nah then, you scab-tailed, waggle-pawed, flea-ridden excuses fer soldiers! Are ye sittin’ down there ’cos yore
too stoopid t’move, or are yer afraid?” Then he turned his back on the foebeast and waggled his bobtail impudently.
Laughter broke out from the Redwallers’ ranks.
Gurgan Spearback clumped up in his oversized boots, wielding the massive mallet that was his favorite weapon,
“Hearken t’me, all ye vermin wid half a brain to lissen. Remember what thy mothers told thee about climbin’. If you
come climbin’ our hill, we’ll spank thee right ’ard an’ send you away in tears!”
Hoots of derision from the ridge accompanied this announcement. Then Lieutenant Morio’s deep booming voice
called out a warning: “Stand to arms, here they come!”
Five hundred Rapscallions clambered out of the rift from both flanks, and charged. They made a blood-chilling
sight: painted faces, bristling weapons, and blazing war banners. Drums pounded as they screamed and howled, racing
like a tidal wave across the valley floor toward the slope of the ridge.
Nobeast could stop it now. The battle was begun.
Captain Twayblade held her long rapier point down. “Steady in the ranks there, let ’em come! Stand by the first
three rockpiles! Slingers, wait my command! Steady, steady now, chaps!”
The vermin pounded up the slope, increasing their pace until they were running at breakneck speed, spearpoints,
pikes, and blades pointing upward at their adversaries.
Tammo stood his ground, deafening noises thrumming in his ears, watching the hideous pack draw closer until he
could see their bloodthirsty faces plainly.
Sergeant Torgoch’s voice rumbled across the first rank. “Wait for it, buckoes, wait on the Cap’n’s command!”
A barbed shaft whistled past Twayblade’s jaw. “Front rank, let ’em have it,” she shouted. “Now!”
Slings whirled and a battering rain of stone struck the leading Rapscallions. Tammo saw the look of shock on the