"You take it from me, laddie buck, you're livin' the good life now, don't cha know!" crowed Sergeant Merrithorn.
The sergeant loved taking the newer members of the Long Patrol on details through Mossflower, considering it the point at which their lives as defenders of the land truly began. This was the best chance for him to make sure that their interest was thoroughly stoked and the purpose of their mission in life realized to the fullest. What's more, this was a particularly special patrol, as none other than the revered lord of Salamandastron himself had agreed to journey forth with the recruits while garbed in full battle armored, and posing nothing short of a regal and majestic figure. Lord Olbrieg fully understood the importance of inspiring his legions, and unfortunately, the best method tended to be too unpredictable for casual use. The Bloodwrath was legendary, yes, but one couldn't very well send a message out to the vermin to come and get slaughtered just to give the new recruits an eyeful to get their pride going.
Merrithorn was, naturally, reluctant to stop chattering so long as his superiors weren't concerned that his mouth would give away the position of the entire group, and considering that the expedition was more of a parade than a proper military march, they weren't very likely to tell him to shut his muzzle any time soon.
"I still remember my first patrol! Excitin' times, wot! The bally vermin decided to try their paws at highway robbery and paid for it with their lives, every last one! Mice they were waylayin' were so thankful they practically overloaded us with scoff! Could have camped there for twice as bloomin' long if the captain weren't the type to listen to recruits bellyachin' about wantin' to go home!"
Finally, there was a long enough pauce for Bramble, the young private who was having his long ears talked off, to add a voice to the air that didn't belong to the verbose sergeant. He was enthusiastic enough to match his superior, his voice pitched high with youthful excitement, "I say, sah! I do so hope that I get such an adventure! Dad 'n' mum'll be so proud t'hear their son got to put his blade to some vermin rotters on his very first expedition out!"
Merrithorn laughed, nodding in agreement, "Good lad! And it'll be more than just your parents who'll be right proud of you. There's plenty a doe willin' to wag her eyelashes at a buck who's seen combat! But no matter what, just remember the reason that we're even out here is to protect those who can't protect themselves, don't cha know!"
"Yes, sah! I'll never forget that, sah!"
The sergeant's chest swelled with pride as he reflected not only on the noble goal of the Long Patrol, but also on the manner in which Bramble seemed to have taken the simple statement to heart already. Though as Bramble mimicked the action of his superior, hoping to cut just as proud a figure as the veteran hare, his reason for the sudden upwelling of his pride was a great deal less noble. He was certain that he would find nothing short of noble glory in the Long Patrol and relished that he'd made the cut that year. With pity Bramble spared a thought to all the cadets who'd yet to be allowed that prestige, and most especially to the friends he'd left behind when he set out on this march. Oh, but how jealous they would be! Bramble could just imagine the looks of envy on their faces as he told them of the battle he hoped would take place on this excursion.
Naturally, he imagined himself telling the tale in a most modest manner and emphasizing all the virtues of the Long Patrol, which would show through every last sword stroke. Yet even Bramble, however much he might try to delude himself into thinking otherwise, knew full well that he would enjoy being able to brag about the vermin he'd bested in the fairest and most honorable combat possible. There would be no sneaky feints or bushwhackings from behind for him! Only clean, straight, polished swordplay passed down by the best trainers for generations overcoming vermin brutishness.
Oh I do so hope that I'll be able to slay a few! Bramble daydreamed. There's so many other hares here, it'd be a shame if they took all the fightin' for themselves and left me with nothing!
However, a young, enthusiastic hare's mind was hardly a mighty river running through a narrow and focused course, but rather a streamlet prone to diversion from the slightest obstacle. So the current of his thought soon flowed into an entirely different branch.
I'll bet it'll just be rats, but what if it isn't? I could get to fight somethin' really impressive like some horrible, snaggle-toothed stoat, or, heavens forbid, a big ole fox! Wouldn't that be a story? Some big, barbaric, ruddy great axe-wieldin' fox for my first kill! That'd turn more than a few heads!
Bramble's face must have been downright glowing, because Merrithorn cracked a broad grin once more and leaned in close, giving the younger hare a hearty thump on the back. "That's the spirit, me young buck! Already thinkin' of the vermin you're goin' to give a thorough stompin' to? Just remember to keep your wits about you; bally vermin'll kill you as soon as look at you!"
Merrithorn gave Bramble a wink. The advice wasn't so much a dire warning as it was simple Long Patrol common sense, half said in jest. It was an altogether well known fact that the vermin weren't as skilled, well outfitted, or brave as a Long Patrol hare, and that one hare was worth ten vermin in every way! Every leveret received a veritable drilling in the proud history of the war victories of Salamandastron hares, and even now that his classes were far behind him, Bramble could recite the dates of battles, the names of the heroes who fought in them, and the awe-inspiring disparity between the numbers of dead hares and dead vermin. He thought with considerable pride that none of the battles he could call to mind resulted in more slain, heroic hares than loathsome, dead vermin.
Bramble was beginning to get so excited about the prospect of performing his duties as a proud soldier that his footpaws took on a far more jaunty step than was proper for an on-duty hare, and he had to look down and willfully slow his pace in order to prevent himself from outright skipping. He may have failed in calling this faux pas to a stop, but for the moment, Merrithorn was content to let Bramble have his fun. There was plenty of time to mold him into a more disciplined member of the Long Patrol during excursions that had some true military weight to them, rather than just being an outing to get some exercise and boost morale. Why ruin a perfect day with unnecessary strictness?
And what a day it was! Not a single cloud in the sky, but not yet possessed of the scorching summer heat that so often made ears and scuts droop by the end of lengthier hike. The sky was beginning to fade from its piercing brightness towards dusk, but aside from some gentle, peachskin shading of the horizon; the night was not yet rearing its head and contributing the gloom of darkness to the hike. Trees lining the dirt road provided shade aplenty to guard the patrol against the rays of the slowly descending sun in the meantime though, and birds flitted amongst the branches, returned from their winter migrations. To a peaceful denizen of Mossflower, few things could match the simple pleasure of hearing birdsong once more carrying through the tranquil land.
Ever since being inducted into the Long Patrol, Bramble had begun to see Mossflower in a different light. In its entirety he'd ceased taking it for granted, and instead let the true beauty and overwhelming bounty of the land fill his thoughts. With satisfaction he reflected on just how important his duties to Mossflower were, and just how essential the military might of Salamandastron was to protecting this peaceful countryside from the twisted fiends who sought to twist it into a home for their wicked devices. His life would be spent protecting this idyllic land from vermin undesirables and keeping it safe for generations of decent woodlanders. The thought was almost enough to make a hare weep with pride! Already Bramble was imagining the inevitable parade after the even more inevitable battle with some invading force of wretched vermin or nother. He imagined marching through Mossflower back home to Salamandastron in all his uniformed finery being cheered by veritable columns of grateful woodlanders, not a single vermin sight save for the occasional very very dead one who'd yet to be cleaned up. Naturally, in this fantasy construct, there wasn't a single hare lost, and not a single escaped vermin to worry about or mournful prisoner to push along. They were all dead, plain and simple, and even the corpses were made with all the most honorable methods. No disgusting tactics like the vermin themselves would employ: no opened guts, crushed faces, or bled-out beasts missing limbs. Every last dead vermin Bramble saw in his imagination was dispatched with a single, honorable, immeasurably quick sword thrust between the ribs. And of course, with such a quick and merciful death for those who hardly deserved it, none of the faces of the dead bore a mask of terror or agony. There were no popped eyes, wide open mouths, or features twisted by wracking pain to the very last breath, but instead, serenity and calm. The only dead bodies Bramble had ever seen were those of the old ones whose time had simply come, and who almost appeared to be sleeping within their caskets save for the lack of a steady rise and fall of their chests. Why shouldn't the end results of the battlefield look the same?
But before his imagination could move from victory marches to victory feasts, and as the front row of the patrol group was rounding a bend in the road, the booming voice of Lord Olbrieg sounded out. The normally patient badger's voice was now overcome with wrath and the dire need to fling himself without regard for life, limb, nor mercy into some great fracas.
"Vermin! Foxes on the road! Charge! Eulaliaaaaaaaa!"
It was at that moment that Bramble knew that he'd heard the sound of a voice overladen with Bloodwrath; vicious and absolutely unforgiving, a tone that he'd never forget to his dying day. It sent icewater chills down his spine.
Not more than a heartbeat after the badger lord's call to arms, the sergeants echoed the order to the bucks under their command, and Bramble heard Sergeant Merrithorn shout out in earnest, "C'mon lads! Sabers up! Chaaaaaaaaarge!"
Without even realizing it, and before he'd spotted a single brushtail, Bramble echoed the war cry, alternating between wordless shouting and fevered eulalias afterwards during the frenzied run. He drew his sword with the rest of his fellows and charged forwards alongside his fellow hares, every bit part of the unit, twenty-eight hares rushing onwards at the heels of a badger lord with a mind clouded by Bloodwrath. It was a sight certain to scare all the most impossibly stalwart vermin out of their hides.
The bend in the road was soon rounded and Bramble caught sight of what the badger lord did moments before. The enemy hove into view, a mere hundred paces or so away, and as Bramble beheld them his heart skipped a beat. He'd gotten his wish! Several cruel vulpines, their lips curled back in silent snarls, blades held drawn and aloft, were holding their ground before the onrushing Long Patrol squad, seemingly fully aware that they could not run, but no doubt willing to butcher every last hare in their way regardless.
And Bramble was just as willing to prove that such a thing was not so easy to do!