They tottered in past the sentries in the late golden sunlight of a summer's evening and lay where they fell, their flanks heaving. Few saw them arrive. The sentries, themselves Campion-trained, had stamped a General Alert long before the survivors came in view, and the grazing rabbits of the evening "Mark" had vanished into their holes with well-drilled Efrafan efficiency.
Corporal Moss immediately sent a patrol to back-track the arrivals and establish what was chasing them. A few quick, professional glances reassured him that the entrance holes remained properly concealed. A word dispatched a runner to alert the Council. Only then did Moss hop warily into the open and nuzzle at Campion's side.
"Hold up, Sir," he said. And Campion, hearing him faintly beneath the roaring in his ears, knew that they had made it. They were home. And he could lie here and die in the sunshine while Moss, as sturdy a non-com as any Captain of Owsla could wish for, would take care of everything.
A moment later he had rejected that thought absolutely. Captain Campion had been kicking the Black Rabbit of death in the teeth as he stayed one hop ahead since the day he was weaned. He lifted his head and touched noses with Moss.
"Very good, Corporal. Get this rabble below ground before they attract elil." A group of Councillors had joined them, noses twitching nervously as they took in the scene. "That one -" Councillor Feverfew indicated the most grievously injured amongst the survivors, a young buck with a sprained hip, "you had better finish yourself."
"Make sure you leave him a decent distance out beyond the picquets," said old Mustard. He peered short-sightedly at the rabbits now being roused and bullied into the warren by Moss's owsla. "Smell like a bunch of damn' deserters to me," he observed. "You - Campion! Call yourself an Owsla officer? Pull yourself together and report. Why aren't you with the army?"
"We... are the army, you old fool," panted Campion.