"Brian Jacques - Redwall 10 - The Long Patrol" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jacques Brian)

surproised if* n mais-ter Tamm up'n runned a ways one mom. Hurr hurt, 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 againтАФbut 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, ha-zelnut, 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 mole wife'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 tide line 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 gray smoke wisped off the cooking fires among them.

The drums began to beat. Gormad Tunn, 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