The Sable Quean (Brian Jacques) читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги (ч. 2)

The Sable Quean (Redwall, Book 21)

Brian Jacques

To Billy Maker, Maestro Di Musica and My Good Friend

A View of Mossflower Country [map removed]

One day when our hearts were young, we went roving with right good will, side by side two comrades to find what lay o'er the hill.

Our spirits never wearied then, in those high old times gone by.

What friends we made, what perils we faced, together you and I.

Now eyes grow dim, and paws feel stiff, even vittles don't taste the same.

You wake one day, with your whiskers grey, what price then, medals an' fame?

Alas, all we have are memories, to take out, dust off, and share.

But, oh, my friend, the pride we feel, just to know that we were there!

We travelled an' fought an' feasted, we triumphed, we marched and songs were sung, we faced death, saw life and adventure!

One day when our hearts were young.

The Ballad of Colonel Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite (Retired)

BOOK ONE Travel Is An Adventure!

Wreathing slowly through the foliage of a white willow, smoke spiralled into the warm summer noon. Below on the riverbank, two rats and a burly stoat squatted around the fire, roasting roots and wild turnips on sharpened sticks. Scraping away ashes and burnt soil, the stoat inspected his half-raw turnip. He spat sourly into the fire.

"Wot sorta vittles is this fer a warrior? Stinkin' roots an' turnips 'ard as rocks!"

One of the rats remarked hopefully, "If'n ye don't fancy it, then I'll eat it for ye."

Baring his snaggled teeth, the stoat whipped forth a dagger. "Put a paw near my vittles an' I'll gut yer!"

The other rat nibbled at a ramson root, wincing with disgust. He was in agreement with the stoat. "Aye mate, meat's wot we need, a brace o' plump woodpigeons, or even a fish. I like fishes."

The stoat flung his turnip into the fire, scowling. "We don't have ter put up wid this muck. I thought we was Ravagers, not scavengers. Any'ow, wot are we supposed t'be doin', that's wot I'd like t'know?"

The first rat retrieved the turnip from the hot ashes, wiping it off on his tattered sleeve. "Zwilt the Shade sez Sable Quean wants woodlanders, young uns. So we've got t'stay

hid in the area an' capture any we sees. That's our orders, mate."

Testing the edge of his blade on a grimy paw, the stoat grinned wickedly. "Young uns would make good meat. Just let me git me paws on a fat dormouse or a chubby liddle squirrel. I'd let Zwilt 'ave the bones to give to the Sable Quean!"

The smaller of the two rats looked fearful. "You'd do that? I wouldn't like t'be you if Zwilt found out."

The burly stoat tossed his dagger into the air, catching it skilfully. "So, wot if'n he did, eh? Lissen, I ain't scared of Zwilt, or 'is Sable Quean. They don't bother me!"

The larger rat whispered nervously, "Be careful wot ye say. They don't call 'im Zwilt the Shade for nothin'--some say 'e's magic!"

The stoat scoffed. "Rubbish! Wot sort o' magic, eh?"

The rat took swift glances up and down the bank. "Nobeast sees Zwilt, unless 'e wants 'em to. They say 'e can come an' go secretly, just as 'e pleases."

The big stoat shook his head pityingly. "Yer a right ole frogwife if'n ye believe that. Shade or no Shade, Zwilt's just a beast like any other. Y'see this dagger o' mine? Well, one good stab of it'd make Zwilt vanish forever!"

The voice came out of nowhere. "How can you do that when you're already dead, fool?"

Brandishing his weapon, the stoat bounded upright. "Who said that--who's there?"

From behind his back, a cloaked figure emerged through the smoky willow foliage. With lightning speed and savage strength, it wrenched the stoat's paw backward, sending the dagger spinning. Dust rose as the stoat's back slammed against the ground. He lay there, staring up into the face of Zwilt the Shade.

The sable was a sight to instil fear into most creatures. Behind the natural mask of dark fur, his eyes were totally black, dead and inscrutable. Zwilt was lean, wiry and very tall for one of his species. Beneath a flowing cloak of dull

purple, he wore a snakeskin belt with a broadsword thrust through it. His teeth showed small, white and sharply pointed as he hissed at the hapless stoat.

"You should have believed the rats. They spoke truly."

The burly stoat gulped. "Sire, I was only jestin'..."

Zwilt held a paw to his lips. "Silence. You should not be speaking--I've already told you that you're dead."

In desperation, the stoat tried to rise. "No I ain't--"

The broadsword appeared suddenly in Zwilt's paws; he swung it like lightning. As the severed head rolled into the river, Zwilt addressed it.

"Oh, yes you are. Perhaps you'll believe me now?" Without raising his voice, Zwilt the Shade turned his unblinking stare on the two rats. "You believe me, don't you?"

They both nodded wordlessly, in stunned silence.

The tall killer wiped his blade on the headless carcass. "Get this thing out of my sight. Throw it in the river."

The rats scrambled to obey his order. When they turned back again, he had gone. There was only the fire, dying to embers in the bright summer afternoon. The remains of their former comrade drifted slowly away on the current.

None of the vermin band known as the Ravagers dared to disobey Zwilt the Shade. His orders came directly from Vilaya, the one they called the Sable Quean.

Waves broke endlessly on the sands of Mossflower's western shore, with the lonely hissing sigh that is the music of the sea. Late noon sun was still warming the beach above the tideline, where the mountain of Salamandastron towered over all. Brang the Badger Lord and his trusty companion, General Flackbuth, sat watching a young hare drilling a group of leverets in the use of the sword. Brang nodded in admiration of the Blademaster.

"I tell ye, Flack, that young Buckler Kordyne is by far the best we've seen here since his grandsire, Feryn. What d'ye think, eh?"

The old officer brushed a paw over his drooping military mustachio. "Hmmph, I don't doubt y'word, sah, not bein' old enough to remember Feryn, wot!"

Brang gave a deep rumbling chuckle. "No, of course not. I'm the only one on this mountain still alive to tell the tale. That's the trouble with living several life spans more than most beasts. Hoho--see that, Flack. Well parried, young un!"

Buckler had just returned the stroke of another hare's lunge. With an expert flick, he sent his opponent's sabre whirling in the air. The blade flashed in the sunlight, landing point first in the damp sand.

Executing a swift half turn, the Blademaster disarmed an attacker who had been stealing up on him. He shook his head at the culprit.

"Never hesitate when you see an opening, Tormy. I felt you behind me before I saw you. Remember, a slowbeast is a deadbeast. You'll have to move faster."

Tormy picked up his blade ruefully. "I say, Buck old thing, d'ye think I'll ever be as jolly good as you are, wot?"

Buckler shrugged. "That's up to you, mate. Keep practising. Also, if I were you, I'd choose a lighter blade. You lack the paw power to wield a sabre. Try a long rapier."

The leveret cast a longing glance at Buckler's blade. "Like that blinkin' beauty of yours?"

The Blademaster cleaved air with his own special sword. It was a peculiar hybrid, longer than other rapiers, honed razor-sharp on both edges, with a cross-basketed hilt. The blade was thicker than that of a rapier but superbly tempered, to give it flexibility. Buckler winked good-naturedly at his pupil.

"There's not another sword anywhere like this un. I designed it myself, but he made it. Isn't that right, Brang?"

A flicker of annoyance showed in the Badger Lord's dark eyes. He beckoned Buckler to attend him.

Saluting the leverets with his blade, Buckler dismissed them. "That's enough for today, thank you."

They returned his salute with various weapons. A sabre, a cutlass, a claymore and a broadsword. Sloping his blade over one shoulder, Buckler wandered over to where the huge badger was seated.

"What's the matter? Have I done something wrong?"

Brang took the sword. He held it, feeling the balance. Bending the supple blade in an arc, he let it twang back, straight as a die.

"I had my doubts about forging this, but you were right--it's the perfect weapon for you. I'll tell you what you've done wrong, young un. Not showing your superiors the proper respect, that's what!"

Returning the sword, Brang turned his back on Buckler, staring fixedly out to sea. The young Blademaster sighed audibly as General Flackbuth continued where the badger had left off.

"It's the custom, laddie buck, to give title to those who've jolly well earned it, wot! How dare ye refer to the ruler of Salamandastron as Brang. 'Tis your duty to address him as m'Lord, or sah, d'ye hear me?"

Buckler stared coolly at the general. "Aye, I hear ye."

Flackbuth bellowed in his face, "I hear ye, General!"

Buckler shrugged, repeating slowly, "I hear ye ... General."

Lord Brang turned back, his expression softening as he addressed the young hare. "Come up to the forge chamber with me, Buck. It's high time you and I had a talk."

Buckler gathered up his array of training swords. He piled them into the waiting paws of his trusty assistant, Subaltern Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite, or Diggs, as he was more commonly known. He was the same age as Buckler, though marginally smaller and markedly tubby. They were lifelong friends, if poles apart in their views of mountain life and etiquette. Diggs nodded toward the retreating Badger Lord.

"What ho, Buck, are you in the stew again, wot? Has old Flackbuth slapped a blinkin' fizzer on you?"

Buckler winked at his friend. "No, it's just that the big fellow wants to give me another lecture. Put the blades away, Diggs. I'll catch up with you in the mess at supper."

The forge chamber was an airy room, carved from the living rock. It had all the equipment required by a Forge-beast. Weapons in various stages of construction hung everywhere. There was a low, wide window, facing the open sea, with a magnificent view of the western horizon. Lord Brang was proud of his elderflower and comfrey cordial. He poured two tankards, passing one to Buckler and indicating a seat on the window ledge.

Shaking his striped head wearily, the huge badger spoke. "Buckler Kordyne, what are we going to do with you, eh?"

A smile hovered about the young hare's lips. "I don't know. Tell me, what are you going to do with me?"

Danger flashed in the badger's eyes for one perilous moment. Then he burst out laughing, landing Buckler a hefty pat on the back, which almost sent him flying out of the window. Brang steadied him.

"Just like your grandsire--the same rebellious attitude, same carefree manner. Every time I look at you, I see him returned from beyond the silent valleys. Aye, you're the very model of Feryn Kordyne. You won't wear Long Patrol uniform, don't obey orders, always in trouble. You don't even speak like a Salamandastron hare. Why is that? What's the matter with you, eh?"

Buckler answered the enquiry with a question. "I never knew my grandpa, was he as good as me with a blade?"

Brang replied, as if loath to say the words, "Feryn was a great Blademaster, the best I ever set eyes upon ... until you came along."

Embarrassed by the sudden compliment, Buckler quickly changed the subject. "Tell me again, how did he save your life?"

The sun was starting to drop beyond the horizon. Brang stared out at the crimson aisle it laid upon the calm sea. He never tired of relating the story of his escape from death.

"I was young in those seasons--your grandsire, too. We were about the same age as you are now. There was a plague of vermin sweeping the land. They were called the Ravagers. Aye, and a motley horde they were, murdering, burning, looting and torturing, right across Moss-flower. Their leader was a silver sable, Armuk Rinn the Conqueror. Something had to be done to protect Redwall and all our woodland friends.

"I sent out Long Patrol Scouts to discover where he made his lair. They tracked Rinn and his Ravagers long

and hard. They were located in an old quarry northeast of Redwall Abbey."

Brang stopped to refill their tankards. He tossed Buckler a rough-looking chunk of pastry, with nuts baked into it. The young hare felt quite privileged--hardly anybeast was allowed to share the Mountain Lord's scones, which he made himself on his forge. Brang watched him eating with pleasure.

"Nothing like Salamandastron Forge Scones. They'll put some iron into your muscles, young un. Now, let me see, where was I?"

Buckler reminded him. "The scouts had found the ver-mins' lair, you said."

Lord Brang took a sip from his tankard. "Aye, so they had. I ordered the full Long Patrol into battle order and marched on the villains. I must tell you, though, I was young and reckless then, wilder than you'd ever imagine. I take it you've heard of the thing they call Bloodwrath?"

Buckler nodded silently, allowing Brang to explain.

" 'Tis a terrible affliction, a sickness that drives a beast berserk. I had that Bloodwrath, the mad urge to fight, slay and slaughter. Nothing could stand in my way, one beast or a score. When my eyes went red with the rush of blood, I became unstoppable. I outpaced my own hares, charging into that quarry, straight into the foebeast. Fool that I was! The Ravagers had scouted our approach. They were waiting for us and had us heavily outnumbered. But I was out of control, roaring Eulalias and laying waste to the vermin.

"By the blade and the hilt, I fought that day. Everything around me was one red mist, but I battled on. Those Ravagers pressed me hard--I still carry the wounds and scars they gave me. I became cut off from my hares, surrounded, so that I could scarcely move to swing my blade. Then I tripped and fell, the sword slipped from my bloodstained paws.

"That was when I saw him--Armuk Rinn, the great

sable. He was standing over me, swinging a battleaxe. I knew my fate was sealed, I was a deadbeast. But a miracle occurred. Your grandsire Feryn, my trusty right paw, came hurtling through the air, blade flashing, roaring his war cry. He struck like a thunderbolt, cleaving Armuk Rinn, helmet and head, right through his evil brain!"

Buckler's eyes were shining, even though he had heard the tale before. "And that's what settled the battle?"

Brang rose. Crossing to his forge, he leaned down heavily upon the bellows. A plume of golden flame and scarlet sparks shot up, illuminating the badger's powerful head, glinting in his fierce eyes. "Aye, young un, that was a battle to remember. Though it was my friend Feryn's brave act which carried the day. Those Ravagers who were still alive fled when they saw what happened to the mighty Armuk Rinn. Up until then, the vermin didn't believe he could be defeated."

Buckler laughed. "But my grandpa proved different! That's why you gave him the Coin."

The Badger Lord scowled. "Let me tell you about that thing, young un. It actually was a coin, a golden one, from someplace far beyond the sunset, long ago. When I was very young--I recall it was wintertide--I was walking the shoreline south of this mountain when I came across the wreck of an old vessel. It was buried deep by the seasons. There wasn't much to see, only a bit of old wood sticking out of the sand. Well, I started digging it up and choosing pieces, planning on taking them to old Corporal Cook Magirry. He was a real good old sort, often keeping a little plum duff in the oven for me. Actually it was Magirry who taught me to make Forge Scones."

Buckler sensed that Brang was going off into tales of his early seasons, so he interrupted. "But how did you come across the Coin?"

The badger came back to the point. "There was a hole in it, and a rusty iron spike fixing it to what looked like part

of a mast." He smiled, winking at the young hare. "'Twas my secret treasure. I kept it, same as any young un would. That night I inspected the coin. It was a curious thing, worn smooth but quite heavy and bright. There were a few strange marks on one side--couldn't make out what they were-- Er, hadn't you better run along now, Buck? They'll be serving supper in the mess."

Buckler, however, was intrigued by the tale. "Diggs'll save some for me. Tell me more about the Coin, please."

Lord Brang frowned, shaking his head. "Twas never meant to be called the Coin. I wanted it to be a special medal for your grandsire. After the battle at the quarry, I polished all the marks from it and made some of my own. A picture of a paw holding aloft a sword, with the word Blademaster engraved beneath it. I wove a silken cord of scarlet and black, threaded it through the spikehole and there I had it, the Blademaster's Medal!"

Buckler shook his head. "I never heard it called that before. Everybeast calls it the Coin."

Brang gave the bellows a few more heaves. Bright flames shining upward on his huge, striped features gave him a fearsome appearance.

"Aye, well, that's your grandsire for you. Huh, the Coin, indeed! Just like you he was, a real young rip. Wouldn't accept proper regimental honours from me. Said he'd accept it as a gift, a keepsake, if y'please. The Coin, eh? Rebellious, disobedient rascal!"

Buckler grinned. "Just like me, I s'pose."

Lord Brang paused, then his attitude softened. "Aye, just like you."

The young hare stared out at the darkened seas. There was resentment in his tone. "Then why does my brother Clerun wear the Coin? He's no warrior, just a big, clumsy creature."

Brang shrugged. "Because he's the eldest Kordyne son. Your grandsire Feryn passed the Coin, and his broadsword, down to his firstborn son, your father, Adarin. Now it is

the tradition to pass it on to the firstborn--that's Clerun. There's nought I can do about it."

Buckler protested. "But my father wasn't a warrior either. It's not fair!"

Brang watched the swift path of a comet crossing the night skies. "I sympathise with you, Buck, but your family traditions must be honoured. I know your father wasn't a warrior, nor skilled with a sword. But he was a very wise counsellor and served me well all of his life. Maybe if it had been up to me, I would have granted you both the Coin and the broadsword."

Buckler snorted derisively. "Huh, who needs a broadsword--great, hulking, clumsy things. But the Coin, that would've given me something to remember Grandpa Feryn by."

Draining his tankard, Brang slammed it down. "What's done is done, and neither you nor I can change it. We just have to accept things as they are."

The injustice of this stung Buckler. "But my brother Clerun doesn't even live at Salamandastron anymore. He got himself wed to Clarinna, Major Doughty's eldest daughter. They've both gone off to be farmers together. Hah, I'll wager she's wearing the Coin as an ornament now. Aye, and Clerun will be using the broadsword to chop firewood and cut weeds!"

Even though he did not show it, Brang felt sympathy for his young friend. "Well, everybeast to what they choose, I suppose. Clerun to farming, and you here at my mountain as Blademaster. It's not such a bad position."

Taking the sword from Buckler, Brang made a few swift passes. He was surprisingly light on his paws for such a big beast. Twirling the sword into the air, he caught it deftly. "A fine blade. I wouldn't mind making one for myself. Though I don't think I could repeat a weapon of this quality a second time."

He passed it back to Buckler, who bowed respectfully. "Nobeast but you could forge a sword like this, Lord."

Brang's dark eyes twinkled with pleasure. "I'm glad you respected my title, Buck. I think you'd get on much better with everybeast at Salamandastron if you tried to conform to our ways a bit more. If you know what I mean."

The young hare whipped his swordblade through the forge flames, as if trying to cut them up. He raised his voice bitterly. "Conform? You mean strut about in uniform, saluting and wot-wotting old chap! Playing at being warriors, and for what, eh? The days of battling vermin Ravagers are long gone. Now it's all parades, exercises, regimental balls and banquets. I'm a Blademaster, what's that supposed to be? A fool who passes his days teaching other fools how to play with swords!"

He was silenced by the heavy paw of Lord Brang landing on his shoulder. "Then what do you want--tell me, Buckler?"

The young hare was suddenly stuck for an answer. "I want... I want..."

He flung the sword. It flew across the forge chamber and stood quivering in the door as he shouted, "I don't blinkin' know what I bloomin' well want!"

The badger's eyes twinkled momentarily. "Let me suggest something. How about a bit of travel and adventure? Would that suit you?"

The young hare's ears twitched suspiciously. "Travel, adventure--what sort of adventure?"

Brang made a sweeping gesture at the outside world. "Travel is an adventure! When you go travelling, adventures happen along the way. So where would you like to travel to, eh?"

Buckler was totally unprepared for the question. "Travel, er, I don't know anyplace I could travel to."

Brang was ready with a suggestion. "It might be a nice idea to visit Clerun and Clarinna."

Buckler was uncertain. "But why?"

The Badger Lord explained patiently. "Well, 'tis quite a few seasons since they went. I think they'd be pleased to

see you. Who knows, they've probably got a family now. There'll be young uns wanting to meet their uncle Buckler the Blademaster. I wager you'll enjoy being an uncle--has a good ring to it, Uncle Buck!"

Buckler scratched between his ears in bewilderment. "Whoa, slow down there, sir, me ... an uncle?"

Brang retrieved the sword from the door, then tossed it to the young hare. "Don't stand there with your mouth open, laddie buck. There may be flies about."

Buckler did not know whether to smile or frown. "Forgive me. I'm just trying to get used to the idea. D'you really think I've become an uncle?"

Lord Brang closed the damper on his forge fire. "I don't see why not. A farmer and a farmer's wife are bound to raise a family. They'll need help about the place as they get older. Where exactly did they go to settle down, d'you know?"

Buckler nodded. "A small valley southeast of Redwall. Clerun said he spotted it when he was with the Long Patrol. I think he liked it at first sight."

The big badger brightened visibly. "Southeast of the Abbey, you say. Splendid! You can do an errand for me. Wait there."

Hurrying over to an elaborate oak chest, Brang opened it. Rummaging about, he produced two coils of rope. "Take these to Abbess Marjoram--she's a great friend of mine. Last time I was at Redwall, let me see, eight seasons back, Marjoram showed me around the place. I saw Matthias and Methuselah, the two Abbey bells, beautiful things, with wondrous tones. She allowed me to have a go at ringing them. Not such a good idea, as it turned out, me being so large and heavy-pawed. I pulled so hard that I snapped one of the bellropes. I felt so foolish, but the Abbess assured me that they were old ropes, long past their best. Brother Tollum, the Abbey Bellringer, repaired the broken rope. Before I left Redwall, I promised the Abbess that I would present her with two stout new bellropes. It took

me all last winter, but I spliced these ropes myself. So, you will deliver these to Marjoram with my best wishes. I think they'll please her."

The young hare inspected Lord Brang's gifts. They were superbly made. Green and gold fibres had been plaited in an intricate weave. Each carried at their ends two pieces of weathered elmwood, cleverly carved and pierced to form tolling handles. Buckler ran his paw admiringly over them.

"Wonderfully made, sir. These should last a few hundred seasons, eh!"

Brang smiled broadly. "I take it you have decided to go travelling, then. Planning on going soon?"

Buckler felt the prickle of excitement running through him. He strove to keep his voice level. "Would tomorrow morning after breakfast suit you, Lord?" He winced as the badger shook his paw warmly.

"No better time, I'd say, my friend. Are you going alone? Mayhaps you'd do better to take a companion--always good to travel with a comrade. Might I suggest Subaltern Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite?"

Buckler chuckled. "Of course, good old Diggs. Though I wonder, who's going to pull the cart?"

Lord Brang looked puzzled. "What cart?"

The young hare slotted his sword into the back scabbard he had designed so he could draw steel swiftly. The hilt showed over his left shoulder. "The cart we'll need to carry Diggs's vittles. Have you seen the amount of food that tubby rascal can shift?"

Diggs was waiting for his friend in the crowded Mess Hall. He pointed to a small heap of supper set out close to him. "Wot ho there, Buck! Just about saved you some scoff, wot. Y'have t'be nippy with this famine-faced mob about. Tuck in, old lad. You must be jolly hungry, wot wot!" Buckler felt too exhilarated for food, but he kept calm,

nibbling some salad and cheese. "Hmm. No plum duff tonight. That's strange."

Diggs swiftly wiped crumbs from his tunic. "Er, there was only a smidgeon left, mis'rable little portion. Didn't know you were fond of the bloomin' duff, or I'd have jolly well saved you some, mate."

Buckler surveyed the empty bowls and platters lying about. "What happened to the apple crumble?"

Diggs patted his bulging waistline. "Measly bit left. Had to eat it before it went cold."

Buckler tasted a crumb from an empty dish. "And the mushroom and cauliflower bake?"

Diggs smiled guiltily. "Oh, that. No sense in lettin' the confounded stuff go t'waste. Had to polish it off, I'm afraid. Sorry about that, old stick!"

Buckler nodded as if in agreement with his gluttonous friend. "Hmm. Just as well, old chum. You'll need it to keep your strength up for tomorrow."

Diggs captured a slice of his companion's cheese. "Oh, y'don't say. Why, what's happenin' on the morrow?"

Buckler explained, "We're travelling southeast, to my brother's farm."

Diggs spotted a scone doing nothing; he snatched it. "What? Y'mean the Long Patrol are out on a march?"

Buckler tweaked his ear gently. "No, my old friend. Just you and I."

Diggs frowned as he demolished the scone. "Er, I'm no great shakes at all that trampin' an' marchin' stuff, Buck. P'raps I'd best stay home an' keep my blinkin' eye on things, don'cha know, wot?"

Buckler shook his head firmly. "Sorry, mate. It's a direct order from the great Lord Brang. You've got to accompany me all the way there and back, no excuses. Those were his very words to me."

Diggs stared miserably around. There was no more food to be had. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Ah, well,

lackaday, poor young me. Who am I, a mere Diggs of the ranks, to argue with a Badger Lord? He must've known you'd need a cool head, some reliable chap like me, to keep you out of trouble. Well, don't worry, Buck m'laddo, I'll blinkin' well look after you!"

It was difficult for Buckler to keep a straight face. However, he managed to shake his friend's paw solemnly. "Lord Brang said I could rely on you. Thank you, my true and trusty comrade!"

On that shimmering summer noon, a traveller crossing the western plain toward Redwall might have viewed it as a haven of serenity. With Mossflower Wood's verdant foliage as a backdrop, the ancient sandstone Abbey towered over its surroundings. The Belltower stood silent, awaiting eventide chimes as the sloping roofs and timeworn buttresses, old dormitory windows and long, stained-glass panels reflected the sun's rays. Below, flower-bordered lawns and gardens spread from the huge main building, meandering round orchard and Abbey pool to the outer wall. Four high battlemented ramparts protected Redwall and its creatures. At the western threshold, stout oaken gates opened onto the path and ditch fronting the flatlands. Beyond those gates, the vision of tranquillity ground to a halt.

Seated at a long table on the front lawn, a group of elders tried to withstand the noise and chaos raging about them. That good mouse, Marjoram, Mother Abbess of Redwall, had to yell to make herself heard above the din. She cast a pleading glance at her friend Ruark Boldstream, Skipper of Otters.

"Please, can you not do something to stem this dreadful row, Skipper? I'm being driven out of my senses!"

The trusty otter saluted. "Leave it t'me, marm!"

Borrowing a hefty bung mallet from Cellarmole Gurjee, Skipper used the top of an empty October Ale barrel as a drum. Boom! Boom! Buboom!

The thunderous alarm stopped everybeast instantly. Fiddle-scraping hedgehogs, flute-twiddling squirrels, a choir of mousemaids, a group of moles twanging banjo-like instruments and numerous solo performers practising their singing. Every Red waller involved ceased all activities. In the sudden silence that followed, Skipper dealt the barrel one more good whack. Boom! The brawny otter launched straight into his announcement.

"All rehearsals, an' all ructious rows, will stop forthwith. D'ye hear me? If'n the noise starts up agin, then Abbess Marj will cancel the contest for the Bard o' Redwall. Is that unnerstood? Now, sit down quietly, all of ye!"

The Redwallers obeyed dutifully, everybeast turning to glare at a little vole, who, by accident, plumped himself down on the inflated bag of a bagpipe, causing it to wail. He lowered his eyes, muttering a hasty apology. With echoes still ringing in her ears, the Abbess stood up to speak.

"Friends, we must get this event underway. So if you sit quietly, we'll call the first contestant. Er, Granvy, do you have the list, please?"

Granvy Shtuckle, an elderly hedgehog who served as Abbey Scribe and Recorder, began unrolling a long birch-bark parchment. He coughed importantly.

"Ahem! Aye, marm, here 'tis. Right, it says here that Foremole Darbee will be first to sing!"

Darbee was not expecting to be called first. Burying his snout in his big digging claws, he retreated behind the other contestants, complaining in the quaint mole accent, "Burr nay, ho no, not oi, zurr. Oi never did be a wishen t'sing in ee furst place. Oi bee's too gurtly 'umble furr such ee thing, ho burr aye!"

Irately, Granvy scratched Foremole's name from the list.

"I just knew something like this'd happen! Well, who's going to perform first, eh? Speak up!"

Noisy uproar broke out afresh, until Skipper got order by whacking the ale barrel again. Bubbooom!

The Recorder consulted his list. "Sister Fumbril, please!"

The Dibbuns (a name bestowed on all Redwall babes) set up a rousing cheer, drowning out any objections. Fumbril, a big, jolly otter, Redwall's Infirmary nurse and Herbalist, was a huge favourite of all littlebeasts. As she tuned her small fiddle, the Dibbuns were already jigging about, shouting to her.

"Sing us a good un, Sis Fum--a dancey song!"

The good Sister happily obliged them. "Righto, me dearies. Here goes ... one, two ..."

She launched into the liveliest of ditties.

"When you an' me go out to tea, oh, dear me, fiddle deedee, we'll be the ones who scoff the scones, an' slurp the soup with a whoopiddy doop.

We'll nibble the pies, surprise surprise, sing pudden an' plum, rumbledy dum, pastie an' pie, oh my, oh my.

We'll swig the cider an' chomp the cheese, oh, give us more, you'll hear us roar, such merry beasts are we, you see, when we go out to tea!"

By popular Dibbun demand, she was obliged to play it again, this time at a quicker pace. The little dancers whooped and twirled joyfully. Even the elders clapped their paws in time with the music. Sister Fumbril did one more encore. She ended up flat on the lawn, mobbed by adoring Abbeybabes.

"Hurr, that'n bee's moi fayverrut, marm!"

"Sing it again, Sista, more, more!"

Fumbril clasped the little ones to her affectionately. "No no, my dearies. Tis some other creature's turn now."

Granvy read a name out from the list. "It says here that Brother folium will sing."

Tollum, a fat, mournful-faced squirrel who was the official Abbey Bellringer, stepped forward.

Clearing his throat, he announced in sonorous tones, "Ahem, I will now give you a rendition from part two of The Bellringer's Burial, 'Oh, Lay Me Gentle and Deep.' "

A concerted groan arose from the Red wallers.

Several who had heard the song before were heard to comment, "Oh, no. That dirge can last half a day!"

"Huh, never heard anythin' so mis'rable in all me days!"

Skipper struck the barrel again. Buboom!

"Order there. Silence, if'n ye please, for Brother Tollum!"

At that moment, Foremole Darbee, having overcome his shyness, interrupted the proceedings. "Hurr hurr, if'n you'm doant moind, oi'll be a singen moi song naow!"

Brother Tollum looked aggrieved. "But ye didn't want to sing afore, so 'tis my turn!"

Guffy, a Dibbun molebabe, took umbrage at the Bell-ringer. "Yurr, zurr, doan't ee talk loik that to ee Foremole. Ee'm can sing, if'n ee'm 'aven a moind to!"

This sparked a dispute--Redwallers called out their opinions aloud.

"Tollum's right. Granvy said it was his turn."

"Oh, let Foremole Darbee sing. Where's the harm?"

"But it ain't right. He's already refused once!"

Brother Tollum sniffed sulkily. "Let the mole sing. It doesn't bother me!"

Foremole shook his velvety head. "Nay, zurr, you'm do ee singen. Oi don't feel loike et naow. Ee mood bee's gone offen oi some'ow!"

The molecrew set up a deep grumble of protest.

Boom! Boom! Bubooooom!

This time it was Abbess Marjoram who had struck the

barrel, with surprising force for one of her slight stature. She shouted at the noisy assembly in a stern voice, "Enough! Enough! I can put up with this no longer. The contest for Bard of Redwall is closed until you all decide to act in a proper manner! Granvy, I'll take charge of that list, please. You Redwallers, be about your business, now. I'm sure you all have chores and duties to occupy your time. Yes, what is it, Sister Fumbril?"

The jolly otter smiled winningly. "I'm sure you won't stop us dinin' in the orchard this evenin', Mother Abbess?"

Marjoram stowed both paws in her wide sleeves. "No, I suppose I won't, Sister. Providing, of course, that there are no more arguments."

There is an old saying in Mossflower Country: "There is no better food than Abbey food, and no better Abbey than Redwall to serve it." The trestle tables set up in the orchard attested to the truth of this. On the blossom-scented air of soft summer eventide, the tables were laid with clean linen, garlanded by flowers and greenery. Servers stood by, bearing jugs of pale cider, mint tea, fruit cordials and the good October Ale for which the Abbey was famed. From end to end the tables groaned under the array of fresh breads, salads, cheeses and pasties at the outer edges. Further in, there were platters of scones, tarts, cakes and pies, each with a different filling, most topped with whipped honey or meadowcream. The centrepiece was a magnificent flan of strawberries, plums and damsons set in red currant jelly on a shortcake base.

Heeding the warning from earlier that day, everybeast sat quietly. Nothing was touched until after the Abbess recited grace.

"All hail to wind, to sun and rain, for offerings such as these, and thanks to those who harvest them, from soil, from bush, and trees.

We praise the skills of those good cooks, commanded by our Friar, who labour long in kitchen, and toil by oven fire.

My final thanks to one and all, who dwell in peace here at Redwall!"

The meal commenced with gusto, amidst much cheery banter from the diners. Skipper chuckled as he served the Abbess with bread and salad.

"I noticed that you said the last line o' grace with good, firm voice, marm."

A smile played around Marjoram's lips. "I merely reminded them that I'd brook no repeat of the afternoon's performance--all that ruction!"

Sister Fumbril poured cordial for her friend. "What, d'ye mean that liddle tiff? Why, marm, 'twas only a storm in a nutshell. Though I do confess, I was a bit surprised by Foremole's behaviour."

Granvy sliced himself a small wedge of soft white cheese. "Oh, Darbee doesn't mean any real harm. He's getting on in seasons now, so he's entitled to be a little grumpy at times. Age doesn't improve temper in somebeasts."

Cellarmole Gurjee gave a rumbling laugh. "Hurr hurr hurr! So oi've noticed, zurr, speshully when oi see'd you a-tryen to deal wi' yon list."

Granvy paused, the cheese halfway to his mouth. "Aye, and I've seen you the same, when somebeast disturbs your afternoon nap down in the wine cellar."

Gurjee nodded affably. "Burr aye, that bee's true enuff, zurr. Oi'm madder'n a toadybeast wot's been boiled, when moi arternoon slumber bee's asturbed!"

Skipper Ruark caught Marjoram's attention. "Marm, I think Friar Soogum would like a word with ye, if'n ye can spare him a moment."

The Abbess put aside both food and drink. "Why, of course. I'll spare him as long as he wishes. Push along

there, so he can sit next t'me. Bring him here right away, please, Skipper."

It was not often that Soogum spent much time away from his beloved kitchens. The Friar was a huge, fat water vole, quite a shy beast, but a cook par excellence. Fumbling with his apron strings, he shuffled to the table. Sitting down next to Marjoram, he tugged one bushy eyebrow, the water vole equivalent of a bow. His voice was barely audible.

"Mother Abbess, is every thin' to yore likin?"

She patted his paw fondly. "Soogum, my dear old friend, everything is perfect, doubly delicious. I don't know what our Abbey would do without your cooking skills. Now, how may I help you?"

The Friar avoided looking up. Staring fixedly at the table-top, he replied, "Er, well, 'tis about the singin' contest. Will ye be carryin' on with it tomorrow, marm?"

Marjoram dropped her tone confidentially. "As a matter of fact, I probably will. But don't let the others know that yet. I'm keeping them stewing whilst they await my decision. Keeps them well behaved, you know. But why do you ask?"

The water vole played with some bread crumbs, lining them up in patterns, as he spoke hesitantly. "Well ... well... y'see, it's just that I've got a lot on tomorrow, so I'll be too busy t'come, marm."

Skipper interrupted. "Take the day off, matey. Let yore crew do the work--you deserve a bit o' time off."

The Friar turned his shocked gaze upon the otter. "Nay, sir, I could never be doin' that, even though I have the best of assistants. There's certain things I wouldn't trust to anybeast. 'Twouldn't be right nor proper for a Redwall Friar, would it? That's why I wanted to speak with Mother Abbess."

Marjoram patted the water vole's paw again. "Have as many words as you like, Soogum. Don't be shy. You're amongst friends."

The Friar took a deep breath before letting it all out.

"Look, I know I never put my name on the list--nobeast expected me to. But here's the thing, I make up songs, y'see. Oh, yes, I invents 'em in my head an' sings 'em to meself whilst I'm workin'. Only yesterday I thought of a good song. I've been singin' it to meself ever since. So I'd like t'be considered for the contest."

Recorder Granvy topped up his mint tea. "Certainly. Every Redwaller's entitled to sing a song. But how will you sing if you can't attend, Friar?"

Soogum swept aside the bread crumbs decisively. "I'd like to sing my song here an' now, if y'please."

Granvy removed his tiny crystal spectacles and polished them furiously (always a sign that he was agitated). He shook his head several times.

"What, you mean right here and now, in the middle of a meal? Dearie me, I don't know what the rules state about that. I'll have to consult them!"

The Abbess dismissed him with a regal sweep of her paw. "Oh, confound the rules. I hereby change them. Friar Soogum, you have permission to sing where and whenever you so desire. Skipper Ruark, be so kind as to announce our Friar's song immediately."

The Otter Chieftain pounded the tabletop. "Ahoy, Red-wallers! Attention, everybeast. Give good order for Friar Soogum. He's goin' to give us a song, which'll be entered into the contest. Friar!"

Mounting the table and straddling scones and pasties, Soogum beckoned. "Are ye ready, Drull? Don't make the key too high."

One of the kitchen staff, a small hogwife, began tuning a Hogalino. This is a stringed instrument, which hedgehogs hold upside down, plucking it with their headspikes by moving it back and forth.

After a short introduction, the Friar launched into his song. He had a good baritone voice and was able to quaver and warble readily.

"Pray hearken to this humble beast, no warrior am I.

I crave no spear or sword to wield, no arrow to let fly.

No foebeast have I ever slain, my friend, I'll tell you why, because I'm but a simple cook, come try my apple pie!

"Let fighters from the battle rest, victorious but sore, they throng into my dining hall, and what do they ask for?

More enemies to charge against, no no, when war is through, they'd trade their vict'ry medals, for a bowl of my hot stew!

So look you on this humble beast, and, pray, regard me well.

My paw has never swung a blade, foul vermin for to fell.

My kitchen is no battlefield,

I'll shout no loud war cry.

Because I'm but a simple cook, come try my apple pie!"

The Friar's ditty was so well received that Redwallers pounded the tables, cheering him to the echo. Some of the molecrew (who, it is common knowledge, can become quite emotional over the simplest things) wept openly into large, spotty kerchiefs.

"Boohurrhurr, oi do dearly loike songs about plain 'umble beasts. Will ee singen et agin, zurr?"

Abbess Marjoram addressed the assembly. "That was a fine ballad, and well sung, though there is no need for our friend to sing it again. I think he deserves far more

applause for the delicious dishes he produces for us day in and day out. Friar Soogum, please take a bow!"

There was another round of wild cheering, but the good water vole was not there to acknowledge it. Being the timid beast he was, the Friar had fled back to his kitchens.

In the tree line, beyond the open sward at the Abbey's south wall, vermin lay watching and listening. A ferret named Raddi nudged her mate, eyeing Redwall enviously.

"Wot I wouldn't give ter be livin' in there, eh. A nice lid-die pond, an orchard full o' fruit, an' woodlanders cookin' up all those good vittles!"

Her mate, Daclaw, nodded agreement. "Aye, they must have a big cookin' place in there. When the breeze was right, I could smell bread bakin', pies an' cakes, too. I 'ad to quit sniffin', t'stop me guts rumblin' an' growlin'. Redwall must be a rare ole place, mates."

A young stoat named Globby piped up. "Well, why don't we climb over the wall an' slay 'em all, exceptin' the cooks? They're only woodlanders, aren't they? We're Ravagers!"

A voice, low and menacing, silenced further talk. "Don't turn around. Keep looking straight ahead. I'm right behind you, carrying my sword."

It could be only one creature, their commander, Zwilt the Shade. How long had he been eavesdropping on them? Anybeast who had spoken swallowed nervously, hoping they had not condemned themselves with loose talk. Zwilt was merciless. There would be no running or hiding from him. Many vermin were of the opinion that it was not wise to even think the wrong thing in his presence.

Daclaw, the ferret who was group leader, ventured a reply. "Sire, we're just watchin' the place as ye ordered. Anybeast who steps outside those walls will be trapped an' captured by us. That was wot ye wanted, eh, Lord?"

Zwilt moved swift and silent. Raddi felt him standing alongside her; the hairs bristled upon her neck. She held her breath, not knowing what to expect.

The dead black eyes of Zwilt swept over the vermin band. He hissed scornfully, "Idiots, ye haven't the brain of a worm betwixt ye. Listen to me and learn. Redwall Abbey must never be touched. Ye don't have to understand that--just obey it. Leave the thinking to those with brains. Clear?"

Their heads bobbed in silent unison. Raddi was about to relax when she felt the broadsword at her neck.

Zwilt watched her throat pulsing against the blade's edge. He leaned close to the terror-stricken ferret, taunting her. "You, what have ye got to say for yourself?"

Raddi's voice was reduced to a fearful whimper. "Nu-nu-nothin', Lord."

It was one way of instilling obedience into others. Zwilt persisted with his torment of Raddi.

"Only deadbeasts have nothing to say. You're not a deadbeast, are ye?"

He uttered a low chuckle as he watched her striving to think of the right reply, but she had lost the power of speech. Keeping the broadsword at her neck, he turned his attention to Daclaw, knowing that he was Raddi's mate. "You tell me--is she a deadbeast?"

Daclaw knew what to say.

"Aye, she is, Sire, unless she lives only to serve you."

With eye-blurring speed, Zwilt swept the sword at Da-claw's head, stopping its point a hairsbreadth from his eyeball. The sable enjoyed seeing the fear of death in others. Daclaw was openmouthed, rigid with naked fright. Zwilt returned the weapon to his belt casually.

"A good answer, my friend, very good!"

He paced quietly backward until he was behind the group. None dared turn to see where he was. Again he spoke to Daclaw.

"If nobeast has left the Abbey by sunset, then split your force into four groups. You watch the front gates from the ditch on the west side. The others can take up positions where they can see the three small wallgates. Until then, stay here and keep your eyes on that building."

It was nearing sunset; none of the Ravagers had dared to move. Daclaw was shocked when the young stoat called Globby stood up and stretched himself.

Daclaw whispered hoarsely, "Wot are ye doin'? Get down, ye fool!"

Globby twitched his snout impudently. "Fool yoreself. Zwilt's long gone--take a look."

It was Raddi who ventured a peek. "Yore right, but how'd ye know Zwilt was gone?"

Globby shrugged. "He always does that. Whenever Zwilt tells ye to watch somethin', well, do it. Then count ten an' take a look behind ye. Hah, that's why they calls 'im the Shade--he's always gone."

Daclaw felt the need to regain his authority, so he pushed Globby roughly in the chest. "Think yore clever, eh? Well, you'll be dead clever afore long if'n ye carry on like that, smart mouth!"

The young stoat merely laughed. "Cummon, let's split up an' watch those liddle gates. Me'n Dinko'll take the back un. Let's go, mate."

Dinko, an equally forward young rat, bounded off after Globby, who was already on his way.

Daclaw called after them, "I never told youse t'go. Wait for my order--come back 'ere!"

Raddi waved a dismissive paw. "Ah, let 'em go. Those two are troublemakers--we're better off without 'em."

Daclaw took his mate's advice and set about picking watchers for the other gates. He winked at Raddi. "Yore right. Cummon, me'n'you'll watch the front gates together. We can take turns sleepin'."

Not far from the east wickergate at the back wall, the two young Ravagers had found a blackberry patch. Dinko sat in the loam, his lips dyed purple with juice.

"This is the life, mate-- 'Ey wot are ye doin' there? Git down outta that tree!"

Globby kept his eyes on a high branch as he climbed a

sycamore which grew reasonably close to the wall. "I can't get the smell o' that cookin' out me snout. Those scones, that bread, right out the oven, an' that cake. I've never tasted real cake afore!"

Dinko almost choked on a berry. "Git down, ye knot'ead, afore ye fall an' 'urt yoreself!"

Globby stopped to rest on a sturdy limb. "I'll be alright-- don't you worry, cully. See that branch up there? If'n I climb along it, I'll bet I could jump an' reach the walltop. I'm a good climber."

Dinko was not so sure. "Ye'll get us both killed if'n Zwilt comes back. Don't chance it, Glob!"

Globby carried on climbing. "Yore like an ole frog wirra warty bum. Stop worryin'. Look, you stay 'ere--this won't take long. I'll be in an' out afore ye knows it. Tell yer wot, I'll bring ye a pie back, all for yoreself. How'd ye like that?"

Dinko spat out a sour blackberry. "Wot sorta pie?"

Globby, having reached the desired branch, looked down. "I dunno. Wot sort d'yer like? Apple or maybe plum? Suit yerself."

Dinko gave it some thought. "See if'n they got apple an' plum, an' damson, too, or strawberry."

Globby sniggered. "Wot, all in one pie?"

Dinko looked indignant. "Well, ye never know. Daclaw said they must 'ave a big cookin' place in there. I betcha they could cook all sorts o' pies."

Globby ventured out onto the branch, halting as it wobbled slightly "Righto. I'll see wot I kin get!"

A moment later, he made his daring leap and was clinging to the battlements, hauling himself up, muttering, "Knowed I could do it. Now, where's the big cookin' place?"

The endless hiss of breaking waves was softened to a weary sigh by the ebbing tide. Gulls wheeled and soared over the dawn-lit sea. Clear skies and a rapidly blooming sun predicted another fine summer day. Leaving two sets of pawtracks in their wake, Buckler and Diggs travelled east from Salamandastron.

Buckler was packing one of the bellropes next to his long blade. He marched energetically, with a spring to his paw-step. Diggs, however, was already lagging behind, panting and blowing. He was burdened down by an overfull haversack, bulging with food. The bellrope he carried trailed the ground, constantly tripping him. Buckler halted, waiting for him to catch up.

"Pick those paws up, mate. It's a wonder you can walk at all. The size of that breakfast you scoffed would've staggered a regiment. Where'd you shove it all?"

The tubby Diggs hitched up his huge backpack. "Take my tip, old scout. A chap needs lots o' fodder t'keep himself goin', wot. Ever heard the sayin' that an army marches on its jolly old stomach?"

Hiding a smile, Buckler jollied him along. "I'll march on your jolly old stomach, if y'don't keep up. Hup two three,

Diggs--let's see you stepping out. I'd like to get to Red-wall while I'm still young enough to enjoy the place."

Diggs caught up with an amazing burst of speed. "Red flippin' wall! Y'mean the blinkin' Abbey?"

Buckler nodded. "Must be. I've not heard of any other Abbeys called Redwall, have you?"

The revelation spurred Diggs to increase his pace further. "I say, simply spiffin', wot! All those wonderful vittles, the banquets an' whatnot, picnics an' super suppers. Hoho, I'll bet breakfast's a real treat. Wonder if they serve it t'you in bed, wot?"

He halted suddenly in a swirl of sand, rounding wrath-fully upon his companion. "Just a tick ... you cad! You flippin' rotter! You never said anything t'me about goin' to Redwall. I thought we were goin' to visit your bally brother. Oh, yah boo sucks t'you, Buckler blinkin' Kordyne. Some friend you jolly well turned out t'be, wot!"

Buckler had to double march to keep up with his indignant companion. "Sorry, mate. I must've forgotten to tell you we were going to Redwall first. But what d'you suppose these ropes are for?"

Diggs continued his rapid pace, waving his paws about in agitation. "How'm I supposed t'know, eh? You said your brother was a flippin' farmer. I thought ropes were things farmers used for... for tyin' up their confounded crops, or whatever. Alls I know is that this rope I'm carryin' is jolly heavy, heavier'n yours, I bet, wot!"

Buckler explained. "They're both the same weight, because they're bellropes. A gift from Lord Brang to Abbess Marjoram. He asked me to deliver them."

Diggs huffed. "Oh, very kind of him, t'be sure. Hah, you'd think a chap could deliver his own bloomin' bellropes instead o' weighin' a couple o' poor, weary young travellers down with the blighters, eh, wot!"

Leaving behind the shoreline, they cut off into the dunelands, digging their paws deep into the warm sand as

they surmounted each hill. Diggs was immensely cheered by the prospect of a Redwall visit. However, he had still not completely forgiven Buckler for his loss of memory on the previous evening. So he spoke his mixed thoughts aloud.

"Hahahoho, Redwall, wot wot! Loads o' munchables, I'll be bound. I've heard the scoff there's second to none. Indeed, they prob'ly serve seconds all the time, eh! But you, y'scoundrel, wouldn't give a chap a single clue we were goin' to the place. Sneaky codwoofler! Er, I say, Buck old lad, it must be about time for lunch. What say we halt an' break out the old nosebag? All this trampin' about gets a chap confounded hungry."

His companion pointed up at the sun. "See, when that's in the centre of the sky, it'll be midday. That's the correct time to eat lunch. Until then, we keep going, alright?"

Diggs was a notorious creature at chunnering. He began dropping behind again, muttering darkly, "Huh, bally sun in the centre o' the bloomin' sky? Might be all season before that happens. A chap could starve t'death, shrivel up like a leaf an' be carted off by the blinkin' breeze. 'Tain't right, that's what 'tain't. Bet you won't shed a tear for me, though!"

To stem the tide of chunnering, Buckler made a suggestion. "How about striking up a cheery marchin' song, to help us along the way, eh?"

Diggs was not enchanted with the idea. "Yah, go'n' boil your beastly bottom! How can a chap skip along warblin' some jolly song when he's about to collapse from starvation? I'd die before we got much further. Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you, wot? A grinnin' young skeleton whose last words were a line from some silly marchin' ditty. Indeed, 'tis a sad fact, my fiendish friend, that'd fit in with your wicked old plan. Then you could trot on alone to Redwall an' scoff all the tuck yourself. Well, you don't fool me for a ruddy moment. Shame on you, my one-time trav-ellin' companion. Shame an' fie, I say!"

Buckler turned, glaring at his laggardly friend. "Are you goin' t'stop that bloomin' chunnerin', or do I have to kick your tail into the middle of next season to get a bit of peace!"

This threat did not bother Diggs, who carried on in full flow. "So, this is what it's come to, eh? Well, kick my tender young tail as much as y'please, sah. There's no law against a chap chunnering. I'll chunner as much as I bally well like--so there!"

Admitting defeat, Buckler dropped the haversack from his back. He sat down in the lee of a high sandhill, calling wearily to Diggs, "Righto, mate, let's have lunch, before you either starve or drive me insane with your chunnering!"

The plump complainer plopped down beside him, rubbing his paws and chortling gleefully. "Splendid day for a spot o' lunch, wot. Shall we dine from my rations or yours? Better make it yours, 'cos you've already got your haversack off. Heehee!"

Tearing open Buckler's supplies, he enthused happily, "Oh, I say, just the ticket, bread'n'cheese, an' a drop o' good old cider. What ho, Buck--nothin' like simple fare when a feller's famished. Hello, what's this? A jar of plums preserved in honey, what luck. That'll hit the jolly old spot, wot wot! Well, well, who'd have thought old Cooky would bung in some vegetable turnovers? Raspberry cordial, too, an' a hefty old fruitcake. It'll lighten your load once I've dealt with that. Hah, an' will you look at this--"

Buckler rapped his paw with the wooden bellrope end. "Hold up, there. This is only a light lunch, not a midsummer-eve banquet. Glutton, you'd wolf the lot if I let you!"

Diggs sucked his paw resentfully. "No need to break a chap's limb over a mouthful of tuck!"

Buckler shared out enough for a frugal repast. They dined on bread and cheese, a slice of fruitcake apiece and some cider. Diggs finished his in record time, then sat watching every mouthful his friend ate, licking his lips longingly.

When it became clear he was getting no more, he lay back upon the sun-warmed sand, complaining, "Hope we have afternoon tea at a respectable time. I'm still pretty hungry, y'know. Another cob o' that good cheese an' a pasty wouldn't go amiss, wot!"

Buckler ignored the irrepressible Diggs, who drew patterns in the sand, belched, excused himself, then lay back, closing his eyes.

Buckler snorted. "Y'great, idle lump, you're not going to nod off. We haven't made a half day's march yet!"

Diggs twitched his nose. " 'Sno good talkin' t'me, old lad. I'm asleep, y'see. Didn't sleep much last night, what with this bally journey hangin' over me, an' after all that fibbin' you did, not lettin' on about a visit to Redwall. Dearie me, it's depressin' my spirit so much I'll need a good few hours' shuteye before I even think about more pawsloggin' again."

Buckler decided he had taken just about enough. Shouldering his haversack, he rolled Diggs roughly over, relieving him of the bellrope and his backpack. He walked off, carrying the lot, without looking back.

Diggs sat bolt upright. "I say, where'n the name o' fiddlesticks d'you think you're goin?"

Without turning, Buckler shouted back, "I'm goin' it alone--don't need you. Report back to Lord Brang, see what he has to say!"

Suddenly Diggs was alongside him, claiming back his equipment. "Well, hoity-toity sirrah, who said I wasn't goin', wot? Just you try an' stop me. They don't call me old Determined Diggs for nothin', y'know. Step along lively now, laddie buck. I know, what about a good old marchin' song? Remember that one we made up when we were both leverets?"

Buckler suddenly found himself smiling. "I certainly do, mate. Go on, you lead off!"

Away they went at the double, often changing step and back kicking. It was more of a comic dance, which they

had performed at mess parties as cadets. Sometimes they sang solo, though mostly together.

"They call me Diggs ... an' my name's Buck,

If you draw a blade on us you're out o' luck!

I'm an expert with a sword!

I'm a champion with a spoon!

We'll fight or feast with anybeast

come mornin', night or noon.

So left right left right,

Wot ho, me pretty one!

Is your ma a good ole cook, an' where do you come from?

Let's walk you home ... don't go alone, you charmin' little duck.

Then introduce your ma to us, our names are Diggs an' Buck!

So left right left right, are we nearly there?

Salute the Colonel's daughter, parade around the square.

We're jolly brave an' handsome, at war or scoffin' tuck, we're perilously perfect 'cos ...

they call us Diggs an' Buck!"

They sang it through again, trying to outdo each other with sidesteps and fancy twiddles. When they halted, both hares were panting and laughing.

Buckler adjusted his backpack. "It's been a few seasons since we sang that together."

Diggs flopped down on the warm sand. "Rather. Blinkin' wonder we still remember it, wot!"

Buckler noticed that the sandhills were getting smaller. "That's the worst of the dunes behind us, mate, though there's a tidy bit o' this heath an' scrubland still to go. Come on, matey, up y'come--there's plenty o' daylight left yet."

They pressed onward, with Diggs beginning to lag and chunner again.

"Blinkin' grasshoppers chirrupin'--it's enough t'drive a poor beast potty. Aye, an' those bees could pick better tunes to hum. Bloomin' monotonous buzzin', eh?"

Buckler suddenly held up a paw. "Hush--can you hear that noise?"

Diggs carried on until he bumped into his friend's back. "Noise? What confounded noise? A rowdy butterfly, d'ye think!"

Buckler clapped a paw around Diggs's mouth. "Give your jaws a rest an' listen. Sounds like somebeast in trouble t'me. Over there, behind that hill--d'ye hear it?"

Diggs cocked up his ears, removing Buckler's paw. "More'n one beast, I think. Shall we take a peep?"

Dropping their haversacks, the pair crouched low, then crept toward the source of the outcry.

A scrawny-looking fox and a hulking weasel had captured a young shrewmaid. They were trying to get a rope halter around her neck, threatening her with all manner of torments.

"Yew better 'old still, missy, or I'll knock yer snout outta joint, so 'elp me I will!"

However, the shrewmaid was a feisty little creature, giving back as good as she got. She swung the rope, striking the scrawny fox in one eye.

"Leggo a me, ye snot-bubblin' grubbers. Git yore filfy paws offa me!"

The hulking weasel drew a wicked-looking knife. "Grab 'er neck, mate. We'll see wot she 'as t'say when I carves 'er tongue out!"

Watching from the tall grass to one side of the hill, the two hares realised it was time to step in on the vermin. Buckler drew his long rapier, but Diggs stayed his paw.

"Allow me t'deal with this little fracas, old lad. I'll give you a hoot if I need you t'lend a jolly old paw, wot?"

Buckler watched as Diggs unwound his sling and loaded it with a sizeable rock.

"Go ahead, then, be my guest. But I don't think those vermin'll fall for that old trick."

Diggs winked confidently, as he swaggered toward the scene. "We'll bally well see what we shall see, matey!"

The tubby young hare called out in a commanding tone. (He could be rather good at commanding tones, when required.) "I say, you two, scraggy-bottom an' clod-head! Take your foul paws off that young creature this very instant! Refrain an' desist, sirrahs, an' pack it in!"

The weasel advanced on Diggs, wielding his blade. "Are you talkin' to us, rabbet?"

Diggs halted half a pace from the weasel. "Rabbet, is it? Have a care, barrelbottom--you happen to be addressing Subaltern Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite. But let's not stand on ceremony. You can address me as sir. Now, unpaw that charmin' shrew."

The scraggy fox let the rope go. Joining the weasel, he sneered at the newcomer. "Or wot, eh?"

As he was saying this, the fox produced a wooden club.

The shrewmaid called out a warning. "Watch them-- they're sly, dangerous vermin!"

Diggs chuckled nonchalantly, edging around until he was standing close to both his enemies. "Pish tush, m'dear, sly, dangerous?" He faced the weasel squarely, still twirling the loaded sling playfully. "Let me give you a demonstration of my prowess before you decide on attacking me, wot! D'ye see that skylark up there?"

The weasel stared up at the empty sky. "Where? Wot skylark--"

That was as far as he got. Diggs swung the heavily loaded sling up, thwacking it hard beneath the vermin's chin. He carried on with the blow, up and over. The rock-loaded sling made a distinctive Bonk! as it struck the scraggy fox between both ears.

The fox was out cold, but the weasel was sitting on the ground, making odd noises as he hugged his chin.

Buckler walked up, shaking his head. "When'll you ever learn, mate? You should've belted the fox under the chin first. The second hit would've put that weasel's spark out, if you'd have smacked him over the head."

Diggs consulted the half-stunned weasel. "You must have a flippin' granite jaw. Didn't that knock you out, old lad?"

The weasel looked dully up, nursing broken teeth and a bitten tongue. He said what sounded like, "Mmmmufffm!"

Diggs nodded sympathetically. "Sorry about that, old scout. Here, try this one!"

Whop! The sling bounced off the vermin's brutish head. He fell back, out to the world.

Diggs nodded to his friend. "I'll remember that next time--little un to the chin, big un right on the bonce, wot!"

The little shrewmaid was watching them both, giggling merrily. "Youse two are funny rabbets."

Diggs huffed as he proffered her a sweeping bow. "Hares, marm, Salamandastron hares of the Long Patrol. I'm Diggs, an' this is my friend Buck, wot! Pray, who have we the pleasure of addressing?"

The shrewmaid bobbed a quick curtsy. "Me name's Flib-ber, but youse kin call me Flib."

Buckler prodded the unconscious vermin with a footpaw.

"Pleased to meet ye, Flib. What did these two want with you?"

Flib shrugged. "Huh, I dunno. They jus' snucked up on me an' tried t'drag me off sumplace, dunno where!"

She took the knife from the weasel and the club from the scraggy fox, commenting grimly, "But they won't do it again--no blunkin' vermins will. Hah, jus' lerrem try, now that I've gorra few weppins meself!"

Diggs enquired, "What are you doin' out here on your own, missy? Where are you from, wot?"

She pointed the blade at him aggressively. "None of yer bizness, nosey!"

Diggs went off to get their supply haversacks, chunnering as usual. "Mind my own jolly business, indeed. There's flippin' gratitude for you. Lay two vermin low, save the wretch's life, an' that's all the bloomin' thanks one gets. If I hadn't made her my business, she'd be in a bally bad spot now, indeed she would, ungrateful liddle snip. Huh, young uns these days, wot!"

Buckler tried reasoning with Flib. "It wouldn't hurt to say where you hail from, Flib. What about your parents? I'll wager they're prob'ly quite worried about you."

It was all to no avail. She scowled at him. "Yore nosier'n yer pal, you are. Lissen, yew attend to yore bizness, an' I'll see t'mine, alright?"

Buckler turned away from her. "Suit y'self, miss."

Diggs, returning with their gear, was greatly cheered when his friend announced that they would camp there for the night. He promptly began setting up preparations for a meal. Flib feigned indifference, though she spoke to Diggs.

"Worra youse gonna do wid those two scum, eh?"

Diggs cast an eye over the two unconscious vermin. "Couldn't say, really. Er, what d'you suggest?"

The shrewmaid tested the edge of her knife blade. "Leave it t'me. I'll slay 'em wid this!"

Buckler swiftly wrested the weapon from her grasp. "You'll do no such thing! Vermin or not, they're helpless creatures, unable to defend themselves."

Not daunted, she grabbed her club and waved it. "Stan' outta me way, youse. They woulda slayed me!"

Buckler's long rapier sent the club flying. "You savage little murderer--keep away from them!"

Flib sucked her paw, scowling at him. "Yew two are daft.

Yer a right pair o' softies. Don't yer know that the only good vermin is a dead un? That's wot ole Jango sez!"

Diggs nodded as he chopped up a fruit salad. "I've heard that, too. Who's this Jango feller?"

She curled her lip contemptuously at him. "I've told yew once, mind yer own bizness, fatty!"

Buckler winked at Diggs. "If that's the way she wants things, mate, then let her be. She can sit apart from us and mind her own bloomin' business, for all I care!"

Diggs agreed stoutly. "Fair enough by me, old scout. She can sit alone in solitary blinkin' splendour, for all I care. Aye, an' she can shift for her bally self. I ain't givin' no supper to that ill-mannered little spitwhiskers, nor a drop t'drink, wot. I should jolly well think not, so there!"

Flib sat apart from them, her nose in the air. "I don't blinkin' well care!"

Diggs would not let it go. He retorted, "An' we don't jolly well care that you don't blinkin' well care, so yah boo sucks t'you, marm!"

The moment the two vermin began to stir and groan, Buckler took the rope halter to them. He bound the weasel and the fox back-to-back, tying both forepaws and foot-paws tightly.

Pretending that she cared little, Flib commented, "Worra ye gonna do wid the scum now, eh?"

Buckler answered without looking at her. "Don't know, really. Haven't made up my mind yet."

Shades of evening were streaking the sky as Buckler joined his friend by their little fire. "So, young Diggs, what've we got here for supper?"

The tubby young hare was a very good cook. He announced the menu aloud. "Some summer fruit salad, toasted cheese on oatcakes, slab o' fruitcake an' a drop o' the jolly old dandelion cordial t'wash it down. How does that sound t'ye, young sir, wot?"

His friend rubbed paws together, pointedly ignoring the shrewmaid sitting by with her nose in the air. "Mmmm,

just the stuff t'feed two Long Patrollers!" He bit into an oatcake, topped thickly with cooked cheese.

Diggs slurped down fruit salad as though he had lived through a famine season. Dipping fruitcake into the honeyed juice, he made loud sucking noises.

Flib suddenly slumped on the sand, allowing a strangled sob to escape.

Diggs looked up from his soggy cake. "I say, did you hear somethin'--sounded like a bloomin' toad bein' throttled, wot?"

Buckler replied conversationally, "Y'know, if I was a foolish little creature, a shrew, let's say, well, I wouldn't go about insulting those who helped me an' being an ill-mannered young grump. D'you know what I mean, Diggs?"

The tubby hare sucked juice from his paws. "Indeed, old top, I know exactly what y'mean. No excuse for bad behaviour, wot. I think I'd stop blubberin' an' beg chaps' pardons, show 'em I was civilized an' whatnot. Who knows, there might even be a spot o' supper left for the silly little swab!"

A moment went by then Flib took the hint. Rubbing her eyes, she shuffled to the fire. Staring at her footpaws, she murmured, "M'sorry f'bein' rude."

Diggs began milking the situation, holding a paw to one ear and calling out like an irate old colonel, "Eh, what's that y'say? Speak up, young un, out with it!"

Buckler heard the shrewmaid's teeth gritting as she sang out lustily, "I said I'm sorry f'bein' rude. I 'pologise for me bad manners!"

Diggs kept up his aged-colonel act. "Hah, did ye hear the little maggot, Blademaster Buckler? I s'pose she thinks that entitles her to some of our bloomin' supper, wot?"

Buckler nudged his friend hard. "Right, that's enough, mate. Apologies accepted, Flib. Come and sit here. Diggs, serve our guest with supper, please."

She ate like a madbeast, cramming everything in with all the speed she could muster.

Diggs passed her a beaker of cordial. "Whoa, marm, slow down before ye go bang! Here, take a sip o' this, slowly now. Sufferin' stewpots, how long is it since you last had vittles, wot?"

Flib chewed hard, swallowed, then sighed. "Caw, nothin' like vikkles when yer 'ungry eh? It's a couple o' days since I 'ad a feed."

Buckler refilled her beaker. "So now will you tell us what you're doing out here all on your own, bein' attacked by vermin?"

At that point, the scraggy fox, who was now wide awake, shouted angrily, "Untie us, I'm warnin' ye. Cut us loose right now!"

Buckler rose. Bowing to his supper companions, he drew his long rapier. "Pardon me a moment, please."

Crossing to where the vermin lay bound, he began assisting them to stand. "C'mon, up on your hunkers. That's the stuff, cullies!" Buckler the Blademaster circled them, swishing the air with his long, lethal blade.

"Cut ye loose, d'ye say? I'll cut you, ye hardfaced villains, though it mightn't be loose!"

The hulking weasel and the scrawny fox wailed in terror as he came at them with the whirring sword. Whip! Snip! Whizz! A few expert strokes shaved the whiskers from the petrified pair. Buckler chuckled grimly. "I'd hold very still if'n I was you. Don't want t'get in the way of my blade, now, do we?"

Keen steel slashed through the weasel's belt, causing his ragged pantaloons to fall round his footpaws. Ting! A brass earring was chopped neatly from the fox's earlobe. Swish! He lost a tail bracelet. Thwup! A shabby sleeve dropped from the weasel's dirty shirt. Pingpingping! This was the sound of three fancy bone buttons shooting off the fox's tawdry waistcoat.

Buckler surveyed his work, leaning on his sword hilt. "What d'ye think, Miz Flib. What next?"

The shrewmaid bellowed savagely, "Their ears, snouts-'n'tails, then their necks!"

The vermin collapsed on the sand, pleading pitifully.

"Aaarr no, sir, y'wouldn't do that, sir!"

"Don't kill us, yer Lordship. We've got families!"

"Aye liddle uns an' wives. Spare us fer their sakes!"

Buckler's eyes went cold; he kicked them both. "Get up, up, both of ye! Snake-tongued liars. If I believed ye, I'd finish both of ye right now just t'save any poor beast the misery an' shame of havin' the like of you as fathers. Now, which way am I pointin'?"

"North, sir, yer pointin' north," wailed the fox.

Buckler growled through clenched teeth, "Aye, north 'tis. Go now, an' don't stop for the next three sunsets, or I promise yell be flybait!"

A few stinging smacks from the narrow flat of his blade sent them scurrying awkwardly off. Still tied back-to-back and paw-to-paw, they stumbled and tripped off into the falling dusk.

To say that Flib was impressed was an understatement. She sat wide-eyed, whispering, "I never seen anybeast that good wirra blade, never!"

Diggs patted the shrewmaid's paw. "Indeed, an' you ain't likely to, missy. You've just witnessed a Salamandas-tron Blademaster, the best there is. But y'must remember, he was only toyin' with 'em, right, mate?"

Buckler speared a slice of apple from the fruit salad, flipped it up with his swordpoint and caught it in his mouth. He sat down, winking at Flib. "Right!"

Zwilt the Shade waited until three of his Ravagers, with their two small captives, stopped to rest. Then he made a silent and unexpected appearance behind them. The leader of the vermin, a weasel called Grakk, spun around as the polecat tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Lord Zwilt, we were just--" Zwilt silenced him by raising a paw. "I know, Grakk. You were just stopping to rest before you carried on to Althier. Where did you capture the shrews?"

Grakk pointed with his spear. "By the south bend of the River Moss. Their tribe were camped there, Sire. These two had strayed off into the trees, so we took them."

Tugging gently on the halter about their necks, Zwilt drew the young ones closer. They were gagged and blindfolded; both looked exhausted.

The polecat nodded as he looked them over. "Good work, Grakk. You did well. The Sable Quean will be pleased when I tell her. I will take them to Althier."

The weasel saluted with his spear. "Lord!"

Zwilt wound the halter around one paw. "Go back and see if the shrewbeasts have any more little offerings for us."

Grakk and the other two Ravagers, both weasels, stole off into the woodlands.

Althier was the secret place. Only a chosen few of the Ravagers were allowed to be there. The main body of the vermin were camped half a league away in the depths of Mossflower Wood. In this way, there was no well-trampled pawpath, which would reveal the Sable Quean's location.

The two young shrews were stumbling with exhaustion as the Shade led them to the great oak. He tapped on the concealed door in its trunk. Two vermin guards admitted him, leading the new captives down a twisting tunnel into a large central chamber. The ceiling was formed by the arched roots of the mighty tree above. This was no vermin achievement--Althier had been constructed countless seasons before by far more noble beasts.

Prodding his little prisoners, Zwilt guided them to a side room. The Ravager standing guard stepped aside as Zwilt swept in with the shrews.

They blinked in the torch and lantern light as Zwilt flicked off their blindfolds with his swordtip. Both took a pace back at the scene which confronted them. Raised on two steps was a broad stone seat covered with soft mosses, dried grass and rugs made from the fur of beasts. Lounging gracefully upon it was a creature of barbaric beauty. Her fur was shining black and thick, with undertones of rich, dark brown. She was slender of limb, but lithe and strong. Her nosetip and ears were a dainty pink; her eyes, with a slight almond curve, glittered like two dark jewels. Beneath a fine silken cloak of regal purple, a necklace of snake fangs adorned her elegant neck.

The young shrews forgot their plight momentarily. They stared at her in awe. Crouched on the bottom step of the stone seat, an ancient rat clad in tattered raiment gave them a toothless smile.

"Is she not wonderful to look upon, my little dears? Bow your heads to Vilaya the Sable Quean!"

Her words seemed to break the spell. The younger of the shrews broke out sobbing. "Waaahaaah, I wanna go 'ome to Mammy!"

Vilaya bared a set of perfect sharp white teeth at him. "Be silent or I will eat you!"

The venom with which she spat out the words frightened the shrew into silence. She gestured to a guard. "Put them with the others!"

They were hustled swiftly off. From a distance, the sobs of the little shrew could be heard afresh.

Zwilt leaned on his sword hilt as he addressed Vilaya. "There are more where they came from. Shrews always have big broods. I told Grakk to go back and look for others. Though I think you already have enough."

Vilaya replied scathingly, "I will tell you when I have enough. Your job is to obey my commands, not to stand here giving opinions and bandying words with your Quean."

Zwilt knew how dangerous the Sable Quean could be. Avoiding further argument, he shrugged. "What would you have me do, then, Majesty?"

Vilaya let Dirva, the old rat, speak for her.

"There's been reports of river rats down on the South-stream--Grullba's crew, they say. Quean Vilaya thinks they would be a valuable addition to our Ravagers. She needs somebeast to challenge Grullba and defeat him. The river rats would follow one who could do it."

It was a rare thing for anybeast to see Zwilt the Shade smile, but smile he did. Drawing his broadsword, he cleaved the air in a deft pattern, making the wide blade thrum.

"Grullba Deathwind, eh? I've heard of his skill with the battleaxe. When I've slain him, I'll take off his head with his own weapon and bring them both here for you to see, Majesty."

Vilaya shook her head at the grisly prospect. "Forget the head of some oafish River Rat Chieftain. All I wish to hear

is that you've added his crew to my army of Ravagers. Only that will please me."

Zwilt extended his sword at eye level, speaking as he peered down the length of its blade. "Then we will be strong enough in numbers to conquer Redwall Abbey. It will fall before us like an old dead tree!"

Vilaya stared at him for a moment, then turned away. As if ignoring Zwilt, she remarked to the old rat Dirva, "Does this fool never listen to the wisdom of his Quean?"

Stung by the slight, Zwilt looked up from his sword. "Victory and conquest are the only things that are wise!"

The Sable Quean closed her eyes and waved a languid paw at her ancient confidante. "This beast is beginning to tire me. Dirva, explain our plan to him again."

Chuckling at Zwilt's humiliation, Dirva outlined the plan briefly. "There is no need for warfare. Battles are a gamble in which one side must be defeated. Redwall Abbey has never suffered defeat. The conquering tyrants and vermin hordes who have been vanquished from that Abbey's walls are lost to memory. Their bones have long turned to dust. So, how do we achieve a victory over Red-wall, and all the country of Mossflower?"

Zwilt's dead black eyes bored into the speaker. "Tell me."

The Sable Quean prowled down from her throne. Slowly circling the tall beast, she took up the explanation. "It's quite simple. We leave Redwall alone. They cannot fight what they do not see. The Abbey, and all this land, is inhabited mostly by woodlanders, would you agree? Good, honest, hardworking creatures, yes?"

Zwilt nodded, allowing her to continue.

"Woodlanders with families, relatives and friends. The young ones, their babes, their kindred, are the hope of the future, the very lifeblood of peaceful creatures. They would do anything to protect their brood, even fight. But how can they fight what is not there? The worry, the grief and sorrow at the loss of their dearest treasure. Where are

their young ones? Are they alive or dead? No woodlander or Abbeydweller will know until I speak to them on my terms. Give me what I want, and your families will be allowed to live. They will, believe me, because the alternative would be too awful for them to imagine. That is my plan, Zwilt."

Returning the broadsword to his belt, the Shade nodded, then paused. "When will all this happen, Majesty?"

She moved close, whispering in his ear, "When I think the time is right. Once we have control, I will need Ravagers to enforce my will. I trust only you, my loyal commander, to help me in all things. Remember, the rewards will be great, and only we two shall share them. Now go and do as your Quean bids."

Zwilt bowed his head slightly. "Your wish is my command!"

Watching the tall figure striding away, Vilaya went back to her throne. Dirva waited until he had left the side chamber.

"I think he got your message, but I keep feeling that Zwilt the Shade would rather wage war on Redwall."

The Sable Quean produced a slim knife from the end of her snake fang necklace. "He would be dead and at Hell-gates before he could shout charge. One scratch from my little toy would see to that."

Carefully, she withdrew the knife from its slender crystal sheath, watching the drops of adder venom collecting at its needle tip. She smiled. "On the day that Zwilt is no longer useful to me, he will learn the real power of Vilaya the Sable Quean."

With their bonds and gags removed, the two little shrews were thrust roughly into the holding chamber. This was the largest of the subterranean caverns. It had an oaken door, complete with a small grille aperture. As the guard bolted the door from outside, the younger shrew broke out

crying again. "Waaaaah--I wan' my daddy'n'mamma ... waaaah!"

The older of the pair, a little shrewmaid, hugged her brother, soothing him. "Hush now, Borti. Don't cry."

"Aye, tell Borti t'keep quiet, or we'll all suffer!"

Midda, the shrewmaid, looked around to see who had spoken.

The place was poorly lit by three guttering lanterns. She could see shapes of other creatures huddled around the walls in groups. The speaker was a young otter--he strode through the gloom to her side.

"I'm just warnin' ye, miss. Keep the liddle feller quiet. Thwip'll take the lanterns away, an' we'll all be left in the dark. If'n Borti makes a sound after that, we won't get any vittles. That scum's just lookin' for an excuse to punish us, so don't give 'im the chance."

Midda picked her little brother up, rocking him gently. "He'll drop off t'sleep soon--we're both very tired. My name's Midda. We're Guosim shrews. D'ye know what our name stands for?"

The otter nodded. "Aye. Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. My name's Flandor--ain't got no kin. I'm from the Eastlands. We've got a few shrews in here. Maybe ye might know some of 'em, Midda."

The shrewmaid peered into the shadowy interior. "Maybe I might, Flandor, but who's Thwip?"

A gaunt squirrelmaid appeared at her side. "Here, let me take the little un. Ye look about ready t'drop. Sit down here an' try to get some rest. I'm Tura."

Midda was grateful to Tura, who laid Borti down on a pile of rags and dry grass. They sat beside each other, with Flandor squatting before them. He kept his voice to a low murmur.

"You'll soon find out about Thwip. He's a wicked ole fox who's in charge of us. Him an' his mate, Binta--she carries a cane, an' he uses a whip. 'Spect that's how he got 'is

name. Don't do anythin' to anger either of 'em. They enjoy bein' cruel an' tormentin' us. Best thing t'do is just be quiet an' do as they tell ye."

Midda leaned back against the rock wall. She felt bone weary "I'll do as I'm told, but the first chance I get, me'n Borti are goin' to escape."

Tura grasped Midda's paw tightly. "That's foolish talk, friend. Have ye heard of the Ravagers, a big vermin mob? The one called Zwilt is their commander--nobeast can run from them. Huh, escape? D'ye know where you are? None of us do. Even if'n ye did get out o' here, where would you run to, eh?"

Midda roused herself indignantly. "I'm a Guosim, an' my father's Jango Bigboat. He's a Log a Log, Chieftain of all Mossflower shrews. So if'n me'n Borti are prisoners here, he'll find out. Hah, an' when he does, that Zwilt, aye, an' the one they call the Sable Quean, they'll be sorry, believe me!"

A gaunt-eyed bankvole nearby scoffed, "Huh, everybeast says somethin' like that when they first get here. Ferget about escapin'. YeTl soon see it ain't no use, right, Flandor?"

The young otter gritted his teeth. "Maybe, maybe not. Someway, somehow, there's got t'be a way out to freedom. I'd sooner die now than spend the rest o' my days rottin' in here, mate. But we can't rush things. First we've got to make a proper plan. Another thing, we'll only tell those we can trust."

Midda was surprised. "Y'mean there's prisoners here who'd tell Thwip that we were escapin'?"

Tura nodded. "Aye, poor sillybeasts who'd do any-thin' for an extra mouthful o' food. That's the way it gets some, after a while in here. Quiet now--here comes Thwip an' Binta!"

The door was opened. Two guards dragged a steaming cauldron in, followed by another two lugging a tub of water. Then the foxes swaggered in. Thwip was large

and fat; he flourished a long whip, making it crack. Binta leaned on her yew cane, favouring a limp. Thwip folded his whiplash.

"Well, ain't yew lot the luckybeasts? A nice, dry roof over yore 'eads, comfy'n'warm. Good vittles an' drink aplenty--huh, ye don't 'ave t'do a thing to earn 'em. Just sit there nice an' quiet, eh, Binta?"

The vixen drew an imaginary line with her cane. "Line up single file an' be still. Anybeast pushin' or shovin' will get a taste o' this rod an' no vittles. Two pawfuls apiece, then line up over there for water."

As they hurried to get into line, Thwip pushed his whip stock under Midda's chin. He leered at her.

"New, are ye? Well, git t'the back o' the line, go on!"

Tura went with her, whispering, "You'll have to fetch Borti, or he'll get none."

Midda glanced at her baby brother sleeping peacefully. "Leave him there. He needs his rest. I'll try to get enough in my paws for both of us."

The gaunt squirrelmaid replied, "I'll see if I can manage to grab a bit extra, too."

It was the poorest of food, obviously the remains of their captors' meal mashed up with roots, leaves and a bit of wild oatmeal, all boiled in water to produce a pitiful gruel. There was also a single ladle of brackish water apiece for the young prisoners.

Borti woke briefly. He ate some of the mixture, which his sister and her squirrelfriend had saved for him, murmuring drowsily, "M'wanna go 'ome ... go 'ome...."

Midda picked him up and rocked him, singing a little song she had made up specially for him.

"Borti, Borti, my liddle Borti, don't you weep an' don't be naughty.

If you promise to be good, we will play in Mossflow'r Wood.

Sleep now, sleep now, close those eyes.

Midda's got a nice surprise.

When you waken up again,

I'll make you a daisy chain, a daisy chain and y'know 'tis true, my liddle Borti, I love you."

The baby shrew fell into a slumber, sucking his paw.

Midda watched him, trying to sleep herself. But the tears would not allow her to shut her eyes. So she sat staring into the gloom, quietly weeping for her mother and father, and the big logboat she called home.

Drull Hogwife was often up earlier than anybeast at Red-wall. Being Friar Soogum's faithful assistant, she would go straight to the kitchens. Though he hated to admit it, the good Friar often slept a bit late, and who could deny him the privilege?

Being advanced in seasons, labouring hard and late into the night, Soogum slept on a little bed in his office, next door to the larder. Drull crept into the kitchens an hour before dawn, planning to start readying breakfast and wake her friend Soogum with a hot beaker of honeyed mint tea. It was a refreshment the Friar was always thankful for. Drull felt the warmth from the ovens as she took off her cloak and donned a rather flowery work apron. That was when she saw it!

Ruark, the Skipper of Otters, had taken to sleeping in the gatehouse of late. Granvy, the old hedgehog Recorder, always slept there, in his armchair, leaving the big, comfortable bed vacant. Ruark took full advantage of this. It was not yet daylight when urgent knocking roused him.

Granvy blinked drowsily from his armchair. "Eh, who's that? It's still dark out there!"

The big otter made a beeline for the door. "You stay there, mate. I'll see who 'tis."

He opened the door, to be confronted by an almost incoherent hogwife.

Drull kept covering her face with the flowery apron, gabbling nonstop. "Oh, corks a mercy me, wotever's 'appened--I never seen ought like it in all me borned days, so I never!"

Skipper pulled the hysterical creature inside and pushed her down into a chair, questioning her. "Wot haven't ye seen, marm? Slow down, now, what is it?"

Drull jumped up. Waving her paws, she bustled out of the gatehouse, still alarmingly talkative. "Come an' see, come an' see for yoreself, sir. Oh, corks'n'crabshells, y'ain't never seen nothin' like it. There's a vermin in the kitchens!"

Grabbing his javelin from behind the door, Skipper sped past her. "A vermin y'say, marm--stay away, an' keep everybeast out o' the kitchens!"

The young stoat, Globby, had indeed found the big cooking place, after a long, furtive search. Friar Soogum lay asleep in his office, unnoticed by the intruder. Globby had never seen so much food in one place. It was like paradise to the hungry young vermin. Trays of freshly baked scones, biscuits and breakfast bread were cooling on the shelves. The aroma almost sent him into ecstasy.

He was stuffing his face with a scone, a thin almond biscuit and a small crispy farl when he spotted the large earthenware jars with wooden ladles beside them. Honey, damson preserve, plum jam. In a moment, he was dripping with a combination of all three, his paws, chin, snout and cheeks literally plastered with the mixture. Then he discovered the flasks of pale cider, October Ale and elderberry wine. After a protracted period of sheer gluttony, gorging and swigging, Globby curled up on a ready floured table surface, nestling his head on a heap of unkneaded dough. He slumped into a satisfied sleep amidst the culinary

wreckage he had created. Scones, bread, biscuits lay scattered in a soggy mess, with honey, preserves, spilled drink and an upset cauldron of cold oatmeal porridge.

Skipper Ruark spotted Globby as soon as he entered the kitchens. Knowing the slumbering vermin presented no immediate danger, the Otter Chieftain moved silently, searching the area for other foebeasts. He found Friar Soogum, who had just wakened. The old water vole yawned, rubbed his eyes and smiled.

'G'mornin', Skip. I'll get breakfast goin' right away."

Skipper placed a paw to his lips. "Nay, sir. You stay there until I call ye. Don't come out!"

Word had swiftly gone around the early risers. Abbess Marjoram, Foremole Darbee, several of his crew and Cel-larmole Gurjee crowded the doorway as Skipper roused Globby into consciousness.

The young stoat blinked, stared at the otter for a moment, then bounded from the table with the mound of dough still stuck to the side of his face. The brawny Skipper seized him by the tail, slamming him back onto the table. Grabbing a breadknife, he put the point against Globby's nosetip.

"If'n ye value yore mizzrubble life, mudface, ye'll start talkin' fast. Wot are ye doin' here, eh?"

The young Ravager had expected to be slain on the spot. Finding himself still alive, his natural insolence came to the fore. He grinned cheekily. "I was 'ungry, so I thought ye wouldn't mind me borrowin' a bite o' vikkles an' a drop t'drink."

Abbess Marjoram came to the table, staring at him coldly. "And tell us, pray, how did you get into this Abbey?"

Globby wrinkled his jam-smeared snout at her. "That's my liddle secret, missis. I ain't tellin' yer!"

That was when Skipper's temper got the better of him. Throwing aside the breadknife, he grabbed a wooden oven paddle. Roughly flopping Globby over on his stomach, he proceeded spanking away with the paddle.

Thwack! Splat! Thwack! Splat! Thwack! Splat!

Skipper roared over the Ravager's squeals and screeches. "Who d'ye think ye are, talkin' to the Mother Abbess o' Redwall like that, ye hardfaced liddle whelp!"

Marjoram stayed the big otter's paw in midspank. "You'd best stop before you injure him seriously!"

Skipper released Globby, who immediately fell to the floor holding his rear end as he wriggled about in a horizontal dance.

"Waaaahwaaaah! Eeeeeeyowwww! Hoohoohoowaaaah!"

Foremole Darbee shook a hefty digging claw at him. "Hurrhurr, may'aps ee'll keepen a siverful tongue in you'm 'ead, moi bold vurrmint. Naow, you'm answer ee h'Abbess, noice an' perloit loike!"

Kicking his footpaws frenziedly Globby continued his agonised howls. Skipper grabbed the scruff of his neck, hauling him back over the table.

"I don't reckon he 'eard ye, sir. I'll just carry on 'til his manners improves."

Globby wailed brokenly, "Waaaahaaah--don't 'it me no more. I'll tell ye. I climbed over the back wall!"

Marjoram continued her interrogation of the stoat. "The back wall? You mean our eastern rampart? How in the name of seasons did you manage that?"

One glance at Skipper's stern face convinced Globby to reply truthfully. "Climbed uppa big tree an' went along a branch near the wall. I jumped it."

Skipper clapped a paw to his brow. "We've forgotten to trim back the branches for three seasons now. They must've grown good'n'long!"

Marjoram reassured him. "It's my fault, friend. There's been peace for so long that there's been no need of tree trimming. So, let's remedy the situation today!"

Skipper Ruark saluted. "Leave it t'me, marm. Gurjee, bring any axes, saws or cuttin' tools up from yore cellars. Brother Tollum, gather the best climbin' squirrels t'gether. Foremole, take yore crews up to the walltops.

Drull, marm, tell the Friar we'll need packed lunches for the workers, if'n ye please."

The hogwife fidgeted anxiously with her apron strings. "But nobeast's 'ad brekkist yet, sir."

The Abbess interrupted. "I'm sure the branch trimming is far more important, Drull. Besides, breakfast is already ruined, and it'll take time to clear up the mess, no thanks to this scruffy savage!"

Friar Soogum emerged from his makeshift bedroom. The old water vole shook his head in disbelief. "You mean t'tell me one vermin did all this to my kitchen? Drull, you see to the packed lunches. You, what's your name?"

The young stoat avoided the Friar's icy stare. "Globby."

Soogum rolled up his habit sleeves in a businesslike manner. "Well, listen to me, Globby. You're goin' to clean this kitchen from top t'bottom. What are you goin' t'do?"

Globby saw the Friar pick up the oven paddle and give the air a few experimental whacks.

"Er, leave it t'me, sir. I'll 'ave the ole place shinin' like a new pin afore ye knows it!"

Dawn was streaking the skies with pale light as Dinko dropped into the ditch beside Daclaw and Raddi. His arrival wakened Daclaw, who had been catching a nap. He glared sourly at the young rat.

'Wot are yew doin' 'ere? Yore supposed t'be watchin' the back gate with yer mate."

Dinko told his group leader what had taken place. "Well, it's like this, y'see. When we was round there last night, Globby kept on about the nice vittles wot must be inside. So 'e climbed a big tree, crawled along an 'igh branch an' jumped onto the top of the wall. Said 'e was goin' t'look for stuff to eat. Any'ow, he went in, an' I ain't seen 'ide nor 'air of 'im since, Chief. So I thought I'd better tell ye."

Daclaw paced up and down the ditchbed irately. "Went into Redwall, did 'e? Jelly-brained idjit! Young Globby's

dead either way. If'n those inside don't slay 'im, Zwilt the Shade will fer disobeyin' orders. Frogskins an' 'ells teeth, wot am I goin' t'do now, eh?"

Raddi came to his help. "Git the others round 'ere, where we can keep an eye on 'em. We'll carry on watchin' this front gate for a while."

Dinko shrugged. "Wot good'll that do?"

Daclaw cuffed him across the ears before speaking. "Aye, wot good'll that do, eh?"

Raddi explained, "Well, if'n they've slaved Globby, they'll throw 'is carcass out 'ere in this ditch, mebbe. Then we can tell Zwilt wot 'appened. It'll show 'im that at least we was carryin' out orders properly. Don't stand there gawpin', young Dinko. Get the others an' bring 'em round 'ere, go on!"

Granvy unbolted the small east wickergate, peering out at the verdant woodland. "It looks peaceful enough to me."

Skipper strode out ahead of Brother Tollum and some squirrels, all of whom were carrying woodcutting tools. He paced the tree line closest to the wall. Looking up, he noted several long limbs and branches, some of them almost touching the battlements.

"Brother Tollum, start with yonder sycamore, then take that beech next to it. Oh, an' there's an oak further along. Tell yore crew t'chop 'em well back, all those long branches."

The gaunt Bellringer nodded solemnly. "Right y'are, Skip. We'll get right to it!"

The Otter Chieftain made for the east wallsteps, where he met a group of Dibbuns about to go up.

"Ahoy, mateys! Where do ye think yore off to?"

Guffy the molebabe was waving a table fork, which he deemed a very useful implement. "Ho, doan't ee fret about us'n's, zurr. We'm a-goin' up thurr to 'elp out, hurr aye!"

The big otter smiled. "Well, thankee, mates, but you

ain't allowed on the walltops until you've growed a bit. I'm afraid 'tis a bit dangerous for Dibbuns. Run off an' play, now, there's good liddle beasts."

Foremole Darbee and his crew were on the ramparts. Though not greatly fond of heights, the moles worked industriously. Tollum's squirrels would tie ropes to the chosen branches, throwing them across to the moles. Tugging hard on the ropes, the molecrew stopped the branches springing and bouncing. It was a lot easier to cut the wood once it was held steady. Whenever one was sawn or chopped through, Skipper would yell, "Ahoy, mates, heave 'er away!"

Some hefty limbs were hauled onto the walltops. They were dropped down to the Abbey lawns, where other Red-wallers would cut them into small lengths, either for Friar Soogum's firewood store or for Cellarmole Gurjee's workshop. Good timber was never wasted.

The Ravager group were crouching in the ditch by the west wall, when Daclaw held up a paw for silence. He listened intently.

"Where's all that noise comin' from?"

"Shall I go an' see, Chief?" Dinko volunteered.

Daclaw ignored him, pointing to a fat weasel. "Slopgut, you go. See wot it is an' report straight back."

Dinko did not like being left out. He was curious. "Wot d'ye think it is, Chief?"

Daclaw stamped on the young rat's tail. "We'll get t'know when Slopgut gits back. Why d'ye think I sent 'im, thick'ead? Now, shut yer trap!"

The work was going well on the east side. Stout branches of sycamore, beech, oak and hornbeam were being sawn into manageable sections by Sister Fumbril and a big hedgehog named Bartij, who besides being the Infirmary Sister's aide, was also Redwall's orchard gardener. To

gether they worked a double-pawed logsaw, keeping up a steady rhythm.

Brother Tollum called out to Skipper, "There goes the last branch, Skip, a nice piece o' spruce!"

Darbee Foremole waved to his crew. "Haul 'er in, moi beauties. Ee job bee's well dunn!"

Granvy clapped his paws cheerfully. "Aye, an' just in time, here comes lunch!"

Hogwife Drull and her kitchen helpers hove into view. They were wheeling two trolleys piled high with good things to eat. Abbess Marjoram was with them. Molebabe Guffy and his friend, a squirrel Dibbun called Tassy, took the Abbess by her paws.

"Yurr, marm, cumm an' see all ee wudd we'm chop-pered up furr ee--b'ain't that roight, Tassy?"

Marjoram chuckled. "Is that little Miss Tassy under all that sawdust and woodchips?"

The tiny squirrelmaid piped up, "I been very, very bizzy wivva natchet, chop chop!"

The Abbess dusted bark chips from Tassy's ears. "Then you should be ready for some mushroom and leek soup and vegetable pasties. Then we've got apple and black currant crumble with arrowroot sauce."

Everybeast surged forward at the mention of the treats to come. They were halted by Skipper's shout.

"Sit down where y'are, all of ye, or there'll be no lunch!"

He bowed gallantly to Drull and the Abbess. "Serve away, marms. Feed these savage beasts, if ye please!"

Guffy scowled darkly as he plumped down on the lawn. "Samwidge beast you'm self, zurr!"

Slopgut had watched the tree-lopping exercise. He scurried back and reported to Daclaw.

Furtively the group leader took his Ravagers around to the east wall--the wickergate was open. Bidding the rest to wait in the shrubbery, Daclaw and his mate, Raddi,

peeped carefully through the gateway. Raddi watched the Redwallers lunching. She could smell the soup and the other food. The ferret licked her lips.

"I don't blame young Globby wantin' vittles like that. Makes ye wish y'was a woodlander yerself, don't it?"

Daclaw glared at her. "Don't talk like that, mate. If'n Zwilt the Shade hears ye, it's sure death!"

Raddi pulled him back from the gateway suddenly.

"Wot did ye do that for?" Daclaw protested indignantly.

She clamped a paw around his mouth, whispering fiercely, "Didn't ye see? There's two young uns comin' this way. The others haven't noticed 'em. I think they're takin' their vittles out into the woods, mebbe to 'ave a picnic. Lissen, mate, we'll grab the pair of 'em, gag their mouths an' clear out of 'ere fast before they're missed. Are ye ready?"

Daclaw whipped off his tattered shirt, tearing it into two makeshift gags. He passed one to Raddi.

"Ready as I'll ever be, mate. Ssshh, I can 'ear 'em!"

Back inside on the Abbey lawn, everybeast relaxed after the work, lying about in the sun as they enjoyed a well-earned lunch.

Sister Fumbril made certain the Abbess was sure to hear her as she called out her request. "Perhaps some kind an' beautiful creature'll give us permission to carry on with the Redwall Bard Contest. Round about teatime this afternoon, in front of the gatehouse--that's a quiet, sunny place."

Granvy wiped soup from his whiskers, commenting, "Sunny it may be, but quiet? Not with this lot scrapin' fiddles, bangin' drums an' caterwaulin' away. What d'ye think, Mother Abbess?"

Marjoram chuckled. "Then you'd best plug your ears up, my friend, because the kind, beautiful creature has just given her permission for the contest to carry on."

Brother Tollum waited until the cheering had died down

before he asserted his claim. "Er, I think it was my turn to sing next, right, Granvy?" The hedgehog Recorder sighed. "So be it, Brother. But please don't sing any mournful dirges with a hundred verses."

Skipper smiled mischievously. "Oh, I dunno. I think ole Tollum's songs are nice an' restful. How's about 'The Burial Lament for the Flattened Frog's Granpa'?"

Tollum brightened up slightly. "I know that one!"

There were yells of dismay and groans of mock despair. The Redwallers shouted impassioned protests, plus some rather impudent insults. They carried on eating lunch and joking about various singers.

Nobeast had noticed the absence of two little Dibbuns, who had been trapped, gagged and carried off by a band of vermin Ravagers.

It was a pleasant enough stream, running from the woodlands out onto the flatlands. However, this was where Oakheart Witherspyk ran the raft aground. The big, florid hedgehog had dozed off at the tiller, causing his craft to bump over some rocks which lurked in the shallows. The Streamlass was a fine old craft, with a blockhouse of logs at its centre. It had ornate wooden rails and a single mast, from which hung strings of washing and a square canvas sail. The faded sign painted on this sail announced "The Witherspyk Performing Players." (Though the sign painter had made a spelling error--the word Performing read "Preforming.")

The shock of the raft bumping roughly aground caused chaos on board. Oakheart's mother, Crumfiss, and his wife, Dymphnia, clutching baby Dubdub to her, came stampeding onto the streambank. These were followed by the rest of his family, four other hedgehogs, a mole, a squirrel, and two bankvoles. (The latter four creatures he and his wife had adopted.) Everybeast was waving paws in alarm and crying out, either in panic or anger.

Dymphnia bellowed at her husband, "Oakie, you dozed off again, you great bumbler!"

Rising from his armchair, which was nailed to the deck alongside the tiller, Oakheart pointed at himself, booming out dramatically, "Dozed? Did I hear you say dozed, marm? Nay, alas, 'twas a cunning twist of devious water current which cast us ashore thus. I never doze whilst navigating, never!"

A young hogmaid held a drooping paw to her brow, declaiming, "Oh, Papa, I thought we were all to be drowned, lost sadly 'neath the raging waters!"

Dymphnia wiped the babe's snout on her shawl, casting a jaundiced eye on her daughter. "Do be quiet, Tra-jidia. Don't interrupt your father. Well, Oakie, are we stuck here?"

Removing a flop-brimmed hat and sweeping aside his timeworn cloak, Oakheart stared glumly over the rail at a number of rocks beneath the surface.

"Aye, m'dear. Fickle fortune has swept us hard upon the strand. Rikkle, can you see if anything can be done to relieve our position? There's a good chap!"

One of the bankvoles hurled himself into the water and vanished beneath the raft. After a brief moment, Trajidia, who never missed the opportunity to be dramatic, clasped her paws, staring wide-eyed at the place where Rikkle had submerged.

"Oh, oh, 'tis so hard to bear, one of such tender seasons, gone to a watery grave!"

One of her brothers, Rambuculus, smiled wickedly. "It's plum duff for supper. If he doesn't come up, can I have his share, Ma?"

Dymphnia clouted him over the ear with her free paw. "Ye hard-hearted young blight!"

Baby Dubdub, who was learning to speak by repeating the last words of his elders, shook a tiny paw at his brother. "Young blight!"

Rikkle climbed back aboard shaking himself, treating those nearby to a free shower. "Ain't no good, Pa. We're

jammed tight, unless we can find somethin' to lever 'er off with."

Oakheart was not in the levering mood; he sniffed. "Leave it 'til the morrow. Perchance the stream may run at flood and float our Streamlass off."

Wading into the shallows, he held forth a paw to assist his wife and their babe onto dry land.

"Right, Company, all paws ashore, if ye please!"

Dubdub shouted in his mother's ear, "Paws ashore, please!"

They were grounded in the area where the trees thinned out onto the heathland. Oakheart rummaged through a pile of effects on the bank, coming up with a funnel fashioned from bark. This he held to his mouth and began calling aloud for the benefit of anybeast within hearing distance.

"Hear ye, hear ye, one and all!

All goodbeasts now, hark to me, see here upon this very spot, the Performing Witherspyk Company!

What'll you see here when we start?

Why, tales to delight the rustic heart, plays enacted on nature's stage, dramas of avarice, war and rage.

Stories of love to make you sigh, tragedies bringing a tear to the eye.

Mayhaps a comedy we'll make,

You'll feel your ribs with laughter ache.

Yet what seek we as our reward?

Merely to share your supper board.

A drop to drink, a crust, perchance.

We act, we sing, recite or dance.

Aye, food would aid our noble cause, though mainly we feed upon applause.

You'll not regret a visit to see,

The Performing Witherspyk Companeeeeeeeee!"

Oakheart's mother, Crumfiss, a venerable greyspiked hog, prodded him none too gently with her walking stick. "Oh, give your face a rest, Oakie. This is the back of nowhere. There's nobeast around for leagues!"

Rambuculus sniggered wickedly. "Poke him again, Granma. Go on--good'n'hard!"

Crumfiss brandished the stick at him. "I'll poke you, ye impudent young snickchops! Do somethin' useful. Go on, gather firewood for your ma!"

Oakheart rounded on them, paw upraised. "Hist, voices, d'ye hear?"

From not too far off, a voice sounded, getting louder. "I say, there. Are you chaps callin' to us, wot? Hold on a tick, we'll be right with you!"

Two hares and a shrewmaid approached through the woodland fringe. It was Buckler, Diggs and Flib. Oakheart beamed a welcoming smile.

"Over here, friends. Over here!"

Flib wiggled a paw in one ear, wincing. "Do ye have ter yell through that thing?"

The florid hog lowered his megaphone. "Ah, forgive me, my dainty miss--force of habit, y'know."

Flib scowled at him. "Ye can cut that out right now. I ain't nobeast's dainty miss--I'm Flib the Guosim, see!"

Buckler rapped her paw lightly with the bellrope. "Mind your manners. He's just trying t'be friendly."

Oakheart did not seem to take offence. He continued holding forth merrily. "Ah, a Guosim shrew, no less. Stout creatures. Perhaps you know one who is an acquaintance of mine, Jango Bigboat by name, something of a chieftain amongst his kind, I believe."

Flib seemed flustered by the mention of Jango Bigboat. She dropped back, standing behind Diggs, murmuring, "No, I ain't 'eard o' that un, sir."

After introductions had been made all round, Buckler strode down to the streambank, where he viewed the grounded raft.

"Mister Oakheart, perhaps we could help you to refloat your craft. It's a wonderful thing--I've never seen one like it."

Dymphnia took over from her spouse. "Oh, just call him Oakie, Mister Buckler. Everybeast does. Maybe you'd like to come aboard the Streamlass and share supper with us, such as it is. We can always refloat our raft tomorrow."

Buckler bowed gallantly. "A pleasure, marm. But call us Buck, Diggs and Flib. We have supplies we could share with you. Oakie tells me you are actors."

Diggs unhitched the haversack from his back. "Jolly types, actors. We've had visits from them once or twice at Salamandastron, doncha know."

Granma Crumfiss leaned on Diggs's paw as they went aboard. "Salamandastron, ye say? I played there when I was nought but a young hogmaid. A fine young badger was the Lord. Brang, as I remember. Is he still there?"

It was a memorable evening. The raft's log cabin was comfortable, if slightly crowded. The two hares contributed food from their packs. Dymphnia served them with bowls of plum duff, ladling her special pear and hazelnut sauce thickly over it. Oakheart broke out a cask of his own brew, which he had named Witherspyk Waterporter. It was slightly sweet, very dark and nourishing.

As they ate, Trajidia fluttered her eyelashes at Diggs, enquiring, "Pray, to where are you warriors of the wilderness bound?"

Crumfiss spoke sternly. "Don't be so nosey, miss. 'Tis none o' yore concern where these goodbeasts are goin'!"

Buckler smiled. "Oh, it's no secret. We're bound for Red-wall, with a gift for the Abbess."

Oakheart banged his tankard down in surprise. " Ton my liver spikes'n'paws! Why, that's also our destination, friend Buck. Perhaps when we float our vessel into navigable waters on the morrow, you'd wish to accompany us to that hallowed establishment?"

Buckler winked at Diggs, allowing him to answer. "Wot, oh, I say, wouldn't we just jolly well love to, Oakie, old lad. Super wheeze, wot wot?"

Baby Dubdub, who was being fed by his mother, pushed away the spoon. "Wheeze, wot wot!"

Everybeast laughed, and Trajidia fluttered her eyelashes even harder. "Oh, how brave and gallant, Papa. We'll have valiant hares to guard us from any vermin foes!"

Oakheart refilled his tankard. "Indeed we will, m'dear! Eat hearty now, my trusty protectors, and thank ye kindly for offering your skills to us."

Buckler returned the compliment. "No sir, thank you for offering us such a wonderful way to travel. It's Diggs an' I who are grateful to you."

Diggs winked roguishly at Trajidia. "Rather! An' in such bally charmin' company, wot! Never travelled with actors before. Wouldn't mind havin' a go at the jolly old actin' m'self."

Rambuculus did not hold out much hope for Diggs. "Hmmph, bein' a warrior, you might come in useful for fights an' battle scenes. There's more to actin' than ye think. You've got to be a singer, a dancer, an---"

Diggs cut in on him. "Dancin'? Listen t'me, laddie buck. I can twiddle as neat a flippin' paw as anybeast. Ask Miggy M'ginnerty, our drill sergeant's daughter. She'nT were the bloomin' toast of the Mess Ball when we tootled round the floor t'gether. Twinklepaws Diggsy, they called me, ain't that right, Buck?"

Buckler nodded. "That's correct, mate, an' you were a good warbler, too, as I recall. Go on, give us a song!"

His chubby companion needed no second bidding. Bounding from his seat, he threw his paws wide and launched into his favourite ditty.

"Oh, I hail from Salamandastron, that old mountain in the west, with a pack upon me shoulder,

an' a smartly buttoned vest.

My ears stand to attention, an' gels cry out, Look there, he's a member of the Long Patrol, a handsome gallant hare!

"What ho what ho, 'tis true y'know, no creature can compare, to a dashin' singin' harum-scarum,

Salamandastron hare ... wot wot!

"I'll whack a score o' weasels, or marmalise a stoat, there's many a ferret shiverin', when I've torn off his coat.

I'm vicious with all vermin, but show to me a maid,

I'll kiss her paw an' shout haw haw!

Pray, marm, don't be afraid.

"What ho what ho, I tell ye so, ye gentle gels so fair,

I'm a high-fulorum cockle-a-dorum,

Salamandastron hare ... wot wot!"

As Diggs finished his song, he made an elegant bow. The Witherspyk Company applauded him heartily, even young Rambuculus. Oakheart was impressed.

" Ton me snout'n'spikes, young Diggs, ye have the makin's of a fine performer. There's a position in me troupe for you, should you ever wish to take it! But an actor's life can be hard, y'know, and hungry, too. Some seasons ye can see more suppertimes than suppers. Well, what d'ye say friend Diggs, eh?"

The young hare's ears seemed to wilt. "Er, I think I'll stick to the jolly old warrior's path, sir. It's prob'ly better in the long run."

Trajidia looked disappointed. "You're not afraid of acting, are you?"

Buckler answered for his friend. "Diggs ain't afraid of anything, miss, except starvin'."

Diggs pouted a little. "Well, a chap needs his scoff, y'know. I wouldn't look so jolly han'some if I was thin."

Dymphnia patted his paw. "We understand. Now, tomorrow we'll follow the stream overland, going south and a point east. That should take us over some flatlands, then back into the trees. When we spy the rock ledges, it's not far from there to the Abbey. Right, time for sleep, my dears. Early call at dawn, I think. The Streamlass will need to be worked on, so that we can free her."

The twins, Jiddle and Jinty, went to fetch their blankets. "Mamma, Mamma, can we sleep out on the bank?"

Dymphnia raised her headspikes indignantly. "Certainly not. Who knows what goes on out there at night? You've got perfectly good bunks onboard!"

The twin hedgehogs complained bitterly.

"But Granma Crumfiss snores somethin' dreadful!"

"An' Trajidia keeps talkin' in her sleep, recitin' lines from the plays!"

Dymphnia remained obdurate, until Flib interceded. "Let 'em sleep outdoors, marm. I'll go with the twins an' keep an eye on 'em. Oh, go on--it's a warm night."

Oakheart sighed. "Aye, let them sleep on shore, m'dear. 'Twill stop 'em gettin' up for drinks o' water all night."

Wearing their blankets like cloaks, Jiddle and Jinty dashed from the cabin, whooping and squealing.

As Flib followed them, Buckler cautioned her, "Remember now, missy, keep a sharp eye on them!"

The shrewmaid replied icily, "No need t'remind me. I knows wot I'm doin'!"

Diggs caught hold of her paw. "You jolly well take heed of what he says, m'gel, wot!"

She broke his hold roughly, snarling, "An' yew mind yer

own bizness, fatty. Keep an eye on yoreself in case ye go bang after all that scoff!"

To ease the tense moment, Crumfiss turned to her son. "Oakie, why don't ye sing us a nice little comic ditty before we turn in. Buck an' Diggs have never heard you performin'."

Oakheart Witherspyk was never a beast to miss a chance of displaying his talents. Holding that most peculiar of instruments, the Hogalino, over his head, he strummed it across his top spikes and burst into song.

" Twas a snowy morn one summer, an' the moon was shining bright, when my dear ma kissed me a fond good-bye.

So I asked where I was going, as she shoved me out the door.

She blew her snout and then began to cry.

'Oh, don't run off to sea, my son, you'll break your mother's heart.

I've reared you since you were an ugly pup!'

But I didn't want to go, and I tried to tell her so, but she locked the door and nailed the windows up.

Off I went to sail the main, as cabin hog aboard the Scruffy Dog.

The Skipper wore no vest, and tattooed upon his chest, was a picture of a flea lost in the fog.

Well, it turned out that old Captain, was a hog named Gusty Snout, my long-lost daddy that I'd never seen.

So me and that old tar, sailed right back home to Ma, who saw us coming and let out a scream.

She cried, 'Alas alack, are you two villains back?'

And beat us soundly with a knotty log.

And as she wouldn't stop it, well, we both had to hoppit, now we're back aboard the good old Scruffy Dog\"

Sometime later that night all paws on the raft were fast asleep. The woodlands were still, and the ground was warm from the summer day, with not even a whisper of breeze to stir either grass or leaves.

Grakk and two other weasels had not taken any more captives. On returning to the River Moss, they had been unable to locate the Guosim shrews. Following a sidestream south, Grakk and his cohorts met up with two other Ravagers. It was the small, scrawny fox and the burly weasel who had been in trouble with Buckler and Diggs.

All five vermin were at that moment lying low in the woodland fringes, watching the three young creatures who were sleeping not far from the streambank. The small fox looked around nervously.

Grakk crawled up alongside him. "Wot are yew lookin' so jumpy about, eh?"

The fox pointed to Flib, who was curled up amidst the moss and fallen leaves. "See that un? She's a shrew--we met up with 'er afore. I know 'tis the same beast, 'cos I kin see a knife an' a club wot she stole off us."

Grakk's whisper oozed scorn. "Yer let a shrewmaid take yore weppins, huh, an' you two calls yerselves Ravagers?"

The burly weasel defended himself and the fox. " 'Twas a trap, see. We was tricked by 'er--she 'ad two others lyin' in wait fer us. Aye, two o' those big fightin' rabbets, an' they weren't short o' weppins, big swords an' loaded slings, daggers, too, an' prob'ly a couple o' spears. I tell ye, Grakk, ye wouldn't like t'meet up wid that pair. Killers they were, champeen warriors!"

Grakk stared hard at the fox. "So, wot 'appened? Why wasn't ye killed by 'em, eh?"

The small fox glared right back at him, lying earnestly. " 'Cos we escaped from them. We 'ad to run fer it, an' we lost our weppins in the scramble. They chased us fer over a day an' night, but we outran them."

"Hah, youse two ran faster 'n two big rabbets? Ye must bejokin'!"

The burly weasel butted in belligerently "Well, we ain't, an' if'n you 'ad two big fightin' rabbets chasin' ye with long swords, you'd 'ave run, too, fer yore life. 'Cos ye don't stop t'mess about wid beasts like them, see!"

Not wanting to continue the dispute, Grakk held up a paw. "Keep yer voice down, mate. I believe ye. So, if'n ye can't see the big rabbets anyplace around, let's grab those three young uns an' get movin' fast, while the goin's good."

Flib had been knocked out cold by a blow from the club, which had once belonged to the vermin. The small fox kicked her spitefully.

"I should kill ye right now for wot ye did to us!"

Grakk slammed his spearpoint into the ground beside the fox. "Ye can cut that kinda talk, or ye'll answer to Zwilt the Shade. You'n'yore mate, lash 'er paws t'gether an' sling 'er on the spearpole. Are those two young 'ogs ready t'go?"

Jinty and Jiddle sat terrified, with their mouths gagged. A weasel bound their forepaws, dragging them upright.

Grakk blindfolded them and tapped both their snouts with his dagger point as he hissed savagely, "One wrong move an' we'll roast ye for dinner. If'n ye want t'live, then do as yore told, got it?"

Not waiting for them to nod, he shoved the young hogs roughly. "Now, git goin'--move yerselves."

The Ravagers sped off into the night, prodding their captives forward.

Flib was still unconscious, hanging from the spearhaft as the burly weasel and the small fox hurried to keep up with the others.

The early noontide peace was shattered as Redwall's twin bells, Matthias and Methuselah, tolled out a brazen alarm.

Casting dignity to one side, Abbess Marjoram hurried about, yelling, "Everybeast to the east wallgate. There's two Dibbuns missing. Has anyone seen Guffy and little Tassy?"

She was intercepted by Granvy. The old hedgehog scribe tried to calm her down. "Mother Abbess, we don't know if they're lost out in the woodlands. They may still be within the Abbey. Who can explain what Dibbuns get up to? Listen, now, you go inside, take Friar Soogum and whatever kitchen helpers he has to spare. Search inside the Abbey from attics to wine cellars. Guffy and Tassy may be hiding, or perhaps merely taking a nap."

Marjoram managed a smile. "Yes, you could be right, my friend. If they're in there, I'll find the scamps. But where are you going?"

The Recorder tapped the side of his snout knowingly. "I've got an idea. You know I just said, 'Who can explain what Dibbuns get up to?' Well, I think I know the answer. Other Dibbuns! When I began looking for Guffy and Tassy, I saw the Dab gang over by the gatehouse, playing near the steps. I'll ask them."

Marjoram looked puzzled. "The Dab gang?"

Granvy chuckled. "Haven't you heard of the Dab? Dibbuns Against Bedtime, that's their initials."

The Abbess nodded. "Of course. I'd just forgotten about it. Right, you go and see them, and I'll search the Abbey building. Good luck!"

By teatime that afternoon, there was still no sign of the missing Dibbuns. It was a worried gathering of Redwallers who sat upon the main Abbey steps. Friar Soogum passed around with food and drink, doling it out to everybeast.

"C'mon, now, eat somethin' for seasons' sakes. It won't do any good if'n ye make yoreselves ill with hunger. Oh, there's a thought, Skipper. I'll wager those two liddle rascals will show up once they get empty tummies!"

The Otter Chieftain sighed. "Ye could be right, Friar, but

they already 'ad vittles at lunchtime, so they won't be 'lingered just yet. Wot luck did you 'ave, Granvy?"

The hedgehog Recorder scratched his untidy beard. "Well, I should've expected not to get much sense out of Dibbuns. One small wretch said that he actually saw Guffy and Tassy fly up in the air, when I asked him where they went--he said right up over a moon! I quote him literally. Another fanciful little miss said that the big butterfly had eaten them, and some other tiny fibber said Friar Soogum had made them into soup. Though most just spread their paws and said 'Gone!' Just as babes will, no explanation but 'Gone!' So, that's the sum total of my information."

Skipper sipped a beaker of cold mint tea. "Well, me an' some others searched outside the east wall. We had no real luck, though. Most of the ground an' foliage was well trampled by the tree trimmin'. Creatures goin' to an' fro there, haulin' branches. That's all the tracks I could make out. We'll have to range further into the woodlands if'n we're searchin' for pawtracks."

The Abbess enquired hesitantly, "Will it be very difficult to find the prints of two little ones, Skipper?"

The big otter's brow furrowed. "It always is with babes, marm, but they ain't the tracks I'd be lookin' for."

Tollum Bellringer nodded toward the woodlands. "You mean vermin tracks, Skip--is that wot yore thinkin'?"

To save upsetting everybeast further, Friar Soogum spoke. "Well, now, me'n' the Abbess an' our party, we still got plenty o' searchin' yet t'do. We scoured the cellars, Great Hall, an' Cavern Hole, too. We're up t'the dormitories so far. But there's still the attics. Though why anybeast in their right mind would want t'go wanderin' up in those dusty ole chambers is beyond me. You scouted out yore Infirmary yet, Sister?"

Fumbril replied promptly. "First thing I did, Friar. Every-thin' is as it should be, no sign o' Dibbuns!" The otter paused, tapping her rudder thoughtfully. "Er, Friar, I just thought o' somethin'. That stoat vermin we caught in yore

kitchens--it might be worth talkin' to him about our Dibbuns. "lis worth a try, eh?"

Skipper clenched his paws. "Yore right, Sister. Don't fret, if that un's got anythin' t'say, I'll learn the truth, one way or another, trust me. Where's the wretch now, Friar?"

"When we went off t'search the cellars, I tied him to the leg o' my heavy ole worktable, good'n'tight."

The young stoat, Globby, was watching them from an upper dormitory window. He saw the Friar making paw movements, telling Skipper how he had bound his captive to the table leg.

Globby chewed on an oat farl which he had stuffed with cheese, smiling over his easy escape. Hah, that stupid old fool had only tied him by the footpaws. The Friar was in too much of a hurry to join in the search for the precious little ones.

They had left him alone--everybeast from the kitchens went along with the Friar, and the mouse they called Mother Abbess. Idiots! He had watched Soogum cut the length of cord to tie him with. Unbelievable! The old duffer had left his knife on the table and dashed off. Globby cut himself loose, tucked the knife into his belt, helped himself to a few vittles and sneaked out of the kitchens.

The moment he put his head outside the Abbey door, though, the young Ravager saw that it was not going to be so simple escaping from Redwall. The grounds were being combed by Redwallers, both singly and in small groups. Globby retreated from the door as he heard some moles passing by.

"Yurr, Gurrfa, us'n's bee's best lukkin' round unner ee windows--they'm moight 'ave leaved tracks!"

Flattening himself against one of the sandstone columns in Great Hall, the stoat saw Drull Hogwife passing, holding two Dibbuns' paws.

"You lend me some 'elp, my dears, an' don't go strayin'

off, now. Two Dibbuns is enough loss for one day. Let's take a look round by the tapestry."

When they had gone, Globby ventured out. He avoided going downstairs, knowing the cellars were being searched. Upstairs, that was the place to hide, and he had heard one of the kitchen helpers saying that the dormitories were upstairs. Not knowing what a dormitory was, Globby hurried up the stairs. Opening the first door he came to, he was confronted by neat rows of little truckle beds.

So, dormitories were bedrooms. He was learning all the time. Hearing voices approaching, he nipped inside. Partially closing the door, he peeped through the crack.

Sister Fumbril and a squirrelmaid Infirmary helper bustled by, talking animatedly.

"We'll search that sickbay again from top to bottom!"

"I'll check all the big linen cupboards, shall I, Sister?"

"Good idea, Twissle. That's always a favourite Dibbun hidin' place."

They went up a short, curving flight of stairs to the left.

Globby waited a moment before leaving the dormitory. He took a flight of stairs off to the right. It led to another dormitory, one with fewer, larger beds, obviously for the older Redwallers. That was where he watched from the window, and saw the big otter and the Friar heading indoors. The young stoat sat on a bed, reviewing his position.

Where to go? How to avoid the searchers?

Out in the woodlands, beneath the roots of the giant oak in the system of chambers and caves known as Althier, new captives were arriving constantly. Vilaya the Sable Quean stared down at three tiny squirrels, huddled piteously on the bare floor below her throne seat.

Thwip and Binta, the two foxes who were her jailers, scowled at the new inmates. Binta pointed at them with her cane. "Majesty, they're very young."

The old rat Dirva, sitting on the steps close to Vilaya, shrugged. "The younger, the better. Their kinbeasts will worry more about them."

Thwip coiled his lash. Circling them, he shook his head. "These look too young, I don't give much for their chances. They got nobeast to look after 'em."

The Sable Quean's dark almond eyes glittered as she fixed the fox with her riveting stare. "Is that what you think, Thwip? Then let me tell you what I think. I don't give much for your chances, or your vixen, Binta, if anything happens to these three. If I were you, I'd look after them very carefully. Do I make myself clear?"

Thwip's stomach was so large that he grunted as he bowed low. "I hear an' I obey, Majesty."

Vilaya's expression changed. Ignoring the foxes, she spoke almost teasingly to Dirva. "I'm so glad. It pleases me when my servants obey me. Does it please you, my friend?"

The old rat rested her chin fawningly upon her Quean's footpaw. "Makes little difference what pleases me, Majesty. Though it does please me to see what happens to anybeast that'd displease you, eh?"

The ghost of a cruel smile crossed the Sable Quean's face. "You always give the right answers, my ugly old friend. Thwip, Binta, take these cringing little things out of my sight, and remember, treat them with care."

Thwip peered around the dungeon chamber. All the young prisoners shrank against the rough rock walls, cowed by the presence of their cruel jailer. His gaze rested a moment upon Midda and her little brother, Borti, then shifted to Tura.

Unfurling his whiplash, he cracked it, pointing at her. "You, squirrel, come 'ere. Move yerself!"

The young squirrelmaid stood shaking in front of him. "Sir?"

He pushed the three squirrelbabes forward with his footpaw. "Yore a squirrel, ain't yer? Well, look after these three. Take good care of 'em, or I'll 'ave the hide off 'n yer with this lash, see."

Binta stood alongside Thwip, brandishing her rod. "You lot, when the vittles arrive, stay back 'til they've been served, or ye'll feel this cane!"

The two foxes stalked out, leaving the young captives in the guttering half-light amidst the shadows.

Tura took a ragged cloth and some dried grass. Making a rough resting place, she laid the three squirrelbabes down on it.

Flandor the otter took off his rough tabard and covered them with it. "Strange they ain't cryin' an' weepin', eh, Midda?"

The Guosim shrew looked them over sadly. "They're in shock. Wait'll they wake up, poor little mites. Tura, wot's goin' to become of us?"

The squirrelmaid lay close to the babes, shielding them with her body. "I'm too afraid to think, Midda."

Being a chieftain who headed fivescore savage river rats, Grullba Deathwind feared nobeast. He ruled by strength and his skill with the double-headed battleaxe--he was a real barbarian fighter. Even his own crew knew that he could, single-pawed, defeat any three of them. He was not a beast to challenge idly.

When the newcomer appeared unannounced in the midst of his camp, Grullba eyed him up and down curiously. Neither he, nor any of his river rats, had ever encountered a sable. Zwilt the Shade seemed to materialise out of the campfire smoke. He stood impassive, the long, dull-purple cloak draped lazily about his tall body. River rats surrounded him, brandishing an array of weapons. Zwilt ignored them, staring with his dead black eyes at Grullba.

The chieftain returned his gaze, instinctively checking that the battleaxe was within easy reach. His guttural accent split the air like a blade. "Oo arr ya, beast, worra yew do 'ere? Come ta die?"

Zwilt replied with a question. "Are ye the one they call Grullba Deathwind, leader of this crew?"

Some of the rats guffawed but fell silent at a glance from their chieftain. Grullba, his eyes locked on Zwilt, nodded. "Yarr dat's me. Worra dey call yew?"

The tall sable appeared unconcerned as he made his demand. "I am Zwilt the Shade, Commander of all Ravagers. From this day forth, you and your beasts will serve under me."

Immediately the air was filled with danger. A deathly silence fell over the assembly awaiting their murderous chieftain's next move.

Grullba threw back his head and laughed aloud. "Yarrharrharr! We serve 'im? Lizzen to der deadbeast!"

Zwilt was moving even as Grullba leapt forward swinging his axe. Like magic, the broadsword was in Zwilt's paws as he circled away from his opponent.

The river rats gathered in a big ring, eager to see their chief slay the upstart.

Grullba's weapon made a loud swishing noise. This was because of the pattern of holes forged through the axehead, giving confirmation of his title, Deathwind. However, he struck only empty air.

Zwilt had swayed a mere hairsbreadth to one side, causing his opponent to stagger off balance with the force of the strike.

Grullba recovered swiftly, this time swinging his weapon horizontally, as if to cut the sable in half.

Zwilt took a pace backward, watching the momentum turn Grullba round full circle. The Rat Chieftain gave a roar, charging his foe head-on. Zwilt's cloak swirled; he sidestepped neatly, tripping Grullba as he thundered by. The river rats, who had been cheering their chieftain on, fell silent.

Grullba Deathwind had never even come close to being defeated. Now he was being made to look foolish by the tall, lean stranger. His face smeared with soil and torn-up grass, Grullba arose, breathing heavily.

"Yarr, stan' an' fight, cowwid!"

Zwilt attacked like lightning. The broadsword clanged, sending the battleaxe flying from Grullba's grasp and pinning him through his right shoulder. The river rat screeched in pain as Zwilt ripped his blade free.

A savage kick to the rat's stomach drove Grullba to his knees, head bent as he gasped for air. Zwilt slammed his broadsword into the earth. Picking up the fallen battleaxe, he hefted it, staring at the bowed head of his adversary. Zwilt spat out the word scornfully. "Deathwind!"

The last sound Grullba heard was the battleaxe singing his deathsong with one whistling swish.

Zwilt tossed the axe aside, retrieving his broadsword. He turned slowly, his cold eyes taking in the faces of the stunned river rats.

"I am Zwilt the Shade, hearken if ye wish to live. From now until you die, you'll serve as Ravagers under the Sable Quean. I am her Commander, you'll obey me. So challenge me now, if you wish to dispute my word."

They stood dumbstruck, not daring to answer. Anybeast who could defeat Grullba Deathwind so easily merited all their fear and respect.

Zwilt pointed his sword at a burly vermin, who was armed with a long pike. "You, speak your name!"

Avoiding the dead black eyes, the river rat replied, "Kodra."

The sable turned his back on them, calling as he strode off, "Stick that fool's head on your pike, Kodra. You'll bring up the rear. The rest of you, follow me. And remember, anybeast stupid enough to desert will be found. I'll hunt him down myself, chop off his footpaws and make him follow me on the stumps. You will receive further orders soon, but for now, march!"

They went without question, with Kodra trudging stolidly along at the rear of the bunch, holding up his pike with the grisly object spiked upon it. The eyes of Grullba Deathwind stared sightlessly over the backs of his former command. There was not a single thought in his head.

Consternation reigned on the streambank where the Witherspyk raft was still stuck in the shallows. Though it was not that which was causing the hullabaloo, but the fact that Jiddle, Jinty and Flib were missing. As troupe leader, Oakheart did his best to avoid panic amongst the family. He reasoned, "No use getting upset, my friends. This isn't the first time those two young scamps have wandered off.

Calm down, I beg you. Let's partake of breakfast before we take any drastic action. Agreed?"

His wife, Dymphnia, hugged baby Dubdub to her. The loss of any family member, whether trivial or temporary, was always of concern to her. She glared at her husband.

"How can you think of sitting there stuffing down food, when our dear little twins are lost? Shame on you, Oakie!"

"Shame a you Oakie!" Dudbdub echoed.

Buckler interrupted. "No, marm, the shame is on us, Diggs an' I. We should never have allowed a young shrew like Flib to guard your young uns. Leave it to us, eh, mate?"

Diggs declared stoutly, "Indeed, we're the very chaps for the blinkin' job, m'dear. We'll find your infants without delay. Aye, an' that Flib, too, wot, wot! There's a young madam that's in for a severe tail kickin' when we jolly well catch up with her!"

A gruff cry rang out from the stream. "Ahoy the raft, mateys. Guosim comin' aboard!"

They poured out of the blockhouse to see a half-dozen shrew logboats heaving to the rail. Each was crewed by ten Guosim, small spiky-furred shrews wearing kilts, broad-buckled belts, short rapiers and multicoloured headbands. From the largest of the vessels, a grey-whiskered but fit-looking shrew hopped aboard the raft.

Making his boat fast with a headrope, he thrust his paw at the troupe leader. "Well, burst me britches if'n it ain't ole Witherspyk. How are ye, Oakie? Fat an' well, I 'ope?"

Oakheart shook the proffered paw. "Log a Log Jango Bigboat, as I live'n'breathe. What are you doing in these waters, sirrah?"

Jango got right to the point. "Searchin' for three lost young uns. Ye haven't come across any lost Guosim, have ye?"

Dymphnia interrupted, "Indeed we haven't--we're looking for three of our own!"

Diggs corrected her. "Two actually, marm. Young Flib was with Buck an' I, wot?"

Jango set his jaw grimly. "Flib, is she a shrewmaid?"

Buckler answered, "Aye, sir, that she is."

The Shrew Chieftain nodded. "Well, let me tell ye, 'er name ain't Flib--she made that up. She was named Petunia Rosebud by me'n' her ma."

Diggs stifled a snigger. "Petunia Rosebud? No wonder she bally well changed it, wot."

Jango shot him an icy stare. "Been nothin' but trouble since the day she was born, that un. Well, now she's gone missin'. Aye, an' so has her younger sister Midda an' the babe, Borti. He's only a liddle mite, ain't 'e, Furm?"

Jango's wife, Furm, wiped an eye on the back of her paw. "Ain't seen two seasons o' daylight yet, pore tiny sprig! But at least Borti's with Midda--she's got a grain o' sense about 'er. Not like that other rascal wot calls 'erself Flib. Huh, Flibberty Jibbet's wot I'd call 'er!"

Dymphnia Oakheart passed Furm a handkerchief from her sleeve. "Dry those eyes now, dearie. That won't get our young uns found. You come inside with me an' we'll share a pot o' hot mint tea. As for searchin' after the missin' ones, wot d'ye suggest, Mister Buckler?"

The young hare bowed gallantly. "I think we'd be best joinin' forces, marm. That way we can cover more ground. That's if Log a Log Jango is agreeable to the idea."

The Shrew Chieftain hitched up his wide belt. "Aye, 'tis a good plan. We'll scour the banks from offshore--you concentrate on the last place the young hogs were seen. We'll meet up back 'ere at midday. Be sure to sound an alarm if'n ye find any thin'."

Rambuculus shot into the blockhouse, then reappeared brandishing a battered old bugle. "Right y'are, Loggo. Would ye like me to give ye a blast now, just t'see how it sounds?"

Oakheart seized his son firmly by the ear. "I'll give you a blast ye won't soon forget, if you start blowin' on that con

founded instrument. Right, form up, troupe, and let's get to work. Buckler, would you and Diggs take the lead?"

It was midmorning when Buckler led the Witherspyk group out of the trees onto the streambank some fair distance down from the stranded raft. Diggs checked upstream.

"I say, Buck, here comes the jolly old shrew fleet, wot."

Jango and his logboats came drifting slowly down on the unhurried current. He halted his craft by holding on to the branch of an overhanging willow.

"We've had no luck up that ways, have ye found any-thin' yet--a sign of either shrews or hogs?"

Buckler explained, "We found tracks leading away from where they slept. Couldn't be sure, though, might've been rats an' other vermin. Pawprints o' the little uns had been trampled over, an' no sign of Flib. We trailed 'em to here, but they fade out on the bankside."

One of Jango's scouts examined the faint prints. The Shrew Chieftain watched him closely. "Wot d'ye think, Sniffy?"

Sniffy the Tracker made his report. "Buckler's right, Chief. Somebeast's been here. Hard to tell, though--they've covered their trail well. They've gone into the water, stickin' close t'the shallows, as far as I kin see."

Diggs tossed a pebble into the stream. "Point is, which flippin' way have the blighters gone? ProbTy downstream, but they might've gone upstream just to fool any pursuers, wot!"

Jango scratched his grey whiskers. "Couldn't have gone upstream or we'd have spotted 'em before we got to the raft. I think downstream's the best bet. Wot's yore verdic', Oakie?"

Oakheart stared downstream to where the water ran out into open country before it looped back into woodland. "A plausible thought, sirrah. Actually, that's the route we were planning on taking today. Bound for Redwall, y'see. Er, that's before we had a turn of ill fortune and went

aground. Purely through no fault of my own, I assure you, Streamlass is jammed tight on the rocks."

Jango signalled his logboats to dock on the bank. "Hmm, I'm havin' a few thoughts on this situation. Tell ye wot. Jump aboard an' let's git back to yore raft, Oakie. I'll have a word with the wives. But lissen, all of ye--don't make any mention of vermin tracks in front of the ladies. Y'know 'ow that sort o' thing upsets 'em. Leave the rest t'me."

Furm and Dymphnia were questioning them even before they had boarded the raft.

"Was there any sign o' my liddle twins--did ye see them?"

"Did ye pick up Midda an' Borti's trail? Wot about Flib?"

Diggs was at his courteous best. "Patience, ladies. There was no sign of any young uns, but that's all t'the bloomin' good, really. Now, Log a Log Jango has a proposition to discuss with you. By the way, marms, is there any chance of a jolly old bite or two? We'll eat on the bank while the Guosim crew refloat your craft, wot, wot?"

Whilst the shrews made the raft streamworthy again, the rest sat on the bank lunching on mushroom pasties and celery soup.

Jango explained his scheme. "Now, we don't know if the little uns are lost or just roamed off someplace, like young uns do now'n'then. Any lost creatures in this neighbourhood always ends up at the same place, Redwall Abbey, right?"

Furm agreed. "Aye, that's right enough. The Abbey always welcomes lostbeasts, especially young uns. But suppose they're not there, wot then?"

Oakheart spoke encouragingly. "Then what better place to enquire than Redwall? Have they not got more knowledge of this area than anybeast? Why, 'pon me spikes, I'll wager Abbess Marjoram will be ready and more than willing to assist us!"

Buckler took the initiative, silencing any doubts by

declaring stoutly, "Then there's no more t'be said, friends. Next stop Redwall, I say. Agreed?"

Everybeast raised a shout of assent, except Diggs, who had a mouthful of pasty--he nodded furiously.

The Guosim lashed their logboats to the sides of the raft. With their combined paddling and a light breeze to swell the sail, Streamlass got underway in brisk style. To assure himself that there were no long faces and to avoid speculation about the young uns' fate, Jango gave the order for his Guosim to give a shanty. This had the added virtue of keeping the paddle strokes in unison. To the tapping of small drums and some fancy headspike work on Oak-heart's Hogalino, the shrews sang out lustily.

"A rum turn turn, a rum turn turn

Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!

"I'll be sailin' all me days, along these good ole waterways, there's nothin' like a gentle breeze, an' bein' alive on days like these.

"A rum turn turn, a rum turn turn,

Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!

"Through woodland thick our logboats ply, that's how I loves to see the sky, a-driftin' by in sun an' shade, round willowy bank an' leafy glade.

"A rum turn turn, a rum turn turn,

Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!

"Now, I could never understand, why somebeasts spend a life on land, an' never hearken to the call, of rapids wild or waterfall.

"A rum turn turn, a rum turn turn,

Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!

"An' when my stream of life runs out, don't weep for me or mope about, just lay me in some ole logboat, an' to the sea of dreams I'll float.

"A rum turn turn, a rum turn turn,

Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!"

The logboats emerged from the woodland fringe onto the heathlands. Buckler and Diggs leaned on the rail of the raft. Several times they had volunteered to wield paddles alongside the shrews. Their attempts elicited some fruity rebuffs from the Guosim, who were convinced nobeast was their equal at paddling.

One wag called out, "Ye wouldn't need paddles--you two could do the job wid those long ears o' yores!"

Log a Log Jango rebuked the caller sternly. "Mind yore manners, Fligl, or I'll take that paddle to yore tail!"

Diggs munched on a pasty he had rescued at lunch. "This is the life, old scout. Hah, I'll wager General Flackbuth'd go spare if he could see us now, wot!"

Buckler sighed. It was indeed a pleasant interlude, just leaning on the rail taking in the scenery. Bees buzzed around the red clover growing in clumps on the heath. Clouded yellow butterflies winged gaily in and out of the harebells and scarlet poppies. Dragonflies patrolled the stream edges on iridescent wings, guarding their territory from caddis fly and alderfly.

Young Rambuculus joined the hares, pointing to the distant tree fringe off to their left. "We'll be there by eventide. See the way this stream takes a broad curve? Prob'ly arrive at Redwall some time afore tomorrow evenin'."

Buckler nodded. "Does this stream flow right to the Abbey?"

Rainbow, the Witherspyks' resident mole, joined them. "Nay, zurr, she'm stream bee's a-runnen some ways off. Us'll 'ave to walk to ee h'Abbey frum thurr."

Rambuculus explained further, "There's a liddle deadend cut-off backstream. That'll be the closest to Redwall we can get. It's a good place to stow the raft an' the shrew-boats, too. Not too far a walk from there, mates."

Diggs brushed pasty crumbs from his tunic. "By the left an' the centre, Buck. These chaps have certainly got it worked out, wot! Paddle an' sail wherever you jolly well can, an' march as little as bloomin' possible. Y'know, I think Salamandastron could do with some sailin' craft, have a sort of navy of its own, wot! That'd be just the flippin' ticket for me. Think I'll suggest it to Lord Brang. Admiral Diggs, that could be me!"

Buckler chuckled. "What do you know about sailin', you great fat fraud?"

Diggs replied indignantly, "Huh, as much as you or any other beast knows. I've been lissenin', y'know. Aye, an' I've learnt a blinkin' thing or three--I know all the sayin's an' commands!"

A shrew who had been eavesdropping from the logboat closest to them called out, "Go on then, rabbet--show us wot ye know!"

Diggs waggled his ears scornfully at the Guosim. "Rabbet, y'self, spikebonce. Right--listen t'this."

Cupping both paws around his mouth, Diggs called out in what he imagined was true nautical style, "Lower yore tillers, me hearties. Take 'er about an' swell me scuppers, make fast yore rowlocks an' forard yore stern, then unfurl yore mastheads--ahoy, mateys, an' so on. Well, how was that for an old riverdog, eh?"

Log a Log Jango gave him a scornful wink. "That's enough t'sink any vessel an' drive the crew mad."

As predicted, they made the woodlands by midevening, sailing on in search of a likely place to spend the night. The trees were tall, ancient and sombre, blocking out daylight

completely--a far different atmosphere from the sunny, open expanse of heathland. Silence shrouded everything, making the surroundings rather eerie. The Guosim lit lanterns, which reflected the gloomy green light of the overhead leaf canopy. Oakheart drove a spiked timber into the shallows, mooring Streatnlass so she would not run foul of underwater obstacles and get stuck again.

Once everybeast was ashore, things began to jolly up a bit. A long-dead fallen pine upon the bank soon provided a big, cheerful fire. Guosim cooks took over, and from the pooled provisions of themselves, the two hares and the Witherspyk troupe, they provided the travellers with a supper which would have passed muster in most places.

Buckler was concerned about the size of the fire. "Jango, d'you think this blaze could spread?"

The Guosim Log a Log waved a paw at the massive trees surrounding them. Some of their trunks were of great girth and coated in moss.

"These things are so big'n'old an' damp that ye could light a fire at their bases, an' it wouldn't harm 'em. C'mon, sit ye down, Buck. No need to worry over things like that. The beer's brewed an' the bread's baked."

Guosim vittles were good; shrewbread had various fillings baked into it, some sweet, others savoury. The nettle beer had been towed along behind the logboats all day. It was cold and bitter, but very refreshing.

Everybeast was enjoying supper when Sniffy, the Guosim scout, began twitching his snout. He sidled over to sit beside Jango and Buckler.

The young hare watched as the scout whispered something to his Log a Log. They held a brief conversation together, then Sniffy beckoned some other shrews. Slowly, casually, they retreated from the camp, vanishing into the surrounding woodland.

Realising something of importance had taken place, Buckler kept his voice low. "Jango, what's going on? Anything wrong?"

The Shrew Chieftain's lips barely moved as he murmured, "Keep yore wits about ye, mate. We might 'ave a chance t'see how good ye are wid that long blade o' yores. Now, don't make any sudden moves, Buck, but sniff the air--not too deep, though."

Buckler did as he was bade. "Hmm, strange smell, sort of musty an' sweet. Smoky, too, but I don't think it's coming from our fire. What is it?"

Jango stirred the ashes at the fire's edge with his rapier as he explained. "It's a vermin tribe called the Flitcheye. They're split into two bunches, one lot out o'sight in the trees. The rest are right here inside our camp."

Buckler knew enough not to make a move. He kept his tone low and level. "I don't doubt your word, friend, but I can't see any Flitcheye loiterin' about here."

Jango replied with a quick flick of his rapier point. "Over there, in the loam, t'the left o' those ferns, I saw the dead leaves stir a bit. Flitcheye are experts at camouflage an' hidin' theirselves. That smoke ye can smell--sooner or later, it'll send ye fast asleep. Oh, they ain't in a hurry. They'll just wait 'til we're all settled down for the night afore they comes out o' cover to murder us."

Buckler touched the long blade at his side, where he had laid it. "So, I want to wake up in the mornin'. What's your plan?"

Jango stroked his grey whiskers, smiling thinly. " 'Tis already in operation, Buck. Just wait for my shout."

Buckler noticed that the Guosim seated around the fire had pulled their headbands down about their mouths to avoid breathing in the knockout smoke. Feeling about, he gathered a pawful of damp moss to protect himself. Already, Oakheart and several members of the Witherspyk troupe were yawning and settling down, ignorant of the danger.

Buckler nudged Diggs, whose eyes were drooping. He muttered to his companion, "Hush, Diggs, don't say a word, just listen to me--"

The tubby young hare blurted out, "I haven't said a blinkin' word yet, an' what do I get for it? A bloomin' sharp nudge in the ribs, that's what, wot!"

He got no further, because at that moment Jango bellowed, "Logalogalogalooooooggg! Guosim chaaaaaarge!"

Then pandemonium reigned. Roars from Sniffy's party, mingled with enraged screeches, rang out from beyond the camp. The shrews around the fire sprang up, wielding their short rapiers as the very ground around them seemed to erupt. Ragged, tattered figures burst forth from hiding.

They made a hideous sight in the dancing shadows and firelight, waving primitive weapons as they chanted eerily, "We d'Flitcheye Flitcheye! Haaaayeeee!"

To further confuse the situation, the Witherspyks stumbled to their paws, with Oakheart declaiming, " 'Tis a foul ambush--save the ladies an' babes!"

A ragged, shadowy figure seized Trajidia, who warbled dramatically, even in that grave situation, "Murder and abduction has befallen us! Help, oh, help!"

Buckler felled the creature with a swift blow from his sword hilt, echoing Diggs's war cry as he threw himself into the fray. "Eulaliiiiiaaaa! Give 'em blood'n'vinegar!"

Abbess Marjoram stood close to the big tapestry in Great Hall, staring up at the image of Martin the Warrior, the long-dead founder of Redwall Abbey. The figure woven into the fabric of the wTonderful picture was that of a heroic mouse, armoured and resting upon his fabulous sword. Above the tapestry the actual sword was mounted on two silver wallpins. It had been forged from a fragment of meteor in the long-distant past by a Badger Lord at Salamandastron. Marjoram gazed into Martin's eyes--they were strong, the eyes of a true warrior, but with humour and compassion dwelling in them. The Abbess spoke.

"I know it seems trivial, after all the wars and tribulations Redwall has undergone, but I can't help worrying about our two Dibbuns, poor little things. Martin, who knows, maybe they'll turn up and my fears will have been for nothing. But suppose something bad has befallen them, what shall I do?"

No answer seemed forthcoming. However, Marjoram sat on the worn stone floor, still staring up at the face of Martin the Warrior. Sometimes it seemed to move slightly in the flickering candle and lantern light which surrounded the tapestry, but that could have been a stray draught moving

the material. She continued her vigil, hoping against hope for a response.

Then somebeast was shaking her gently. "Mother Abbess, are you alright?"

Marjoram found herself looking up into the kindly face of her friend Sister Fumbril. The Infirmary Keeper helped her to stand upright, explaining, "I saw you lying there and thought you had fainted away."

Marjoram could tell by the evening light from the stained-glass windows that some time had elapsed since she came down to the tapestry. She blinked.

"Er, I'm fine, Sister--don't know what happened to me, really. I must've dozed off. Huh, I must be getting old."

The jolly otter smiled as she led her to the kitchen. "We all have t'get old at some time, Marj, though I don't think you've quite reached those seasons yet. I thought you'd be someplace searchin' for Guffy an' Tassy. What were you doin', takin' an evenin' nap?"

They sat down at Friar Soogum's kitchen table, helping themselves to beakers of hot mint tea, which was often left steaming on the oven plate.

Marjoram sipped gratefully. "Oh, that tastes good, Fumbril. Actually, I went to the tapestry to see Martin the Warrior. I hoped I might get some hint about our missing Dibbuns."

Sister Fumbril topped up her beaker. "And did you?"

The mouse Abbess shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Maybe we've neglected our Abbey's guiding spirit. Perhaps he doesn't speak anymore."

Fumbril patted her friend's paw. "Surely not. Martin's being is in these very stones that surround us--he's part o' Redwall. Think now, is there anything in your mind, anything?"

Marjoram shrugged. "Only Corim Althier. My goodness! Where did that come from?"

Fumbril looked up from her tea. "Corim Althier? Did

Martin put that in your mind? What's it supposed to mean?"

The Abbess was really perplexed. "Martin must have spoken while I was asleep. Corim Althier ... I haven't the foggiest notion of its meaning. Have you any ideas, Sister?"

Fumbril stirred honey into her mint tea. "How should I know, Marj? I ain't a riddle solver, or a wise ole scholar. Granvy the Recorder, I think he'd be the one to ask."

They were about to set off for Granvy's usual habitat, the gatehouse, when Cellarmole Gurjee came trundling through Great Hall, calling to Marjoram, "Yurr, marm, cumm ee farst, naow. Ee rarscally vurmint bee's spotted!"

They followed him out onto the side lawn, where a dozen or more Redwallers stood at the orchard entrance, all looking up at the Abbey, pointing and calling out.

"There, up above the dormitories--he's in the attics!"

Marjoram peered up at the high, tiny windowspaces. "How d'you know? Has anybeast seen him?"

Bribby, a little Dibbun mousemaid, piped up. "HT see'd 'im Muvver Marj, stannin' by dat winder!"

The Abbess lifted the babe up. "Show me where."

Following the line of Bribby's pointing paw, the Red-wallers stared up at the window she was indicating.

Bartij, the big hedgehog Gardener, sighted Globby, the escaped young stoat. "Aye--did ye see? He jus' popped his head out but pulled it back in quicklike when he saw us all lookin' up there. That's the rascally stoat, alright!"

The Abbess clenched her paws decisively. "Then he must be caught. That stoat may have information about our little ones. Fumbril, you stay here and watch the Dibbuns. Bartij, Brother Tollum, will you come with me? Where's Skipper?"

Friar Soogum answered, "Prob'ly still in the woodlands searchin' for the liddle uns, marm."

Accompanied by Bartij and Tollum, Marjoram headed

indoors. "As soon as Skipper gets back, send him to us-- we'll be up in the attics."

It was plain to Globby he had been spotted. He knew they would be coming up after him, so trying to get past them was out of the question. Dusk was falling--he had no lantern or torch with him. He was scared of venturing higher on the dark, winding stairs, and he could not go down.

So he did the only thing he could think of. Barring the door of the little attic room, he crouched in a dusty corner, grasping the knife he had stolen from the kitchen. He had no more to eat or drink and did not know what to do next. The young stoat could see a single star through the small open window. Without comrades around him, all pretence of being a vermin Ravager dropped away. He sobbed quietly, cursing his ill-fated trespass into Redwall Abbey.

Carrying lanterns, the three searchers made their way upstairs. They had four flights to climb, two of dormitories and sickbay, and two of deserted attics, where nobeast had set paw for many seasons.

When they reached the long, gloomy passage, Brother Tollum placed a paw to his mouth. "Hush now--we may yet surprise the villain."

Taking the doors on the right side of the corridor, they opened them, one by one. The first three creaked on ancient hinges, revealing nothing more exciting than broken furniture shrouded in dust, with the odd bird feather here and there.

On trying the fourth door along, the Abbess turned to her companions, silently mouthing, "Locked."

Brother Tollum took over. He rapped the door sharply, his sepulchral voice booming out, "Come on out--we know you're in there, vermin!"

There was no reply, so Bartij tried. The big hedgehog had a naturally gruff voice: "The longer ye keep us waitin', the worse 'tis goin' t'be for ye, so git yoreself out 'ere, ye scallywag!"

There was a sob in Globby's voice as he shouted back, "Come out, an' wot for? So ye can drag me down t'that cookin' place an' beat me wid one o' those long paddles. Lissen, youse, I gotta big knife 'ere, an' I'll gut the first un who comes in 'ere. So go 'way an' leave me alone. Go on, clear off!"

This time the Abbess tried, speaking in a soothing tone. "Globby--it is Globby, isn't it? I promise you won't get beaten. Come out. We just want to talk."

The young stoat's reply was scornful. "Lissen, I ain't comin' out fer you or nobeast..."

Brother Tollum whispered to Marjoram, "Keep him talkin'. I've got an idea."

He crept off along the passage, leaving the Abbess to continue reasoning with Globby.

"You'll have to come out sooner or later. Don't be silly, friend. Unlock the door--you've got my word that you won't be hurt."

Globby laughed bitterly. "Hah, so you say. But when we talk, if'n I don't give ye the answers yore after, then yell turn me over t'dat big riverdog wid the paddle, an' he'll belt the daylights out o' me tail. Yew lot must think I'm stoopid!"

Meanwhile Tollum had raced downstairs and grabbed a coil of rope. The tall, thin Bellringer was still in his middle seasons, sound in wind and limb. Carrying the rope, he made the speedy ascent back upstairs, passing the floor in question, and sprinting up to the floor above it. Counting the rooms, he entered the fourth one, then knotted one end of the rope over a crossbeam, paying it out of the window. Tollum did all this with silent efficiency, not wanting to give away the element of surprise.

With squirrellike agility, he vaulted through the window, holding the rope out with both paws. Kicking hard against the wall, he bounded out from the Abbey into space. Tollum swung hard at the open window, unable to see his quarry in the darkness.

100

Globby had run to the door to hurl more insults at his tormentors. He heard the sudden whoosh of displaced air and turned, grasping the knife, thrusting it forward.

It was ill fortune for both creatures. The knife sank deep into the squirrel's midriff, but his outstretched footpaws, rigid with shock, smashed into Globby's narrow chest just below the throat. Fatally injured, both beasts slumped to the floor.

The pair outside the door heard the crash and the thud of bodies falling to the floorboards.

Abbess Marjoram pounded on the door. "What is it-- what's going on in there?"

"Step aside, Marm. We'll soon see!"

It was Skipper, returning from the woodlands. "Righto, Bartij, mate, both together ... one, two ..."

On the word three, they charged the door together. There was a splintering snap of the wooden bar which held the room locked, then the door burst open.

Skipper was at Brother Tollum's side instantly. The Abbey Bellringer was sitting with his back to the wall, staring at the knife plunged deep into him.

The otter cradled his head as he slumped to one side. "Tollum, can ye hear me, mate? It's Skipper!"

The normally saturnine squirrel smiled oddly. "Who's sounding the bells? I can hear my bells being tolled. They sound ... so beautiful...."

Abbess Marjoram knelt at Tollum's side, clasping his paw. "Hurry, Skip--run and get Sister Fumbril. Tell her to bring herbs, dressings, salve, anything!"

Prying the Abbess's grip loose, the brawny otter lifted Brother Tollum bodily. "Too late, marm. This goodbeast's gone."