Redwall Abbey

Redwall Abbey has faced many enemies.  Bandits, chiefs, warlords, and pirates have all tried and failed since they lacked organization.  Once the leader's confidence broke, so did his force.  This time, the enemy is an army.  A well trained war machine that has its sights set on conquest.

There shall be prophecies to fulfill. Dreams will need interpretation.  Ambitions thwarted cannot be denied.  Above all, a secret long hidden must be revealed.

The story starts on June 30, 2014.

Tassel sat at the table in Cavern Hole, supervising the orphaned and abandoned dibbuns placed in her care.  Mealtime conversations swirled around the table touching on many topics that interested the children.  She ignored their discussions, pleased with their good behavior.

Another child ran into the vast dining hall, keeping ahead of her parents.  "We have snow outside," she shouted.

Tassel snorted at the excited announcement.  "Snow this early in the year?  We just celebrated the fall equinox three nights earlier."

Every child, including those at her table, rushed to the nearest window.  Redwall Abbey resounded with the sounds of delight from every child as snowflakes drifted across the window.  They remained enthralled by the sight until elders herded them back to their tables.  Tassel too found her young charges reluctant about leaving the scene.

The next morning, every child raced through their chores, eager to be outside.  When Tassel dismissed her brood, they charged the front door like a hungry mob at a picnic.  She almost laughed at their efforts to secure boots and heavy coats while running to the door.  As the first child prepared to exit, Tassel opened the door and joined the Abbey's eager children for their first sight of the early snowfall.

She almost laughed at the crestfallen expressions on every child's face.  Instead of a deep blanket of snow that could support snowball battles and snow carvings, the dibbuns found the ground dusted by a thin, disappointing layer of slush, good for nothing more than viewing.  Most of the children went back inside to shed the heavy garments.

Badgermom Tassel decided to remain outside.  She prowled the Abbey grounds checking on the dibbuns who came out earlier.  She made sure those with chores outside were hard at work under some trusted elder's supervision.  Tassel did a quick check on those playing, making sure all behaved, though she didn't disturb their fun.

Her meanderings took her to the Abbey's small orchard, which was as far from the Abbey proper as she could go without leaving the confines of Redwall.  She knew her mate, Bruno, had planned to do some pruning.  She decided to surprise him with a visit.

A heavy tree limb crashed to the ground by Tassel's foot.   Her head tilted upward.  At the top of a ladder, Bruno stood with a saw gripped in his paw.  He gave his mate a sly grin as he apologized for allowing the severed limb to fall so close to her.

"Bruno, you promised me you wouldn't be climbing into trees like some frisky squirrel.  A boar of your years should have helpers doing such labor." 

Before he could respond, Bruno pointed at something behind her.  In the distance, a young otter kit ran towards them.  The otter's calls to Tassel resonated with a note of urgency. 

The winded youngster stood bowed over.  His paws rested on his knees as his chest heaved like bellows in the blacksmith's shop.

"What is so important, Riverstone?"

"Mother Tassel, a unit of the Long Patrol just arrived."  The otter took several deep breathes before he could continue.  "The officer in charge ... he said ... he said he wanted you right now."

Tassel left the winded youth where he stood as she jogged towards the front gates, disregarding politeness for sheer urgency.  Bruno muffled a few ill worded oaths as he descended the ladder.  The heavy footfall of her mate so close behind her helped, but it didn't lessen her fear.

She knew if the Long Patrol was here for her after all this time, it meant Abbess Robertasin must have summoned them.  It seemed the only logical conclusion.  Perhaps the Mother Abbot grew tired of harboring a beast the law classified as vermin.

The Mother Abbot never hid her animosity towards Tassel.  In the early years, a strained truce existed between her and the Mother Abbot.  Such was the tension, that each avoided the other unless official business required otherwise.  Hard feelings, however, eventually mellowed and developed into an air of mutual respect.

The sixty hares stood within the courtyard, each at attention.  An officer strolled before them while the Abbess of Redwall reviewed the unit.  Robertasin pointed in their direction.  The hare officer turned.  He marched up to them; his expression seemed so jovial Tassel decided her initial fears might be unfounded.

"Bruno, Tassel, it's been far too many years.  It's so nice seeing both of you." 

Neither badger said anything.  The hare officer took a step back.  "Come now, I know I'm older, but don't you recognize me?"  He gave a deep bow.  "I'm Markus, or should I say General Markus of the Long Patrol, at your service."

Tassel broke her stunned silence, her voice sounding a bit incredulous.  "You have indeed changed, but then the last time we saw each other, you and your sister were quite an arrogant pair of teens."

Markus laughed as he rubbed the seat of his pants.  "Aye, you two gave us many a lesson on proper manners."  His voice turned more serious.  "I know you're wondering what brings me here and why I sent that young tyke searching for you, so let me come right to the point.  First off, I bring you word about your daughter, Serenity.  She asked that I deliver this letter and extend her love and best wishes."

Tassel growled, which had the hare retreat a few paces.  The letter remained in his extended paw.  Bruno jumped into the lull created by his mate's reaction.  His paw took the letter General Markus held. 

"My wife wasn't too thrilled when our daughter joined the military because of her own status with your liege.  Her objection over Serenity's choice of careers has been a bit of a sore spot between them."

"Then I hope Tassel will not object to my next piece of news.  I am on extended leave from the Long Patrol and have decided that I will vacation here over the next three or four months.  It's the first time I've been on leave since joining the army."

Bruno asked the obvious question.  "And those soldiers?"

"As a general, I always have a unit assigned to me, wherever I go.  Since I haven't officially left the military, they too will be enjoying time here at Redwall."

"Just what I need," groused Tassel, "all those hares shadowing my every move."

Markus either ignored or did not notice Tassel's tone when he grabbed her paw and pulled her along.  "They know they're on unofficial holiday while stationed here, so this will be the last time they will be in uniform until we depart.  After tonight, we will be under the command of Abbess Robertasin and she has asked that we disband for our duration here."

Bruno smiled.  Tassel relaxed.  Markus led the way back to his unit.  Each hare stood at rigid attention as the General approached.  He looked over his shoulder and whispered to Tassel.

"You might want to speak with the doe privates under my command.  Each of them had your daughter as their drill instructor and they speak quite highly of her."

As they approached the formation, Tassel leaned closer to Bruno.  She spoke in a voice intended for his ears alone.

"I have a feeling the next three months are going to be far more memorable than the last time we entertained Markus at our Abbey."

"I told you I could find the trail without going past the rest of her pack.  Now that we're here, we can follow the path to her cabin."

A second beast joined the stoat as he exited the woods.  When it came to sheer power, the male wolf could best almost any other creature.  He brandished his cutlass and strutted onto the path.  He flexed his muscles, making a show of his physical prowess as he sheathed his blade.

"There was no need for us stalking through these woods, Nateem.  From what I heard at that last tavern, the foxes inhabiting this region welcome anyone wanting to visit their witch."

"You're an addlebrained fool, Shawarran.  If we sought their permission, it would mean negotiating a price with her kin.  I have no intention of parting with my gold.  Newly promoted officers don't have an unlimited supply of coinage."

A third beast stepped onto the path as if the others served her.  The golden-furred cat stood taller than anyone else, which emphasized her haughty attitude whenever she addressed the others.  Her golden eyes took in the view as she held her muzzle up, testing the wind.

"Nateem is right," she said.  "We have no time to spend negotiating a price with her elders, Shawarran.  Not if we intend making it back to our home country before our leave expires.  Even if this witch gives us a reading today, we have but five days remaining.  Considering the distance we have to cover, best we get started."

Nateem and the wolf nodded their agreement.  The wildcat gave a vicious tug on the leash she held and the last member of their group came scurrying forward.  The fourth beast traveled on all fours as her back held all of the group's gear.  One bundle covered much of her head, effectively blinding her.

As night drew near, they came upon a log cabin.  Nateem snorted and pointed to the cabin, demanding the others give him the credit for finding it.  The wolf sprinted forward and with a mighty blow, pounded his fist on the door.  When nobody responded, he repeated the heavy knocking.  For the third time he raised his fist, ready to hammer the door.

"If the four of you expect the witch to be within, I'm sorry to disappoint you.  She stands here, outside, enjoying the late winter sunlight." 

The vixen leaned on her cane as she inspected her armed interlopers.  She carried no weapon, yet showed no fear.  Her natural fur coloring remained hidden behind the heavy vestments she wore.  However, her face showed her to be a creature entering her later years as grey crept onto the fringes of her ears and muzzle.  She moved onto another path.

"I prefer watching the sunset from atop this mountain, though winter means I must move faster since darkness comes sooner."  She took a few steps and looked over her shoulder.  "If you intend speaking with me, come."

Nateem led the others up the hill, a pace behind the vixen witch.  The fox stood in the center of the field, her gaze looking out on a vista of farmlands.  She stood with her back to them, displaying no fear of her armed guests.

"Every creature knows me as Melody the Miserable, seer of things that can be and those that must come to pass.  Your arrival was foretold to me in a dream.  That is why the trail to my home has remained unguarded.  I did not want any innocent harmed when you invaded my solitude like the thieves that you are."

Nateem took several steps forward, cutting the distance between them in half.  "We are not thieves and will each offer you a silver coin for your services."

When she turned, she stared into his eyes.  Nateem stepped back as if she held a blade at his heart.  His paw hovered over his coin pouch, frozen in place by her look.

"I intend giving all four of you a reading, more as a punishment since knowledge of the future is a curse, not a blessing," she said.

"Our slave is not here for a reading.  Other than transporting our goods and transcribing your prophecies, she will not partake," replied Nateem.

"Nonetheless, she shall be given a reading or none of you will be given one."  Melody's eyes reflected a determination the others recognized could not be changed by words.

The wildcat wedged the hilt of her dagger between two rocks.  She then led the beast of burden so her chest rested above the blade.  With a lithe bound, the wildcat jumped onto the luggage.  For a moment, the beast buckled before returning to a four-paw stance.  In the fading light, all could see the blood-stained blade.

"Accept our terms of three readings witch," said the wildcat, "or there will be no need to read the future of a dead beast.  Decide fast, our slave has had a rough journey and I doubt she can hold my weight too long.  If you need convincing, I'll jump up and down on her back."

Nateem almost laughed at Melody's reaction.  The vixen's eyes widened, displaying her horror.  A look at the trembling arms of the slave forced the vixen out of her shocked stance. 

"You have made your point, she-devil, follow me to my cabin and come the morning, I shall give the three of you a reading.  Keep your silver, such blood money I'll not touch."

Once they reached the cabin, Melody went inside and slammed the door.  Nateem pointed at the door and the three creatures laughed.  Then he approached the wildcat.

"That was a foolish move, Purrnella.  You might have leveraged her feelings for our slave into a better deal, but if our slave died, we would lose any advantage we had."

Purrnella ignored his admonishment.   She released the harness holding all their gear.  A hard push toppled everything and allowed the beast below a chance at standing upright.  Freed of her burden, the slave squirrel first removed the gag that had kept her silent during their long trip.  She then examined the many injuries sustained during the day, including the puncture wound from the blade's tip.

"Get our tents up before I become angry," said Purrnella.  "You know what will happen if I become angry."  The wildcat pulled her arm back, ready to slap the slave.  Her claws extended to their full range.

Nateem grabbed the wildcat's wrist.  "I signed her out, not you.  If she is disabled or killed, her price comes out of my pay.  Give me five golds and Wobbles is all yours."

Purnella left.  Nateem approached the cowering slave.  "A squirrel without a tail, a sadistic wildcat, and a common history, something tells me there is a story here, but I'm too tired to ask.  I suggest you not burn dinner if you intend having a restful sleep."




Wobbles hastened to do her work.  Once the others climbed into their tents, she ate from the meager scraps remaining.  A chilling wind swirled about the cabin and she wrapped herself in a thin blanket as she sought out a sheltered spot where she could rest. 

Sleep almost claimed her, but a paw seized her muzzle.  The vixen held her muzzle shut.  With a beckoning paw, Melody led her into the cabin and offered her a hearty meal and a spot by the fireplace.  Though she expected repercussions come the morning, a full belly and a warm place to sleep this bitter winter night overrode her caution.

Next morning, Purrnella's shouting woke her.  "Wobbles, where are you?  Get your lazy butt over here or I swear I will make you rue the day you were born."

Melody reached the door first and, standing in the doorway, blocked the entrance.  "Your servant is inside; awaiting whichever one of you shall ask your question first.  The rest of you must remain outside."  With that, she slammed the door and crossed the room.

When the knocking began, Wobbles approached the door until Melody's voice halted her.  "Let them wait.  I must prepare seven goblets for what is about to pass."

At last Melody nodded to her and she unlocked door.  No sooner had the latch been unhooked than the stoat barged into the cabin.  Nateem swaggered to an empty chair.  The vixen then directed Wobbles to fetch the cup resting on the table's far left side.

Both watched the vixen mixing several herbs in the cup.  In slow motion, Melody deftly stirred the concoction while taking hold of the stoat's right paw.  The vixen let loose of the cup, whipped out a knife and pricked Nateem's palm.  Holding his paw over the cup, she counted the drops of blood that fell into it.  With the seventh drop, she snatched the cup.  "Speak your question, stoat, but know the future is never revealed with the clarity you wish."

"I seek knowledge regarding where the greatest danger to my future lies.  Tell me if I can avoid it."

Melody drained the cup and began muttering an incantation.  She opened her eyes, but her glazed stare showed that she saw something other than the room or its occupants.  For many moments, she remained unmoving and Nateem fidgeted.  Wobbles held her quill, awaiting the witch's words.

"Death shall seek you out within a circle of blood.  If you enter such a place, beware the dog burning both inside and out, for his golden blade shall bring defeat when victory is within your grasp."

Melody gave herself a shake and ordered the stoat outside.  Once again, she repeated the procedure with the wolf, Shawarran.  Like Nateem, he too asked if the vixen could foretell where danger awaited.  The vixen drank from the second cup and again she entered her trance.

"You shall hold the key to your own survival.  One day you shall face a demon guarding a small treasure that is beyond worth and cannot be carried within your purse.  Challenge the demon and your life shall end just as you taste victory.  Retreat and you shall view waters never-ending once more."

Then the wildcat entered.  Melody prepared another cup and awaited Purrnella's question.  She asked for the name of the creature that would kill her if she did not kill him first.  The vixen drained the cup and went into her self-induced trance.

"As a soldier, many shall challenge you, but always you shall prevail because of your superior skill.  Fate has your life ending in battle because of a plaything you lost long ago.  Your one chance at avoiding death will be the fear of another."

Once the vixen awoke, she ushered the wildcat outside.  Standing in the doorway, she ordered Wobbles to fetch three tankards and a large wine decanter.  Melody accepted the chalices and passed one to each of the three beasts standing outside.  The vixen approached the wildcat first.  When Melody tried filling her tankard, the wildcat placed her paw over the top.

"How do we know this wine has not been drugged like the potion inside?  Better we be sure than die of some venomous concoction.  Wobbles, drink."

Though she too feared the witch had poisoned the wine, she had no choice.  Stoat, wolf and wildcat watched as Wobbles took a long pull at the wine bottle.  She suffered no ill effects.  They ordered their cups filled.  Each downed their measure of wine, each smacked their lips in appreciation, and each collapsed in a heap like puppets with their strings snapped.

Melody chuckled.  "Twas not the wine that was drugged, the sleeping potion coated the inside of the cups.  We shall not be disturbed girl." 

At the vixen's call, several male foxes emerged from the nearby woods.  Even as Melody led Wobbles inside, the male foxes carried the others down the hill.

"It was foretold to me that four would come, but only three would seek counsel regarding the future.  To the fourth, I was to offer a very special potion."

Wobbles protested, yet she could not resist.  A lifetime as a slave conditioned her to absolute obedience and though her paws shook, she drained the beaker containing not only seven drops of her blood, but seven from the vixen.  Wobbles slipped into unconsciousness.

She found herself in a nightmare realm. All about her passed colored ribbons of light in every hue imaginable.  She floated in a brilliant void of colors.  Someone tapped her on the shoulder.  She turned and faced a nightmarish creature, a spider of incredible size.

"I am the personification of Fate.  It is I that weaves the web of life, who decides the length of any skein, and the ultimate pattern that you call reality.  Each colored ribbon of light is a life you or your companions had, are, or will touch."  One of the spider's legs moved in a slow, deliberate pattern and all but four ribbons disappeared.  At irregular spaces, lights hung like fruit on a long vine.

"May I ask what I am seeing?"

There came the sound of soft laughter within her head.  "You look on the threads that are the lives of you and the three that brought you to my humble servant.  The lights represent the ribbons of significant others whose future your passage shall affect.  I have simplified the tapestry I weave so your mind can understand."

"Why am I here?  I do not wish to know my future."

"Look at the distant pole.  Do you see how the ribbons stop?  At that point, each of you must determine what future shall prevail.  The correct choice will take that one further, but the wrong one shall mean an ending.  The others know the what and the who, but not the where.  That I grant to you alone."

Without realizing what she did, Wobbles grabbed the pole.  Within her mind a tableau of three stoic creatures appeared.  One beast, dressed in a green robe, stood in place while flanked on the left and right by two others.  The green-robed figure changed species and sex many times until it ended with the face of a black-furred squirrel with features edged in white.

The one that stood guard to the right, held a sword with a golden hilt containing a red stone.  Where the central creature projected a strong will, the warrior's expression was the very definition of determination.  The warrior morphed.  The first one appeared as a young mouse, followed by a variety of other species.  Eventually it ended, becoming another mouse, much older than the first.  When that mouse disappeared, the sword hung suspended in midair.

But the creature to the left remained constant.  Her features changed, but always a badger.  The other two had a grim appearance, but the sow's kind expression acted like a magnet to Wobbles' weary heart.  The last transformation had no head and Wobbles focused her eyes on this strangest sight.  Then a vision of indescribable horror appeared and with a great shudder, Wobbles released the pole.

Wobbles opened her eyes.  She found herself in a clearing with the other three.  The wildcat growled at her, Purrnella's voice betrayed her irritation.  Words tumbled out of her mouth like dice in a gambler's cup. 

"It took longer, but the witch's sleeping potion did work on me.  Like you, Lieutenant Purrnella, I don't know how I got here."

Purrnella ordered Wobbles into a four-paw stance and soon had her packed and ready for travel.  As they moved out, Wobbles noticed the quiet and preoccupied manner of everyone.  She knew each of them mulled over their own prophecy, wondering what secrets it held.  While she answered to the pull of her master's leash, unbidden words came to Wobble's mind.

"Honor and loyalty are two different things, each with a special meaning.  Embrace one and two shall die.  Hold onto the other and whatever you gain shall come at a high cost.  Which shall you choose?"

Dawn was still another hour away and those creatures within the compound slept.  As a light autumn breeze moved the blanket of one beast, she shivered.  That action disturbed a corner of the blanket allowing even more of the chill wind inside.  She shivered a little harder and stirred.

Sleep became impossible.  She flipped the blanket aside.  She checked the nearby sleepers and saw everyone tucked tightly in their bedrolls, many of them snoring.  With a slow motion, she stood and stretched the kinks out of her back from sleeping on the cold ground.

A flick of the wrist and she soon had her blanket lying out flat.  Another moment and she had it folded and secured, awaiting transportation.  She became so engrossed in this routine activity that she didn't hear the approach of another beast until he spoke.

"Mornin' Wobbles, how'd the night go?"

"No worse than expected, Sergeant.  Are you here for me or did you just happen by?"

The sergeant, an old stoat with many a battle scar, shook his head.  He continued leaning on his spear as he watched her stow everything.  He kept his voice low, not wishing to disturb the other slaves sleeping around them.

"Just gettin' off duty an' I was takin' a short cut through the slave compound to my tent, that's all."  He pointed to the bedroll.  "You put some of my recruits to shame, Wobbles.  Don't think any of them could do as well packin' their gear."

Wobbles shrugged.  "Twenty years does that to you.  I can still remember when we both were raw recruits.  You looking forward to a soldier's career and me to" and here she hesitated, "a new beginning perhaps.  I'm a bit surprised you never tried for officer, you got the brains for it."

The stoat spat off to the side, just missing another sleeping beast.  "Them fancy-furred officers can have their titles; we all know who really commands the soldiers."

Both shared a light laugh before the stoat departed.  "I'll let the gate watch know you're comin' through." 

It had taken a few years learning the army's routine, but now Wobbles considered it a pleasant assignment.  She remembered how her last master sold her to the military, figuring such a harsh existence a just punishment for her attempted escape.  Though living conditions made life difficult at times, she worked hard and gained something of a well-earned reputation. 

Now, officers requisitioning a work detail, requested her.  They knew she would do whatever was necessary completing her duties in a timely manner.  Over the years, she acquired more rank and moved from a mere grunt slave to the privileged rank of overseer.  Now, she served only the officer corps.

Wobbles took another prolonged stretch.  She then reached into her belt pouch and removed her earrings.  She fastened two buttons, one white and the other gold, to each ear and flicked them, checking that her badge of rank remained secure.  After a quick glance about the area, she moved towards the gate.

Back at base, slaves lived in an enclosed stockade that afforded everyone some shelter and the question of unauthorized exits seldom happened.  When the army moved into the field, slaves slept in an area designated by a series of short stakes connected by rope.  A slave who crossed this barrier, without permission, risked some form of punishment, which could range from a loss of privileges to a public flogging. 

Wobbles strode towards the one break in the rope fence.  Every slave called this opening the gate.  They needed permission whenever they entered or left.  As she approached, Wobbles saw the guard talking to the old Sergeant and decided she had enough time that she could pass a few pleasantries. 

"Greetings Sergeant, have you heard anything about us moving on?"

"Depends on what happens when we cross swords with their soldiers.  Unless this ruler has a larger force than we've been told, victory should be ours in short order.  Another week or so marchin' on the capital and we should have their surrender."

The Sergeant continued his interrupted conversation.  "Did you hear a rumor about the General losin' his chef in the last skirmish?  Seems hard believin' a general would assign his favorite cook as a charioteer driver."

The other guard nodded.  "Oh it's true.  His lordship didn't take too kindly to finding his food tainted.  Cookie claimed he got it from supply, but you know those guys in procurement covered their furry butts real good.  Looks like our general will be going without a cooked breakfast this morning."

"Then I know what my first assignment will be," said Wobbles.  "By the way, I heard we captured a large town yesterday, just east of here."

"You should know better than to listen to such rumors." said the guard.  "That town was nothing but a collection of huts around some traveler's inn.  Only beast killed was that fool slave chef when he drove his chariot over a weak bridge and fell into a deep pond.  We took a lot of prisoners, all civilians; no glory there."

Wobbles thanked the guard for his information.  She walked down the camp's central road to the prisoner's compound.  The guards posted about this area noted her earrings and allowed her access.  Like the slave section, everyone slept on the ground with a blanket wrapped about them.  Unlike the slave's enclosure, a rope about one ankle secured each prisoner to a stake. 

A glance at the body of one beast that must have slipped his or her rope off convinced the others that remaining in one spot a far smarter alternative.  The grizzly body hung from atop a high bar straddling two posts.  The unknown creature hung upside down, secured by two iron hooks driven through the crossbeam and piercing its ankles.  At that point, the soldiers must have flayed the body with their swords, leaving the mutilated corpse hanging as a reminder to anyone considering escape.

Wobbles pulled her eyes from the gruesome sight and inspected the sleeping creatures.  She walked up and down the rows of slumbering creatures until she found her quarry.  This female vole must be the fattest beast in the entire prisoner camp.  Stooping down, she grabbed the creature's muzzle and yanked it hard, startling the vole awake.

"Tell me the truth as your very life depends on it.  Are you the cook for the inn our soldiers captured yesterday?"  She felt the vole's head bob, Wobbles released her hold.  "I am giving you a chance at something better than driving a chariot into battle later today.  Depending on the generosity of your new master, he might even release you after the war, but don't expect it."

"How did you know I was a cook?  I told no one."

"I have heard it said that a fat cook means a good eatery, so I looked for the fattest creature, and you're it.  Now tell me your name as I have no intention of yelling 'hey vole' whenever I want your attention."

"I'm called Wiana.  Now it's your turn to answer a question.  Can you tell me what will happen to my two babies, Saupna and Harosa?"

"If your children were toddlers or younger, they were butchered for meat.  I'm sorry, that's how it is for an army on the move."  Wobbles wondered if that was a smart thing to say, but if the vole found out later, it could be trouble.

"My babies are ten and twelve years, not toddlers.  Both of my girls sleep a short distance away."

Wobbles followed her pointing finger and remembered seeing many children among the captured prisoners.  "They will be sold as spoils of war when we return home, unless they can prove their usefulness now."

She watched the vole's eyes and saw how she latched onto any chance at keeping her children.  The vole grabbed Wobbles' wrist with an iron grip as she asked what she could do.  She hesitated for a moment, letting the creature's fear build.  Wobbles's hoped her expression conveyed optimism.

"If they are obedient and if they know how to serve meals, there is a chance the three of you will be kept together.  For how long, I cannot promise." 

When the vole claimed both daughters were obedient and excellent workers, Wobbles told the mother to fetch them.  A while later, the four walked from the compound and down the dirt road.  They turned left, approaching a large tent with the canvas rolled up in the front.  Even in the dull glow of the morning sun, they could make out the cooking stoves lining the rear.  Wobbles gave the three a quick tour, showing them where the larders were and the stacked woodpile.  She showed the youngest daughter where she could draw water and had her relay filled buckets back to her mother.

Wobbles stood in place, as the mother and oldest daughter fired up the stoves.  The first pot had just started boiling when three ferrets came into the tent and took a seat.  One of them growled at the cook, demanding immediate service.  As the mother placed the first serving into the stove, the older daughter poured hot tea for each of them.  Another half-dozen soldiers entered.

She asked for one meal to be made ready.  Once she had everything on the serving tray, Wobbles hefted it.  Before she could leave the tent, the mother blocked her way.  Though more officers filled the tent demanding immediate service, the vole did not seem concerned.

"You could have chosen anyone as helpers, Wobbles.  Why choose my daughters?"

"I don't know if I can trust you, Wiana, but I am sure you will do whatever is necessary protecting those two."  Her voice maintained a gruffness she didn't honestly feel.

No doubt the mother detected that false note and pressed her advantage.  "You have another reason.  Tell me."

"I know how devoted a mother is to her child, and I know the pain when that child is lost forever.  I'll not let another suffer such a loss if I can help it."

With that, Wobbles pushed pass the vole and made for the exit.  The mother tried following, but the clamoring from those seated within the officer's mess left her with two choices.  The vole could follow her and maybe see the children suffer, or return to her duties and possibly keep them safe.  Wiana had no real choice.


Threadfoot approached the building.  She pulled her jacket tighter, trying to keep out the night's chill air.  She hoped a brisk walk from the Warren District of Fiery Mountain would warm her; it didn't work.  She thought she would be entering the training camp in daylight, but the recruiter emphasized the time she had to report, which was more than an hour before dawn.  A look at the camp's clock showed she had less than a quarter hour.

As she rounded the corner, she almost bumped into a dozen hares standing apart from what had to be over a hundred does.  She recognized some and passed a few pleasantries.  One doe pointed across the road where a large contingent of buck hares stood.  She thought about joining them until she realized how little time she had for idle talk.

A door opened and a female hare exited the building.  The uniformed hare stood in front of them, holding a clipboard.  For a moment, she examined the papers, ignoring the questions some of the does shouted.  The hare called all the does closer.

"I'm Captain Percher.  Welcome to boot camp.  Form a single line and we'll get you started.  It's going to be a long day.  For most of you, it's the army.  A few of you might, and I'll emphasize that word, might make it to the Long Patrol.  Either way, every one of you is ours for the next three years."

Threadfoot joined the line as it worked its way into the building.  She did no more than confirm her identity and sign a few papers she never got a chance to read before they directed her to another building.  From there, it became an endless series of showers, exams and questions.  She found herself running from one building to another while her empty belly rebelled.

In one building, they shaved her fur so close, she saw more skin than fur.  Two medics went over her with a fine toothed comb, checking it for infestations.  They gave her britches for modesty before ordering her to another in a series of buildings.  She should have been cold with this little fur, but the sun warmed her.  Threadfoot entered the building, stripped, and deposited her garment in a bag.  Like the other inductees, she followed a line, and received new clothing.  At the far end of the room, she dressed.  As she exited the changing room, a bored clerk assigned her to a barracks.

She ran to the building where a buck hare waved her inside.  Threadfoot raced halfway down the corridor, turned left, and dropped everything she had been given on the upper bunk.  Another doe hare bumped into her hip as she dumped her stuff on the lower bunk.  She extended her paw to the other hare.

"My name's Threadfoot.  Looks like we're goin' to be a sharin' space here."

"Sandythorn, my name's Sandythorn.  Nobody ever said it was like this, and it's only the first day.  I'm beginning to wonder if I made a mistake joining this bloody army."

Threadfoot patted her bunkmate on the back.  "Both my parents were in the military.  Trust me, everything will work out just fine."

With a sound like thunder crashing overhead, the door at the far end of the barracks banged against the wall.  A female badger strolled into the room with a defiant swagger.  Her scowling expression froze everyone in place.

"My name is Sergeant Serenity.  For the next six weeks, I will be your drill instructor.  It is my job to turn you misfits into soldiers.  Until you benighted bunnies prove you are worthy of that title, I will be your mother."

One hare snickered.  In an instant, the badger hauled the doe up by her ears, forcing her onto her toes.  When the doe reached up, trying to free her long ears, the badger gave a hard twist that had the girl crying.  Sergeant Serenity's voice overpowered her wails as she screamed in the teen doe's ear.

"I hear you show any officer or noncom such disrespect again, I will paddle that cottontail rump 'til there's not a stitch of fur on it.  Do I make myself clear?"  The badger released the hare's ears.  A shove of her foot sent the sobbing doe tumbling into the wall.

"Anybody else like to try their luck?"

Nobody stirred as the sow badger moved down the central aisle.  Sergeant Serenity glared at a group bunched near a bunk.  A step towards another doe sitting on a footlocker had that one jumping up as if the thing had morphed into a hot stove.  The badger stood over this miscreant, no more than a whisker's length between them.  Sergeant Serenity growled at the hare.

Five recruits nudged their nearest companion and snicker.  With a speed Threadfoot never attributed to badgers, the drill instructor reversed course.  She crossed the room and bowled into the group.  Her paws slapped the five does until they fell into a heap cowering between two bunks, sobbing like newborn babes.

"Rule number one: When one of you is in trouble with me, all of you had better be on your best behavior."  Turning to the rest of the room, she bellowed.  "Do I make myself understood?"

When nobody replied, Sergeant Serenity screamed her question a second time.  As the silence returned, Threadfoot called out. 

"Ma'am, yes ma'am." 

The young hare found herself looking into the face of an irate badger.  Threadfoot focused her eyes forward on a point beyond the sow's face, maintaining what she hoped would pass for a blank expression.  Her facial fur ruffled like tall grass before a strong wind.  After several seconds, the badger stepped back.

"Sounds like you know something about the military, recruit."

"My parents were in ...."

Once again the sow's voice screamed out as she stood within a whisker's length of Threadfoot's nose.

"Your parents are not here.  I don't give a bloody fig what your parents did or didn't do.  You, recruit, are nothing but maggot meat and until I say otherwise, that will be your new name.  Now gather your gear and find another bed ... Maggot."

The badger marched to the only door leading outside, trapping them inside.  Sergeant Serenity ordered the recruits to find an empty bunk.  For the next few moments, everyone dashed about like frogs on a hot skillet.  When each hare stood by a bunk, the badger swaggered down the main aisle.  She pointed to one recruit and then another.  Without another word spoken, the two does gathered all their gear and exchanged bunks. 

Threadfoot hoped the badger would walk past her.  Instead, she stopped.  The badger stared at her for several seconds without saying a word or uttering a sound.  Threadfoot kept quiet.  Sergeant Serenity moved down the central isle as she reassigned some of the hares to different bunks.  At the far wall, she reversed course, giving each recruit a long look.  When she finished her visual inspection, she blocked the only exit.

"Since this is your first day, I'm going to be nice.  You have ten minutes to stow your gear and make that bunk.  Starting now."

Like the other hares, Threadfoot hesitated.  One hare turned towards her bunk.  In seconds, the does arranged the gear they received in footlockers.  She glanced towards the front of the barracks where the Sergeant stood.  The badger's expression reminded her of her mother when her latest misdeed got her in big trouble. 

Some inner sense warned her about this badger.  The sergeant would administer a harsh thrashing, if given the slightest provocation.  Threadfoot figured she already made herself a special target.  Best she regained her rightful name before Maggot turned into a permanent title. 

Mother said to keep in the background, don't make any trouble, looks like I goofed again.  What a way to start a military life.

"If there is anything I hate about the military, it has to be traveling by water."

She held onto the railing as the raft bobbed across the waves.  Her claws extended with each bounce, digging a bit deeper into the wood.  She groaned when a strong breeze made the raft lurch sideways.  Her tail slashed the air like a broadsword, keeping the other soldiers at a distance.

A sea rat sergeant sharing space along the railing turned her way.  "Sorry, Major, I didn't know we had a wildcat on this raft.  I can understand your reluctance about the river ride, but you must admit; it'll get us to camp a lot sooner than slogging through that forest."

She glanced at the sea rat, and then watched the near shoreline.  "You're right, Sergeant, our journey would be longer and our paws twice as sore.  I suppose it's just my aversion to water travel.  I'm a foot soldier, not a bloody fish."

"Any idea what's going on, Major?"

"Like everyone else in this flotilla of rafts, we're all going to a new camp as replacements for the forces lost during the last campaign."  She held up her paw and flexed her claws.  "Now that was enjoyable, almost enough bloodletting to satisfy even my taste." She shook her head and turned to the Sergeant.  "Sorry to say, all I know is that I'm the ranking officer, responsible for leading this force to camp.  Had I been a week earlier, some newly commissioned Colonel would be in command."

The sea rat returned to his spot on the railing, leaving the officer alone.  The raft journeyed downriver at a rapid pace, thanks to a strong current.  As the raft passed the next bend, the town came into view.  A few moments later, the raft bounced against the piling.  She hastened off the raft.

"Good to have solid ground beneath one's feet."

From all directions came the sounds of bellowed commands.  Soldiers formed ranks and awaited inspection by whichever officer commanded them.  The overall appearance might mimic chaos, but one by one each unit took to the road in proper military fashion.

Major Purrnella did not rush.  She commanded these units for the time it took marching from the river town to their base.  Since they were deep within their homeland, the trek held no danger.  She brushed her blouse and with a deliberate ease, shouldered her gear.  She allowed a unit of sea rats to pass her and waited until she sighted the same sergeant she met on the raft.  When the noncom spotted her approaching, he snapped off a quick salute.

"At ease, Sergeant, since we're all going the same way, I'll travel with you."

The sergeant trailed his unit with the Major shadowing his every move.  They continued marching along, the sergeant checking his unit and growling his orders while she scanned the other companies.  After several moments, the sergeant spoke, though he never faced her.

"Begging your pardon, Major, shouldn't you be up front?"

"For all I know, this will be our one and only meeting.  Why should I ruin a ten league march issuing orders that you're carrying out?  It wouldn't make sense."

The sergeant nodded.  "You're pretty smart for an officer, Major.  It makes no sense at all trying to impress somebody at base when we're not going anywhere soon.  With winter fast approaching, everyone will settle down until spring."

The rest of the forced march passed without incident, and by early afternoon they topped a ridge.  A sprawling tent city filled the valley below her.  As each unit passed the gate, they were met by an officer who directed them to their bivouac area. 

Major Purrnella walked to the hut of the camp's commander.  At first, she thought the place deserted.  She announced her presence.  An elderly mole came around a row of file cabinets, carrying a clipboard.  His brown garb appeared neat, but it was the uniform of a slave.  A white and gold disk attached to his ears, designated the male mole as a slave assigned to an officer of high rank.  Though she hated demeaning herself to a lowly slave, she could discern no other option.

"Major Purrnella Slyclaw, reporting for duty." Her eyes focused on a spot above the head of the mole as she handed her orders to the slave.

The mole retrieved his spectacles from the desk and gave her papers a cursory inspection.  He approached a closed door.  He gave a firm knock before he entered the room.  Another five minutes passed before the mole emerged, moving somewhat faster than he did when she first spotted him.  The mole retreated to his desk where he wrote furiously.  Purrnella approached the room the slave exited.

"No need for that, Major.  The General has ordered me to give you directions to your quarters.  You will be briefed later regarding your duties."

It galled her to accept instructions from a lowly slave, but she did not comment, though her exposed claws were a clear sign of her agitation.  Once beyond the Commander's office, she stormed down the appropriate road, kicking at any visible rock she passed.  After reaching her assigned quarters, she dropped her gear on a bunk. 

The sight of the mess tent across the muddy road reminded her that she had eaten nothing since dawn.  The idea of a hot meal appealed to her.  For a moment, she wavered between the task of arranging her gear and the prospect of some good food.

"This can wait until later," she muttered.

She no sooner entered the mess tent when she recognized two close friends.  The first was a stoat Colonel that had risen in the ranks due to his ferocity in battle.  Across the table sat a grey wolf wearing the insignia of a Brigadier General.  She remembered his ingenuity in battle back when they shared the rank of lieutenant.  They must have seen her too as they made space for her and waved her over to them.

"Nateem, I see the High Command finally came to its senses and made you a Colonel.  And you, Shawarran, you're a Brigadier?  When did that happen?"

The wolf leaned back and smiled at her.  "The ink on our promotions hasn't even dried yet, that's how new our rank is.  It's also the reason why all of us are here.  When we move out of this camp, I will be commanding the Fourth Infantry, Fourth Paw, a unit that will number around ten thousand soldiers and a quarter as many support slaves."

The stoat, Nateem, patted the seat next to him.  "Shawarran tells me that he got first crack at selecting the officers he wants since his unit is so new.  Our General figures that a new unit needs experienced officers, which is why you're here.  Perhaps your luck will be better under the command of a friend."

Purrnella plopped down hard on the seat.  "Luck had nothing to do with my rank, unless you mean bad luck.  I was denied that promotion to Colonel by my last commander because he hated wildcats."

"Don't you mean because you were too cruel and heavy-pawed to those you conquered?"  Brigadier Shawarran's look dared her to contradict him.  "The story I hear is that you butchered half a village because somebody threw a rotten egg at one of your soldiers."

Purrnella gave a menacing laugh.  "My commander thought I overreacted.   Well, it pacified the town.  That fool of a ferret wanted me to coddle the natives; play nice was how he worded it."

The wolf's expression never changed.  "More like you intimidated them into submission.  The villagers were smart and never openly rebelled, but they resented our presence.  Thanks to you, we never got any peace, or the cooperation we needed from that region." 

Shawarran held up his paw when she tried to reply, effectively silencing her.  "The truth is no commander wants you, Major Purrnella.  Your excessively cruel streak and iron-fist mentality have cost us too many opportunities at gaining the trust of our former enemies or the confidence of allies.  As a friend, I will assign you some duty within my command, but you had better believe this next campaign may well be your last if you don't measure up."

Whatever tension remained between her and the wolf disappeared when Nateem chuckled.  She turned towards Nateem and he pointed to the back entrance of the tent.  What she saw had her claws sliding out of their sheaths.  Perhaps this assignment offered her some opportunities beyond that of inflicting pain on her enemies.

"Talk about a reunion.  Isn't that the same slave your family sold to the army some twenty years ago?  She's also the one we took to see the witch right after we received our officer's commission."

All three officers turned as one towards the back.  There, to the side of the back tent flap and talking to the vole cook, stood a tall grey female squirrel.  In her ears there were two gold disks, designating her as a slave taskmaster.  She moved inside the tent, checking on the dozen slaves operating the kitchen and serving meals.

Major Purrnella enjoyed the squirrel's reaction when she noticed them.  The squirrel's paw traced the scar that ran across her chest.  She took a step backwards.  Purrnella pointed at her and then at her cup, hoping she would miss the message.  She had a few ideas about how entertaining a squirrel would be while hovering above a low fire.

The slave squirrel filled a tray with a selection of different foods and secured a pitcher.  She hustled to their table.  The squirrel placed the food between the three and greeted each by rank as she filled their cups with the hot cider. 

"It's been a few years, hasn't it, Wobbles?" 

The slave acknowledged her name with a smile and nodded.  "It has indeed, Brigadier.  Last time we were together we visited that witch.  When we got back to base, the fortunes of war sent us in different directions."

"You're wearing the double gold of a grand overlord.  Which slave unit are you commanding?"

"My new designation is quiet new, less than a week.  As to which unit, I've been assigned to yours, Brigadier."

"Your efficiency is well known; I'll expect your best.  By the way, Major Purrnella, told us she knew several interesting stories about your past, including the one about how a squirrel lost her bushy tail."

"I'm sure the Major has told you everything you wanted to know, Brigadier."

"Nonetheless, I'd like to hear your version of the tale."  The inadvertent pun made Brigadier Shawarran laugh.

She knew Wobbles couldn't refuse such a direct order.  The stoat and the wolf remained attentive while she continued eating.  Purrnella offered a word of advice before the story started. 

"See that you tell the truth, Wobbles.  I might have been a five-year-old tabby, but I remember what happened, even from so long ago."

"No threats are necessary, Major.  It's a simple story.  I was being transported to my new home when our ship was beached for repairs.  My escape attempt failed and my son died when he fell into quicksand.  After I was recaptured, I received a flogging, but that wasn't the end of my punishment.  Every morning the Captain commanding the vessel would ask if they sighted land.  Each time the lookout responded no, he carved one bone off the end of my tail.  Good fortune smiled on me as a strong wind saved the little I have left."

"Go on," growled Purrnella, "finish the story."

"Your father wasn't too pleased as he thought he had been given an obedient slave and I proved rebellious.  He sold me that very day to the army.  When the procurement officer came, I lurched about like a drunken sailor.  Between the loss of my tail and me spending so much time at sea tied to the fantail railing, my sense of balance wasn't what it should have been.  His comment about me wobbling down the gangplank gave me my army name."

Both stoat and wolf broke out in gales of laughter.  "How about that?  We got a bonus story about your name," retorted the wolf. 

"You're right, Purrnella," said Nateem, "it wasn't worth the effort hearing." 



Purrnella waved her away and Wobbles made a hasty retreat to the kitchen area.  Once she moved out of their sight, she leaned against the woodpile and tried calming her racing heart.  After all this time, those memories flashed in her mind as if it happened twenty minutes ago and not those twenty years. 

She remembered the sea rat sawing another bone off her tail each morning.  Wobbles recalled the searing heat from the hot dagger he used to cauterize the wound and shuddered.  Such memories were painful, but there was still one thing that made reliving that time worth the suffering.  It remained her most closely guarded secret. 

Wobbles knew her son did not die.  She lied when she told the sea rat he drowned in quicksand.  Her last sight of him was when she passed the tree where he hid.  After all these years, she believed in her heart of hearts that her son still lived. 

Once the meal ended, Major Purrnella excused herself, claiming she had to unpack her gear.  Her two companions wished her well as she left the mess tent.  She made her way across the muddy road.  As she approached her new quarters, she froze.  There in the tent, an intruder rifled through her gear.  A quick step put her inside the tent and behind the intruder.  She slammed the tent's canvas door.

A young male mouse stood next to her cot.  The fellow had placed her spare uniform onto a hanger and paused next to an upright storage locker.  Even from where Major Purrnella stood, she could see her other uniforms already hanging in proper order.  The slave first hung her uniform, and then came to attention, just as his training dictated.

Like the soldiers, slaves in an army wore uniforms and had rank designations.  A boss slave wore two white disks and commanded grunts or served low ranking officers.  Overseers had one gold and one white disk, and served a specific high ranking officer, with authority over the boss slaves.

This slave wore but one white disk, which designated him as a low ranking grunt.  She considered his assignment to her nothing more than an insult.  Overseers served high ranking officers, since they had some authority over other slaves.  Such a deliberate slight infuriated her.  She needed something, or someone, as a target for her anger. 

"Just what in Hellsgate are you doing?  Who gave you permission to disturb my gear?"

Her sharp voice made the slave jump almost a foot off the ground.  The young mouse gave an audible gulp as he stepped forward.  His downcast eyes and meek voice marked him as one that knew his place, but her anger needed a target. 

"I was ordered to unpack your gear, Major.  I was also told to provide whatever assistance you needed while the grand overseer found a suitable servant."

So far, Major Purrnella suffered the indignity of addressing one slave as an equal.  Then her new commander, somebody she thought a good friend, reamed her for actions she considered an appropriate response to a rebellious populace.  Since she didn't know who assigned her a grunt, the young mouse became the very embodiment for every slight she suffered.

She stormed across the tent's floor and raked the youth's head with her unsheathed claws.  The mouse howled in pain and tried retreating.  That this slave even tried avoiding her claws infuriated her even more.  Purrnella kept her claws sheathed as she batted the mouse about the floor, making sure she inflicted as much pain while blocking his every attempt at escape.  At one point, the mouse crawled under a cot, no doubt hoping to avoid another roundhouse punch aimed at his ribs.

When Purrnella lifted the cot, the mouse youth darted between her legs.  He jumped upright, which toppled her.  As the slave dashed for the door, Purrnella scrambled back to her paws.  Her claws extended by reflex, but missed him as he cleared the doorway.  Such was the slave's panic that he did not see the officer before him.  Two strong paws clamped onto his shoulders.

"Nice catch, Brigadier," said Purrnella.  "I demand this slave be punished, and that I have the honor of administering whatever I deem an appropriate beating."

Brigadier Shawarran maintained his grip on the injured slave.  After giving the mouse a cursory look, he turned to the Major and asked for an explanation.  Her initial charge had the mouse ready to speak in his own defense.  The wolf's claws dug into his shoulders.

"I have not given you permission to speak, slave," said the Brigadier.

She then charged the slave with striking her, which carried a severe penalty.  The mouse remained quiet while the wolf said nothing.  The Brigadier summoned two soldiers standing near the officer's mess tent.

"Take this slave to the Infirmary and see that his injuries are treated.  Have him relieved of all assigned duties for today and tomorrow, on my authority.  See that our commander is aware of this incident and that I recommended no punishment."

Purrnella stood there, eyes wide, consumed by her anger.  Her objections never got voiced as the wolf motioned her inside the tent.  With the two of them in relative privacy, Shawarran dropped all pretense of friendship.

"You have a reputation for being an obnoxious beast with a cruel streak wider than the ocean.  Unfortunately, I see it's well earned, if not understated.  Knowing you're that abusive with army property, I don't believe I can trust you.  My initial intention was giving you command of a front-line combat unit.  After this display, Captain, I have changed my mind.  Instead, I will have you placed in a support capacity where others can keep a tight rein on your abrasive tendencies."

"My rank is Major," she snarled.

"Not anymore."  He silenced her with an upraised paw.  "Yes, it's your option to protest your demotion, but if you do, every charge that I had quashed from your last duty post will become public knowledge.  When the military tribunal is convened, you'll be lucky to maintain your status as an officer.  Need I say more . . . Captain?"

Purrnella couldn't say anything without jeopardizing what was left of her military career.  She kept silent.  No matter how angry she felt, she knew her former friend had the power and the authority to make good on his threats.  The two continued a staring contest until she lowered her eyes.  The Brigadier then turned and exited the tent.  Once the wolf left her tent, she vented her anger by pummeling the metal storage locker containing her uniforms.



Nateem waited outside until the wolf joined him.  The two walked down the road as they proceeded to the General's command center.  They continued for several moments before Nateem broke the awkward silence, hoping a change of subjects would allow the Brigadier time to assume a calmer demeanor.

"Any idea what the General wants of us?  I mean, who would be foolhardy enough to start a military campaign with winter but another month away?  Personally, I'm hoping the rumors of us bivouacking along the southern coastline are true.  I know a few places down there where the females know how to entertain a soldier in proper fashion."

"Our General is far too ambitious.  That ermine is looking for a position with the High Command, maybe even something higher."

That made Nateem hesitate a step and he had to double his pace.  When he drew next to the wolf, Brigadier Shawarran continued his conversation like it had never been interrupted. 

"Last time I checked, you don't get such a command assignment occupying a rear echelon sector.  You get it by grabbing glory in a bold and heroic campaign."

They had no further opportunity speculating as they had reached the General's office.  The general's slave greeted them and led them into another building.  There, a tall ermine stood, his winter coat just starting to claim dominance over his usual dark brown pelt.  He positioned himself at the far end of a huge table that remained under cover.  On both sides of the table, others sat in attentive anticipation.   

Colonel Nateem noted the various insignias belonging to units under General Zavallin's command.  He watched with some interest the jockeying for position as officers displaced lower ranked members to the far end of the table.  He also noticed the presence of two large sea rats that displayed the rank insignias of Fleet Admiral. 

Brigadier Shawarran nudged him.  "So much for that rumored easy duty station, Colonel.  You don't need two flag officers commanding a flotilla of rafts.  You can bet the General has something much bigger planned."

General Zavallin called the meeting to order.  There was an awkward silence as the mole slave entered the office and handed the General a piece of paper.  Once the slave departed, the General turned the meeting over to a lady ferret standing behind a podium.  When all conversations ceased, she ordered the cloth removed from the table.

A large-scale map of an unknown landmass filled the table.  As everyone tried taking in the scene, the ferret passed several folders down the table.  Each officer kept the bundle with their name and passed the rest to the next officer in line.  When the officers opened their folder, she gave a sharp bark.  Everyone refocused their eyes on her.

"What you're looking at, is a land mass approximately half our empire's size.  To date, this place has no official name, as the creatures living there are as diverse as they are divided.  The only unified ruling body is along the northern coast, running from Point Clisler to Icy Inlet, and even that can be considered a misnomer.  They rule a quarter of the land in a loose alliance called, The Council of Ruling Nobles, led by a badger named King Brisson."

Another ferret raised her paw and asked a question about their military.  He asked her if she knew why this Council of Ruling Nobles had not extended their authority further inland.

"Initially, they formed a military alliance against a common enemy.  When peace returned, each ruler maintained his or her political power base.  In essence, they have been united in name only.  If there is a need to use military force, the particular kingdom uses its own army.  They might request aid from others, but such requests seem driven by politics rather than sound military judgment.  Since the time of their initial unification, they have never acted as a united force."

From his seat, the General spoke to the silent room.  "I intend to initiate an invasion of this land mass with the return of spring.  That gives everyone sixteen weeks preparation time and another two weeks before the actual invasion.  Once we can conquer this Northern Alliance, the rest of the island continent will fall."

When silence returned to the room, the lady ferret continued her briefing.  "The folders you have contain whatever information you need for completing your primary assignment.  Over the next ten days, prepare a battle plan for your objective.  We will meet here at that time to discuss them and to coordinate our campaign."

With that, the officers dispersed.  Outside, Colonel Nateem waited for the Brigadier to inform him of their assignment.  Brigadier Shawarran opened the file and then snorted.  Nateem thought the wolf's expression appeared displeased.  His monologue turned into a fine example of vulgarity at its finest.

"Our assignment couldn't be that bad," said Nateem.

The wolf handed the packet to him and continued back to his quarters, cursing under his breathe.  Nateem came to a standstill while reading the folder.  When he finished, he raced after the Brigadier.

"Talk about your rotten luck, Brigadier.  We drew the tertiary support role of capturing and expanding the port of Ferretville.  In this upcoming campaign, we become nothing more than a garrison force.  Our primary duty will be protecting the engineers responsible for expanding the port's facilities.  While the rest of the army is fighting in the north, we're stuck in the south, twiddling our thumbs."

Brigadier Shararran pounded his right fist into the palm of his left paw.  His voice remained so low Nateem had trouble hearing the words.  However, the wolf's tone told him all he needed to know.  He didn't like their assignment. 

"Brigadier, we do become the lynchpin in the second phase of our conquest.  Without the port of Ferretville, there will be no means for conquering the southern half of that continent.  Perhaps General Zavallin will offer us a more worthy objective at that time."

"Once this Council of Ruling Nobles falls, the rest of our war will be nothing more than a mopping operation.  There will be no glory in conquering simple farm hamlets scattered about the region.  Such tasks are for the greenest units, those yet to taste blood." 

"I see what you mean about ambitious plans," said Nateem.  "General Zavallin must expect this victory to give him land and possibly a nobleman's title.  Perhaps he perceives this crusade as a chance of toppling our king or becoming a ruler of his own realm.  No doubt those officers that excel during this campaign will be granted titles and land holdings commensurate with their conquests."

The silence stretched out as they rounded the last turn in the road and Brigadier Shawarran entered his hut.  Nateem caught the door before the wolf could slam it in his face.

"Too bad we have such a poor assignment, Brigadier.  Without a chance at glory, all we can expect is a few extra gold coins in our purse when this campaign is completed."

The wolf stared out his window while he continued pounding his right fist into the palm of his left paw.  When he stopped, he leaned on the desk, staring at the documents awaiting his attention.  Nateem stood by the door uncertain as to if he should enter or leave.  When Brigadier Shawarran lifted his head, Nateem found himself staring into the eyes of warrior ready for battle.

"I'm not going to sit on my furry backside while some other whelp takes what I earned.  I've served in this army long enough that I deserve a lot better than they're offering me.  If I get a chance at grabbing the gold for myself, I'll take it."

Colonel Nateem took the chair closest to the desk.  Once again, he opened the folder containing their assignment.  He waited until the wolf sat behind his desk.

"We have a battle to plan; best we get started."

A comforting darkness surrounded her.  Tassel snuggled deeper under the blanket that kept the bed warm and the room's chill away from her.  She took a deep breath and rested somewhere between deep sleep and full alertness.

To her left came a deep rumbling sound.  She turned in that direction, detecting the presence of her mate, who still slept.  When the sound ended, she strained her hearing, trying to sense any other sound.  His snoring resumed its rhythmic pattern.

Her mate, Bruno, acquired the title of Pa Badger when they became a couple.  She enjoyed her role as Badgermom, but he embraced his with enthusiasm.  The children gravitated to him like bees to honey.  On some nights the two of them would crawl into bed and in the morning, several of her youngest charges emerged after spending the night cuddled with her mate.

If she awoke during the night, Tassel would slip into the Dibbun Dormitory, checking up on the ten children they supervised.  Most times, she stalked the corridor and discovered nothing amiss.  On those nights when a child had troubles sleeping, she found him awake and wanting to know what disturbed the child's rest.  Whenever she discovered a sick child, some innate sense alerted him and they did what needed to be done.

To her right, Tassel listened to the steady tick of the mantle clock.  Her fingers reached out to the night table and fumbled with her goggles.  Since her deformed muzzle didn't allow her the option of wearing spectacles, the beast that ground the lenses mounted them in a pair of goggles.  She stared at the clock and noted the time.

"May as well get up," she muttered.  "The alarm will be sounding in another ten minutes."

She swung her feet over the side.  The room's chill air dispelled the last vestiges of sleep.  At that moment, a deep growl came from the sleeping form of her mate.  Without looking, she reached back and kneaded a spot above his tail.  The growl intensified, and then he shifted his position.  Blessed silence returned.

Tassel padded quietly to the door that separated their quarters from the Dibbun Dormitory and gave a quick glance into the children's sleeping area.  Her eyes saw no movement and her ears detected only the sound of many young beasts slumbering.  She turned away and walked down a short corridor, entering her private washroom.

Bruno insisted on a mirror.  A quick glance at her reflection explained her objection.  Even though the years dulled the marks, her disfigured face could still induced nightmares.  She did not need a mirror to see the marks that branded her a criminal in the minds of woodlanders.  Tassel knew some elders living at the Abbey never missed an opportunity at calling her vermin, even after so many years.

Her dress slipped on with ease since she needed no vent for a tail.  She lost that as a child, docked by her master's healer for a visiting dignitary.  On cold nights like this, she swore the missing appendage had never been removed.  Tassel could feel it wag with such vigor it hurt.

A pair of stirrup stockings, a matching pair of fingerless gloves, and the marks that branded her a criminal disappeared from sight.  She removed her goggles long enough to put on the form-fitting cloth mask she wore, which hid her disfigured features.  Once she had her goggles on, she stepped outside the room.

She bumped into her mate, who stood outside the room.  Like every morning, he kissed her once on each cheek, and once on her forehead.  He then slipped past her and entered the washroom.  Tassel remained close to the door, this way they could keep any conversation private.

"It was a quiet night, Bruno.  The celebration tuckered them all out and they slept soundly.  Think it did the same to me as I slept the whole night too."

"Celebrating the end of winter is a big event at Redwall.  It means we can look forward to another year of planting and improving weather."

"Every season festival is a big event.  We party late into the night and then drag through the next day.  I tell you, I'm not the young and energetic creature you married twenty-five years ago."

The soft sound of Bruno's laughter echoed from the other room.  "Tassel, you're not getting old.  If you were, I would have to admit to aging too, and I'm not ready for the title of honored elder just yet."

Tassel said nothing, knowing such a title would always elude her.  That broke the rhythm of their conversation.  The door opened; just enough that Bruno could stick his sopping wet head out.  His expression showed his concern about Tassel's sudden silence.

"Something is bothering you."  Bruno's wet paw reached out and held her muzzle closed.  "No, I don't want to hear any excuses.  After all these years, I can read you like a scribe's diary.  Out with it, sow."

"Age, it's my age."  Tassel kept her muzzle down as she whispered her reply.  "I hate admitting it, but those youngsters are running me ragged.  Most elders our age will care for grandchildren for a day or two.  We have ten dibbuns full of youthful energy every day.  I love them, but I worry that our Abbess will replace me.  If she has no further use for me, will she turn me over to the Law?  Even after so many years, she could do it.  I wouldn't last a month in a penal colony, not at my age."

Bruno reached out and pulled her head closer.  A gentle kiss did nothing to change her mood.  He ducked back inside and for several moments, silence hung in the air.  Bruno exited the washroom and placed his paws on her shoulders, giving his mate a firm squeeze.

"We're getting rid of our little beasties for the next three weeks.  It will be just the two of us, Tassel.  I think what you need is a vacation away from every responsibility.  So as soon as those young charges have stepped beyond the gate, we are going to have some fun."  Bruno's eyes twinkled.  "Perhaps we can take some long walks along the battlements late at night, a leisurely stroll through the orchard, or you can practice your music.  It's been a long time since I heard you play your flute."

Once more Tassel's eyes appraised her mate.  Bruno still sported the vibrant, characteristic coloration of his species, though the ravages of time left their mark.  What had been a brilliant white now had a yellowing, antique look to it.  Grey intruded wherever black had been.  Even the flag on his tail certified to his advancing years as it appeared somewhat ragged instead of full and lustrous.

That had her think about her own appearance.  Over the years, her fur had taken on a dull, uniform, grayish color.  No longer did she possess the distinctive black and white markings of a badger in its prime, which had many a newcomer to the Abbey inquire about her species.  She felt every year of her life weigh on her.

Bruno embraced her.  In his powerful arms she felt safe and his loving voice made her feel desirable.  She never wanted him to let go.  He nibbled on an ear and she leaned into him.  Bruno's words shattered the illusion that they stood there alone.

"As much as I would love to stay right here, I do believe we should wake the children."

Tassel followed Bruno to the doorway between their quarters and the Dibbun Dormitory.  They leaned on the half door that separated their living space and gazed down the long corridor.  Tassel couldn't see the children sleeping due to privacy curtains, but she did hear their steady breathing.

"It seems a shame waking them up."

Bruno chuckled.  "Liar, I do believe you enjoy watching their reactions each morning."

Tassel returned the gentle rub her mate gave her back by patting his broad chest.  She then opened the door and latched it against the back wall.  Bruno cranked the ceiling window shades open as Tassel seized the handle of a large wooden mallet.  With a swift motion, she struck the sounding board next to the door.  Three times the room filled with a hollow boom that put thunder to shame.

Badgermom Tassel yelled at the top of her voice.  "It's time to wake up.   Everyone, get out of bed."

She got the reaction she desired on the very first swing of her hammer.  Several children darted out of their beds, racing for the washroom as if some demonic hellhound nipped at their heels.  Others moved in a slow, but deliberate manner, but at least they moved.  One mouse lad slept at the far end of the room, but Tassel still heard him muttering about the noise.  It made her giggle as he pushed the blanket to the side.

Bruno pointed to one bed still occupied.  With the snap of his wrist, he threw the blankets off the pillow.  A pair of furry feet rested on the pillow, the toes wiggling.  Bruno grabbed both feet in his paw and yanked the child out of her bed.  With a deep growl, he held the child up until her toes were at his eye level.  He added a snarl to his voice as he spoke.

"Alright girl, wake up."  With a light tap, he batted the girl's feet.  "I am not going to be fooled into believing you're still asleep.  Now open those eyes or I'll slap you silly."

A young mole hung just above the bed, giggling.  "I'm down here, Pa Badger."

Bruno shifted his eyes from the child's toes to her head.  His eyes almost doubled in size and his deep inhale gave him the appearance that he was surprised.  He released the girl and she tumbled onto the mattress.  "Well how was I supposed to know that wasn't your head?"

Tassel fought the urge to laugh.  Bridgett and her mate, went through this routine at least once a week.  Instead, she focused on the day's chores.  She cleared her throat, which caught the attention of those still in the main room.

"If you are not wearing it, or packing it, all garments are to be placed in the appropriate hamper.  All beds are to be stripped and the bed linens dumped in one pile.  I also want every privacy curtain taken down and put next to the bedding in a separate pile."

Badgermom Tassel had just finished giving her instructions when she shrieked.  Those children still in the room gave a quick look and then returned to what they were doing.  One child giggled while the older ones shook their heads, a smirk engraved on their faces.  Even Bruno had no reaction to his mate's unexpected outburst.

As for Tassel, her reaction was not so calm.  She spun about on her heels and pounded on the chest of the intruder that stood behind her.  Her light blows left the fellow laughing rather than moaning.  Her victim did nothing to stop her assault.

"Thorn, how many times have I told you not to scare your mother like that?  I swear you'll be the death of me yet."

The male badger, which looked like a younger version of Bruno, trapped her flaying fists in his paws.  "You must be getting old, mother.  I don't remember anyone being able to enter or leave this place without you knowing about it."

"Don't change the subject, Thorn.  I swear, you might be a respected elder, but I will do my level best to put you over my knees and let you know just how upset I am."

Thorn gave his mother a light peck on her masked muzzle as he scanned the room.  He moved from bed to bed, collecting the children's backpacks, while passing a few pleasantries with his father and some of the children.  The three badgers stood about until the children finished their chores.

After a quick inspection, Tassel led everyone down the stairs and into Cavern Hole, the Abbey's communal dining hall.  The children kept quiet until they occupied their usual table.  As the children took their seats, they discussed the upcoming special event with such enthusiasm that the three badgers were left to discuss adult topics undisturbed.

Badgermom Tassel quizzed her son, who sat to her left.  "And how much gold do you intend to take?"

"I don't need too much, mother.  Serenity, offered us free housing since the military base will be closed during the six-day holiday.  We'll take a ten minute walk, join the other families at the Inn they rented, and after another short hike, we will be at the festival.  I might even hire a few goat carts and we can ride in style."

"Thorn, my sources tell me you're taking well over a dozen extra children that cannot afford attending such an event.  How much silver will you be giving them each day?"

Thorn stared at his mother.  "Seventeen isn't what I would call well over a dozen, mother.  Anyway, I intend giving each child two silvers each day of the Spring Festival.  It will be enough to keep them entertained."

Those closest to the head of the table heard a low growl from Tassel, which signaled her displeasure.  "You must be out of your mind.  Two silvers will keep them well fed, but it will never allow any of them admittance to the better shows and activities."

"How would you know?  You've never been outside these walls."

Bruno's fist struck the table, tipping his empty mug and spilling the dregs onto the table.  "That was completely uncalled for, son.  Need I remind you that I took everyone to the festival when it last came to Salamanderstorn six years back?  Your mother and I talked all night about the cost of the premium attractions."

Thorn stared at his empty plate.  He muttered an apology.  Tassel patted her mate's arm while her other paw dug into the pocket of her dress.  The cloth bag jingled with sound of coins when she dropped it on the table.  She pushed the purse closer to Thorn.

"I have enough from the sale of my craft works that you could afford giving each child eight silvers a day."  Thorn made to protest, but Tassel gave a low snarl that silenced his protests.  "Use your money to hire those goat carts for the length of your stay.  When you add my money, there should be enough to give everyone three or four silvers each day.  That way, they can all enjoy some of the better activities.  Make it a week they'll never forget.  As you said, since I cannot leave this Abbey, money means nothing to me."

Their youngest charge, Bridgette, asked if she could go outside.  In quick order the fidgeting dibbuns raced outside.  There, Thorn had a cart waiting, piled with supplies and the backpacks of some thirty other creatures.  Tethered goats pranced in place.  Parents and young gathered by the Abbey's front door as they waited for Thorn.

Those parents remaining at Redwall gave their children a final hug and kiss.  The children Thorn promised to watch gathered about his cart.  Many parents smiled as their offspring milled about the young badger, eager at starting this trip.  After giving his mother a hug and shaking his father's paw, Thorn followed the crowd to the Abbey's main gate.

The children waved and shouted their goodbyes.  Those traveling with their elders drew closer to them.  Already, half the caravan had passed the inner gate.

Bruno called out to the departing children.  "You better hurry, you're...."

All of Tassel's youngsters chorused Pa Badger's favorite saying, "wasting daylight." 

Bruno grabbed her wrist.  He pulled her along, joining the many other elders racing towards one of the towers on either side of the gate.  At the top of the stairway, she ran with Bruno from the inner wall to the outer one.

In that short span of time, the travelers covered a respectable distance.  The travelers avoided the east-west trail since it led away from their eventual destination and trekked across a wide meadow.  Even now, the vanguard crested the distant hill.  If all went as planned, they would intersect the northern road to Fiery Mountain by nightfall.  After another five days, they would reach the military base where their daughter, Serenity, had arranged lodging.  A good night's sleep and all would be in attendance when the festival opened.

For now, Tassel's only thought was to wave.  She could see the travelers waving back, but couldn't tell if any of the children were hers or that of the family standing next to her.  It didn't matter.  This would be their last sight of each other until they returned in twenty days.  Tassel's stomach churned as she worried about her young charges being beyond her protection.  She continued waving until the last beast crested the hill.  She remained at her post, like all the other parents, staring at the vacant field.

"I do believe, sow, this is the first time since we mated that there hasn't been at least one child needing your attention."  Bruno gave her a mischievous grin and a hug.  "What are you going to do with yourself for these next three weeks?"

"Husband, this is the first time since I became Badgermom that no child needed me.  It's an experience I've never had.  As to what I will do, I want to know when you intend checking on the larger orchard outside the wall.  This winter's snowfall proved quite heavy.  I don't want my vacation causing us to lose a fair size of our future harvest.  What will the other elders say?"

Bruno's left paw fluttered as if he were shooing an annoying fly.  "I'm not going to waste this opportunity, Tassel.  Let the trees take care of themselves for another day or two.  As of right now, we are on vacation."

Bruno bowed to her and held out his paw.  Tassel placed her gloved paw into his and the two descended the stairs to the battlement that ran along the outer wall.  As they stepped outside the tower, a light breeze swirled about them.  For a moment, the chilly air had them huddle together.  Each looked into the eyes of the other.  A huge grin came to Bruno's face as he led her along the wide walkway.

Tassel nodded a greeting to those on guard duty.  The sentries did no more than return her nod, though she noticed their smiles.  She could guess why.  The way Bruno held her paw and acted, she knew they looked more like first-time lovers courting than a mated pair.  In spite of their longevity together, her heart race each time he squeezed her paw or gazed into her eyes.

Along the west side, she stopped.  Tassel gazed over the forest that still had not recovered from the harsh winter that ended with the last full moon.  The morning sun warmed her back as she enjoyed the view.  Bruno nudged her.  When she turned in his direction, he first faced her and then looked downward.  He repeated the motion, and she stepped away from the wall.  She wondered where he wanted them to go.

They descended the steps and strolled to the end of a wooden dock that extended over the pond.  Bruno kicked off his sandals and sat at the very edge.  He patted the space next to him.  She followed his example and soon had her bare feet dipping into the icy water.  The two conversed in whispers as they sat.  Sometimes one or both kicked their paws through the water like children on a holiday, the sound of their laughter echoing across the water.

Time continued its march.  All too soon the tower clock chimed the dinner hour.  Tassel stood.  Bruno joined her as they made their way to the Abbey.  She anticipated a reserved quiet with the dibbuns gone.  Cavern Hole proved to be just as noisy without so many youngsters, though the topics focused on things other than school or chores. 

Bruno pointed at several occupied tables.  Each time she balked.  He frowned whenever she pointed at an isolated table or one near a darkened corner.  They stood near the center of the huge dinning area, alone in a crowd of eaters.  Tassel pointed towards a table near the exit.

"We always sat further up, where the light is strongest."

"We had the children then" retorted Tassel.  "I am sure the others prefer I not join them.  I don't want my presence to cause any troubles."

A deep scowl creased Bruno's brow as his anger rose at her reluctance.  "You use those orphans as an excuse, sow.  It's time you start meeting the other elders of this Abbey.  You'll find they are a lot friendlier than you imagined."

Another voice interrupted their conversation.  "Indeed you will, and I'll be the first one inviting you to my table."

Tassel turned towards the voice.  She knew her mask hid her surprise when she recognized the imposing figure that spoke.  The squirrel stood a few hairs higher than Tassel and wore the green habit of Redwall's leader.  Abbess Robertasin's fur may have been midnight black in her youth as a shepherdess, but over the many intervening years, it had lightened.  Her fur now resembled the hour after sunset.  The bony ridges along her face showed an edging of white fur attesting to her advanced years.  Even her fingers and the very tip of her bushy tail now showed the same aged color.

"Without your young charges, Tassel, I can extend an honor long overdue."

The Mother Abbot hooked her paw onto Tassel's elbow and guided her along.  As they approached the head table, Tassel remembered how the throne-like chair reserved for the Abbess had migrated from the center to the far right several years back.  Every resident knew the milky film that dulled the emerald-green of her right eye would one day blind her. 

Now the seat of honor was to the Abbess's immediate left.  Robertasin steered a reluctant Tassel to that seat.  Bruno took the seat next to her.  Bruno turned away from her, striking up a conversation with Healer Shortspike and the Abbey's warrior, Jazzin, who shared the head table.  Tassel felt a bit overwhelmed by the unexpected attention.

Something touched her foot.  Tassel glanced towards her mate.  He stared at her and then at the Mother Abbot.  She wondered if he understood the gravity of his command.  When something hit her foot a second time, she got the less than subtle hint her mate sent her.

Tassel turned to the Abbess, her food untouched.  "Don't you worry about extending such hospitality to somebody the law declared vermin?  Is it proper for my jailer to share such amenities with her prisoner?"

A forkful of salad hovered halfway between plate and mouth as the Abbess stared at her.  Robertasin returned to her meal, but the squirrel's smile had disappeared.  The silence grew as the squirrel chewed.  When her fork clacked back on the table, the Mother Abbot addressed her guest with a voice tinged with disappointment.  Such an unexpected tone had her listening, yet fearing what she might say.

"Is that how you still see Redwall, as your prison?  Do you believe you have no place in this Abbey?"  The Abbess gave a low snort.  "You have served as Redwall's Badgermom for more than forty years.  This is an honor you have earned."

"Nonetheless, Abbess, my past condemns me, even now."

Robertasin's expression lost its pleasant smile.  "Perhaps it's time I tell you that every year, on my anniversary date, I submit a letter asking for your release.  If I asked the residents, I'll stake my reputation on their support for such a petition.  I have forgiven you, it's time the law did the same."

Tassel stared at the Mother Abbot, too shocked for words.  Bruno's elbow nudged her and she returned to her meal.  Each of them would turn to the other, but neither one could think of a topic to discuss.  When the silence became pronounced, they concentrated on the next course of their meal. 

Kitchen workers scurried to the table, whisking dirty dishes to the back room.  Even the cook's announcement regarding dessert got no reaction from her.  Robertasin leaned back, enjoying her cider drink.  The squirrel's glazed stare let Tassel know the Mother Abbot remained unaware of the awkward silence at the head table. 

Abbess Robertasin's next action caught her off guard.  She stood.  The Abbess took her empty mug and banged it on the tabletop like a pewter gavel.  Conversation within Cavern Hole came to a slow end as the residents turned to the head table.  Kitchen workers abandoned their sinks and stoves, congregating at the doorway.

"To every beast that calls Redwall home, over these many years, our Badgermom has served this Abbey with honor and distinction.  In all that time, she has never asked for anything because she thought herself unworthy of our respect.  Now I am asking if you will join me and sign a petition for her clemency.  After all these years of faithful service, I think she has earned her freedom."

The Abbess placed her paw on Tassel's shoulder.  There was total silence within the room when Robertasin concluded her announcement.  Two tables back, a male mole stood and clapped.  By ones and twos, many of the other elders of Redwall joined in the applause.  Several residents, including a few she thought still held her past crimes against her displayed their approval.

From one table, a male hare rose and moved to the aisle.  General Markus of the Long Patrol approached the head table.  As a representative of the King's law, Tassel feared the hare would remind all of her crimes.  Her heart raced as she waited for him to condemn her once more.

"Let me know when you send that petition and I will add my own personal letter of recommendation.  If she can turn a troubled teen like me into a general of the greatest fighting force ever known, then she deserves my support."

His words caught Tassel by surprise.  She jumped out of her seat, knocking the chair onto its side.  Tassel bolted to the doorway.



"Was it something I said," the hare asked.

"She must be overwhelmed, or in a state of shock," said Bruno.

Markus turned around and gave a sharp whistle.  Every hare within the place came to rigid attention.  The hares abandoned their seats and moved forward, but Markus stopped them when he raised his arm.

"I want everyone paired up, find Tassel.  When you locate her, report to me.  Bruno, shall we see where that wife of yours has run off to?"

Bruno gave a quick bow to the Mother Abbot and excused himself.  He joined Markus.  The hare pointed to the door she used but a few seconds earlier.  Bruno led the way, jogging through the main building to the Abbey's front door.  Once beyond the building, Bruno found nightfall turned every shadow into a hiding place.  At least Markus had the foresight to procure a lantern before he left the Abbey.

After twenty-five years of hunting down reluctant, or missing, children, Bruno thought he knew every hiding place within Redwall.  Each time he examined another possible location, he expected to find his mate.  Even with the assistance of the other hares, none could find her.  The night grew darker and still no sign of Tassel.

Markus approached him, his expression reflecting worry.  "Several of my hares checked out the root cellars, they said no beast has disturbed the dust.  I know we asked the sentries at the gate, but could she be so distraught that she somehow got outside?"

Bruno considered that idea.  "Her fear of your king will keep her within the Abbey.  Somehow, she has managed to elude us.  Let's call off the search until daylight."

By ones and twos, the other hares returned to the Abbey.  Each reported no sign of the female badger.  Some of them confirmed what they already knew; Tassel had not left the Abbey's grounds.  The last hare relayed a request to the guards atop the wall, asking them to remain alert in case she did appear.  A few offered to join the guards, just as a precaution.  Markus dismissed them.

Bruno thanked Markus as they separated with a promise of resuming the search come morning.  With leaden paws, Bruno climbed the stairs and opened the door to their private quarters.  A sixth-sense drew him to the doorway between their place and the vacant dormitory.  As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he discerned the shadowy form that he recognized as his wife.

Without his sandals, Bruno's footsteps remained quiet.  He listened as he heard her light sobbing.  Tassel ran her paw across the footboard of an empty bed, muttering the names of dibbuns, past and present.  When Bruno touched his mate, she reacted as if a hot poker had lanced her.  Even in the darkness, he saw the tears that matted the fur on her exposed face.

"There were so many in this place, and yet my mind fixates on the ones I lost.  Common sense tells me an act of nature or an illness is beyond my control, but it doesn't diminish the hurt or the feeling of failure.  I remember all those that went on to better things, and yet my mind will not grant me any peace or happiness."

Bruno sat on one bed frame.  His mate sat on another empty bunk, facing him.  Tassel's paws flew up and out before slapping together as she tried trapping them between her knees.  She rocked back and forth, moaning as if in physical pain.  He kept quiet; knowing that eventually she must reveal what bothered her.

Tassel finally broke the silence.  "Do you remember the days before we married?  We talked about so much then.  I explained my duties and how I intended caring for these children."  Her voice reflected disgust and loathing, something he never expected.  "I talked of everything but what you needed to know about me, and you never once asked about my past."

It took some effort catching her paws, but he did.  Bruno held her paws and knelt before her.  His voice remained no higher than a whisper as he tried reaching the heart of his distraught mate.  Tears rolled down his muzzle, matching those of his wife.  He ached to relieve the gut-wrenching pain still gnawing within her.

"I loved you too much, Tassel.  When you said never ask of the before time, I took that oath seriously.  But don't think I haven't heard about your past over these many years."  There came a low, rumbling laugh as an old memory surfaced.  "Remember the time I took our two pups to Brocktree?  The female badgers there told me things they hoped would disgust me, but I chose you, Tassel, as my mate and I returned here.  I will always stand with you."

Tassel's whole body shook, her abject misery apparent to him.  Bruno sat by his wife, his arms enfolding her.  He kissed her scarred face and the tears flowed even heavier.  He nibbled on her ear and the delightful giggle he always expected, and enjoyed, never came.  He lifted Tassel and carried her in his arms.  The two went to their bedroom and he took her as a husband does a wife.  In such a loving embrace, Tassel found the solace she sought.

Something heavy landed on his chest.  Bruno scanned the dark bedroom, looking for the assailant that disturbed his sleep.  A kick to his back alerted him to the source of his discomfort.  Tassel shifted on the bed, moaning.  Her elbow dug deep into his side.  He grabbed her shoulder and gave a hard shake.

"Wake up, Tassel, you're having another bad dream."

Tassel bolted upright, panting.  A few seconds later, her sleepy voice spoke, even as she dug deeper under the covers.

"Not to worry, Bruno.  I'm sure its nothing."

"Enough, sow, I have had enough of your evasive answers.  I blame myself for letting this go as far as it has, but you will tell me what is troubling you.  No more excuses."

Tassel's eyes widened, no doubt surprised by his tone of voice.  He could sense her measuring his irritation, deciding if she could again evade his inquisition.  Bruno tried calming himself, as he strived to be the voice of reason.

"Whenever one of our little ones has a nightmare, you always tell them it holds power over you because you will not tell.  Must I use those words on you?"

He never expected her reaction.  She wrapped her paws about him, holding on as if she expected him to vanish.  His body shook in time with hers.  He whispered his love, all his anger forgotten.  He rocked her with a gentle motion, like he did with one of their young charges when they needed comforting.  He held her head against his shoulder until she finished crying.

"Husband, I fear my words must be made known to the Abbess as well."  Bruno opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Tassel silenced him by placing the palm of her paw against his nose.  "How I know this, I cannot explain, but this nightly horror involves her too."

Now he understood her reluctance.  Before Robertasin became Redwall's leader, she left no doubt about her contempt and dislike of Tassel.  Once their children were born, and Tassel recovered her health, Robertasin spoke such horrible things that Tassel feared for her safety.  Over time, the Mother Abbot's demeanor altered as she proved several days earlier when she spoke on Tassel's behalf.

Bruno led Tassel to the Mother Abbot's office.  Like a frightened child, Tassel would not release his paw.  Bruno felt Tassel squeeze his paw harder the closer they came to their destination.  He whispered his encouragement to her and that seemed to give her the courage she sought.

A lady vole sat at a desk near a closed door at the end of a hallway.  The vole glanced their way.  Without asking their business, the vole approached the door that led to the inner office and the Mother Abbot.  She gave a light knock and a sharp but muted voice responded.  The vole entered the office and closed the door, leaving them outside waiting.




Robertasin sat at her desk, reviewing the many documents requiring her attention.  She sometimes wondered if she was the Mother Abbot or a glorified clerk.  She looked up from another series of letters that seemed to flood her desk.  The intrusion of her secretary came as a welcomed diversion.

"Is there somebody I need to see, Lilly," ask Robertasin.

She watched the old vole.  When Lilly pushed her glasses up her muzzle, she knew it had to be a resident.  After so many years in her service, Robertasin knew her mannerisms and learned a lot about her potential visitor before they entered her office.  Based on the way Lilly kept shifting from one foot to another, she had better talk to whichever resident stood on the other side of the door.

Lilly nodded.  "Our Badgermom and her mate are waiting outside, should I send them in or ask them to come back at a later time, Mother Abbot?"

If Lilly addressed her by her title, she thought it important enough to interrupt whatever business held her attention.  Abbess Robertasin trusted her intuition.  She pushed her chair away from her desk. 

"I'm sure I can spare the time.  To be honest, I'm surprised they waited so long.  You can send them in, we shouldn't be too long."

Lilly brushed her dress as if her spotless garment had a stray piece of lint, a habit she displayed whenever she approved of Robertasin's decision.  The vole pivoted on one foot and left the office.  There passed a moment of silence before the door opened for a second time.  The vole remained at the door until the two badgers crossed the threshold.  Lilly gave her an inquisitive look, but Robertasin said nothing.  Lilly retreated to the outer office, closing the door.

Light from the late winter sun filtered through the window behind the Abbess, giving the room soft, but sufficient illumination.  Both walls had ceiling-high bookcases filled with the diaries of Redwall's prior rulers.  In front of the huge desk, Bruno had his choice of a wide sofa or one of two chairs.

Bruno helped Tassel sit at one end of the sofa while he took the opposite side.  At no time did he release her paw.  Though she couldn't read Tassel's expression due to her mask, Robertasin worried when Bruno's eyes avoided any direct contact with her.

As Mother Abbot, she decided to put them both at ease right away.  She bounced out of her chair and circled the desk.  Robertasin sat on the front edge, as close as she could to her guests.  She reached behind her and held up several sheets of paper.  Robertasin continued waving them until certain she had both badger's undivided attention.

"I can guess what's brought you two here.  After four days, you're looking for news about that petition.  I'm happy to report almost every resident signed it.  Maybe this time, King Brisson, will grant you clemency."

Instead of a joyful look from Bruno or even a raised muzzle from the masked badger, the two visitors continued staring at the floor like chastised dibbuns.  That worried her. 

"I give you good news and the two of you act like I did something horrible.  Please, if there is anything bothering you, let me know.  I'm here to help."

Bruno raised his muzzle, but did not meet her eyes.  "My wife has experienced the same nightmare over the last four nights.  She insists you hear her story."

Robertasin still had some coaxing to do.  A few more words of encouragement from her and Bruno had Tassel recounting her nightmare in detail.  She gave the sow her full attention.

"A great storm has descended upon Redwall and I fear the children will be frightened.  When I enter the Dormitory, nobody is there.  I rush back outside, and when I reach the end of the corridor, I find myself atop the rain-lashed battlement of some high tower.  In the storm, the lightning flashes across the darkest sky ever known, and I see faces, the face of every child I nurtured."

For just a moment, Tassel lifted her masked muzzle and gazed deep into the eyes of the Abbess.  "After every child I know is shown, I see one more child.  As that face appears, another bolt strikes the tower and it is destroyed.  I fall, seeing the Sword of Martin fly towards me like an arrow.  Before it pierces my breast, I awaken."

Robertasin and Bruno remained silent for several moments.  Then the Abbess stood and paced from her desk to the window and back.  She made several circuits before she once again returned to a position just before the Badgermom.  She lifted Tassel's muzzle.  The two stared into each other's eyes.

"When first I became Abbess, we were enemies.  In time, I learned of your value and dedication to this Abbey.  You even inspired me to adopt Narkade a year after your pups were born.  Raising him taught me just how much good you have done."

Abbess Robertasin gave the Badgermom a gentle squeeze to her masked muzzle.  "I do hope you now see me as somebody that supports you.  Perhaps I should have apologized for my ill manners so many years ago, but pride stopped me.  I'll not ask for your friendship, but I will tell you I take seriously the message you bring me."

Bruno shifted in his seat.  "Would you know the meaning of these words?"

"I'm afraid not, Bruno, but I will think long and hard on this.  I'll let you know if your assistance is needed." 

As the two badgers left, Lilly hesitated by the door.  Robertasin wandered over to the window behind her desk.  Without looking back, she addressed her receptionist. 

"See that I am not disturbed, Lilly."

For several moments, the Mother Abbot gazed outside her window to the courtyard, her mind a blank slate.  Many of the most monumental events in Abbey history came after a dream.  Some unknown force compelled Tassel to talk to her.  She couldn't dismiss this without careful thought.

Like a flash of lightning, an old memory surfaced.  She turned towards one of the high bookcases.  She withdrew the diary from her first year as Mother Abbot.  It took but a moment to find the relevant passage and she read the words from a dream she thought forgotten so long ago, "When war comes, and it will one day."    Robertasin yelled for her receptionist.

"Lilly, find Healer Shortspike, our cellar hog Tabeston, the warrior Jazzin, and General Markus.  Once they arrive, see that nobody disturbs us, for any reason whatsoever."

Something in her voice must have frightened Lilly.  The vole departed so fast she forgot to close the door.  While she waited, Robertasin's mind compared the two dreams and their messages.  It made her stomach churn.  After a glance at the shepherd's crook, for the first time ever, Robertasin wished she had never left her sheep.

Healer Shortspike arrived first and the Abbess reviewed her biography.  The female hedgehog started out as an orphan under the care of the prior Badgermom, as well as Tassel.  She later traveled to a badger clan where she finished her training as a healer.  Since her return to the Abbey, Healer Shortspike maintained a vigorous program designed to maintain the health of every creature.  Though many complained, several times her advice prevented the spread of diseases that, left untreated, would have resulted in many unnecessary deaths.

A soft knock preceded the next beast. In his youth, Tabeston contradicted the stereotypical male hedgehog.  Unfortunately, his job as Cellar Hog had him sampling every food stored within the larders of Redwall.  Now, Tabeston displayed quite an ample girth. 

The two tapped foreheads in typical hedgehog fashion before he shook paws with Robertasin.  When Tabeston sat, the sofa's springs twanged in protest.  He slouched on the sofa as if he thought he could catch a quick nap.

The mouse warrior, Jazzin, and the hare, Markus, entered the office together.  Even in the chilly air, the two were bathed in a heavy sheen of sweat.  Both carried practice swords sheathed about their waist and bearing heavy padding.  The two argued in a friendly, but heated manner, about which of them had scored the last kill.  Neither of them noticed the room's other occupants waving their paws before their snouts. 

Robertasin retreated to the window.  She opened one of the panes closest to her head, allowing the chilled air inside.  The slight breeze kept the musky body odor of the two warriors away from her nose.  At least she wasn't gagging from the stench of the sweat-soaked padding they wore.

"Shame on both of you," snarled Shortspike.  "At your age, Jazzin, you should have more sense than to fight some beast almost half your age."  She then turned on the laughing hare.  "As for you, Markus, you should know better than working up such a heavy sweat outside during the winter.  I swear, if I see either of you in my Infirmary with a cold or fever, I'll give you so strong a purge, it'll take three meals before your stomach even knows you ate."

While the healer admonished the two warriors, Robertasin returned to her desk.  Before either warrior could retort, she rapped her knuckles on the wooden desk, like a teacher trying to catch her student's attention.  It worked in the classroom, and it worked here.

Robertasin pointed to the Cellar Hog.  "Tabeston, I want a full inventory of everything within this Abbey, be it food or some other material under your control."

"But Mother Abbot," whined the hedgehog.  "You get an inventory of what we stored and used every month.  I'm sure the actual count wouldn't be that far off."

"Oh yes, I have seen your reports.  'A little over three barrels of flour delivered from the grist mill, several dozen eggs discarded as rotten.'  They will not do, sir.  I want to know, by the gram, and by the count, exactly how much of everything there is within Redwall, and you have three days to do it."

Tabeston shifted his position.  The hedgehog pushed his glasses off the tip of his nose and against his head.  When he stood, every spring sounded a note of relief.

"Three days?  How am I going to accomplish all that in three days?"

"I don't care if you and your whole crew have to work around the clock, nonstop.  You will have those numbers for me, at the end of the third day or I will find somebody else competent enough to do your job.  That deadline isn't being pushed back because you're standing here catching flies.  I strongly urge you to leave now while you still hold the coveted title of Cellar Hog."

Tabeston hustled from the room, the slamming door attesting to his rapid exodus.  The Healer bolted from her seat.  Shortspike stormed over to the desk as if she meant to do physical battle with her.  The hedgehog's finger snapped out like a whip aimed at Robertasin's snout. 

"I don't care if you are the Abbess; you have no right addressing an honored elder in that manner or in that tone of voice.  Why I have half a mind to ...."

"Your next words had better be something like 'do a full inventory of the Infirmary.'  Have a full count of every medical supply and a list, by priority, of whatever else you require no later than tomorrow's final bell."

Shortspike blurted "You gave Tabeston three days, why am I getting less than half that time?"

Robertasin stood to her full height, her back straight.  Her tail puffed out in a visible display of her agitation that anyone would dare challenge her authority.  Now it was her turn to wag a finger within a whisker's length of the Healer's nose.

"You have but one small part of this Abbey to account for.  Are you telling me you cannot have such a list ready?"

Shortspike's quills remained in an upright position.  "I'll have it done, but I do want some allowance if there's a medical emergency.  You and your bloody list can go to Hellsgate if it means compromising my services."  With that, the hedgehog stomped out of the office.  The female hedgehog slammed the door so hard that Robertasin's shepherd's crook fell off the wall.

The Abbess now focused her attention onto the two warriors before her.  She continued staring at them until their smiles disappeared.  The Abbess returned to her seat.  She beckoned them closer and dropped her voice to a near whisper.

"I am giving the two of you whatever authority you need.  Requisition as much additional help as necessary, take anything you want.  I expect, no, I demand, immediate results.  If we are fortunate, we may have more time, but I cannot guarantee that, so have this Abbey ready to withstand an extended siege within five days."

Markus broke the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement.  His ears flickered, a sure sign of his distress.  "Mother Abbot, do you have any idea who will be placing the Abbey under siege?"

The Abbess leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.  Neither of the two warriors spoke as they awaited her answer.

"Gentlemen, Redwall is already at war.  The only pertinent question is how ready we will be when the enemy is knocking at our gates."

Every hare entering the military went through boot camp in an area that encompassed both banks of a river and a large island.  The bucks camped on one side of the river, while the does occupied the opposite bank.  When the sexes got together during training sessions on the island, the drill instructors had to keep a firm reign on the youths.

Should an amorous buck decide that flexing his pecks would attract the female's attention, he paid a high price for his folly.  The drill instructor would have his entire unit doing calisthenics on a dusty field while wearing full gear.  Let some doe bat an eye at a buck, and every lady in her unit crawled through enough muck to discourage any further romantic thoughts. By the third week of training, the recruits got the message.  It was safer listening to their instructor than trying to make points with the opposite sex.

Sergeant Serenity led fifty female recruits as they marched in formation towards the bridge connecting the barracks with the training field.  She stepped off the paved access road, watching as each hare passed.  Two weeks of training remained and her teenaged misfits moved like a single, well-coordinated unit.  When she thought back to that first day, it seemed a monumental achievement for this group of inept teenaged hares.

Recruit Sandythorn, now dubbed "Boo-boo," wore the blue armband that designated her as the first group's leader.  This doe had the misfortune of being the clumsiest hare she ever met, garnishing more cuts and scrapes than the rest of the barrack's brats put together.  When she asked if the hare wanted her boo-boos kissed, the nickname stuck.  Now Serenity believed she had leadership potential.  Come the end of training, she would recommend the hare for promotion.

The second platoon followed Threadfoot.  Perhaps her family's military background helped, but this doe displayed a fighting spirit second to none.  Many of the female hares thought it a joke after Sergeant Serenity nicknamed the hare Maggot.  However, the doe's versatility handling any weapon became a reference to the fate of those she faced in their battle drills.  Serenity expected her to qualify for the elite Long Patrol once the doe passed basic training.

Sergeant Serenity increased her pace as she marched to the fore.  From her vantage point at the front, she checked each file and saw the perfect spacing of a well-trained unit moving as one.  She bellowed her command.  Like a single entity, the unit wheeled onto the road leading to the practice fields.  They came to a halt once they passed under an arch at the outskirts of the area.

"Recruits, fall out and draw reed swords.  I want you mustered around Circle Nine in five minutes."

Other than the nearby sign that labeled the area as Circle Nine, nothing made this practice field special.  It spanned twenty paces in diameter, just like the other fields.  Her recruits formed a rough circle along the perimeter of the area, each holding a short sword made of dry marsh reeds.  She stood at the very center of the ring, awaiting the arrival of her young charges, a reed sword dangling from her paw.

"I have some good news for you bunny beauty queens.  At the end of this week, you will have the privilege of defending your unit's reputation in a series of duels with your male counterparts across the river." Serenity paused, gauging their reaction.  "For the sake of this unit's honor, you will not disappoint your comrades.  For the sake of your furry bottoms, you will not disappoint me."

She didn't joke when it came to such threats.  She remembered when her unit competed against the three other female units on the obstacle course.  They may have won the overall event, but the five recruits who finished last learned the hard way how far they could march with a full pack.  Only one, Sandythorn, returned from that forced march.  The remaining four joined the other washouts discharged as unfit for military service.

Last week, she repeated the same threat when her unit faced the males on the obstacle course.  This time, they took the honors in every event.  The recruits had a good laugh when the buck hares from the last place unit were forced to run a gauntlet of willow switches.  The does pursued the hapless male hares back to their camp across the river, switching any that moved too slowly.

"Maggot, enter the circle. You get the opportunity of taking me on again."

When Threadfoot entered the circle, she noticed the doe's broad smile.  Two days ago, the recruit won the best of three matches against her.  Since then, the other recruits promoted the doe to godhood.  The hare almost swaggered as she stepped into the circle.

"Come on, Maggot, whip that badger," several does yelled

"Give that fat sow a couple o' good whacks for the rest us," screamed a few more hares.

Over the many catcalls, Serenity issued her instructions.  "Recruit Maggot, this is a single duel to the death.  Unless one of us scores a killing blow, any contact is to be ignored.  On my mark, begin."

Both combatants circled each other, searching for an opening.  The hare lunged and she evaded.  Jeering whistles erupted all around the circle.  She initiated a series of thrusts and slashes that had the hare backpedaling and the recruits groaning.  The hare counterattacked, forcing her back.  Every recruit shouted their encouragement.

Threadfoot tried a double paw chop that she blocked with her sword.  The two came into contact and before they separated, Serenity made her move.  She reached behind the recruit and grabbed the hare's tail.  Serenity gave it a hard yank.  

The doe hare dropped her reed sword and placed her paws on her hips.  "Hey, Sergeant, that's not fair.  Since when do you fight dirty?"

Serenity's reed sword struck the doe hard in her stomach.  She continued pummeling her.  Battered and sore, the doe fell to the ground, bawling.  Sergeant Serenity planted one of her feet on each upper arm of the whimpering doe, pinning her to the ground.  The hare pounded her paws into the unyielding clay as she struggled to free herself.  

Serenity lifted the hare's head by her ears, stretching Threadfoot's neck, which had the hare screaming in agony.  She drew her reed sword across the throat of the doe.  Serenity expressed her disgust by giving the doe a hard kick to her posterior.  She grabbed the recruit by her cotton-balled tail and the scruff of her neck.  With a mighty heave, Serenity sent Maggot sprawling beyond the circle of shocked and silent recruits.

None of her recruits moved from the circle's rim.  All remained quiet, many with their jaws hanging open.  She let the silence continue for a short time as she took her place at the very center of the training area.

"Rule nine: When fighting for your life, all that counts is winning.  I just demonstrated the tail yank.  Next, I will demonstrate the elbow to the temple and the knee in the breadbasket.  By the time you meet those bucks, you will have mastered a dozen dirty tricks and will know how to counter every one of them.

"Remember, the soldier writing a report about a gallant enemy lived.  His opponent never got a chance at telling his side of the story because he's dead.  Now let me give you a word of advice.  If any of you feel hesitant using these tricks, be aware, the bucks are learning the same moves and they may not be as reluctant."

Once she demonstrated how the three dirty tricks were done and how to counter them, the recruits partnered with another hare.  As the first two combatants entered the circle, she noticed the approach of two hares.  Sergeant Serenity saluted the officer, wondering why another drill instructor accompanied him.

"Sergeant Serenity, you are relieved of all duties until further notice.  Pack your gear and report immediately to the Commandant."

It seemed hard to believe, but the officer had dismissed her.  All the way back to camp and while packing her gear, Serenity replayed every moment in agonizing detail.  She tried to determine where she had crossed the line between harsh instructor to insensitive brute.  With a double-march step, she approached the Commandant's office door and knocked.  Given leave to enter, she moved before the desk and came to rigid attention.

From behind her, she heard a deep male voice.  "Is this the one you're recommending?"

Commandant Darlow addressed the unknown male as if she didn't exist.  "If there's any soldier that can do what you want, it's Serenity.  She knows how the Long Patrol hares are trained, her recruits consistently win the highest honors, and her unit has the best esprit de corps of any training unit."

The unknown male voice sounded unimpressed by the Commandant's praise.  "You have eight other instructors here, and I have another six names that have better qualifications than her."

Commandant Darlow flipped a file open, placing it at the forward edge of her desk.  Serenity couldn't see the contents, but did see her name atop the folder.  

"This might only be the Sergeant's tenth class, but she has the highest number of recruits making it into the Long Patrol, and every candidate for officer training has proven to be exceptional."

"Others have more service time in rank and have been training recruits for a lot longer."

"All I ask is that you speak with her, my liege, and decide for yourself."

The term "my liege" had an immediate affect on her.  She pivoted on her left foot, turned, and gazed upon the badger sitting in a chair behind her.  She dropped to her right knee, right paw clenched in a fist, held rigid to her breast.  Serenity bowed until her back became parallel with the floor as military protocol required.

King Brisson, Lord of Salamanderstorn, and ruler of the Northern Alliance, did not acknowledge her salute.  Instead, he rose and walked over to the Commandant and relieved her of the file.  Serenity watched him dismiss Darlow and his two hare bodyguards with a simple wave of his paw.  The boar badger read the material as if no other beast occupied the room.

Sergeant Serenity peeked at the imposing male badger.  Though a few years older than her father, this boar maintained his lustrous coat and distinctive fur markings.  He stood at least a full head taller.  She wondered how so broad a shouldered boar entered the room without turning sideways.

"We are alone now.  Please take a seat and speak with me as an equal.  Naturally, I expect everything said between us to remain strictly confidential."

"My liege," seeing the ridges on the boar's forehead knit, she reworded her greeting.  "Lord Brisson, how may I serve you?"

King Brisson pointed to a chair while he continued reading the file.  Without taking his eyes off the folder, he opened his conversation with a question that seemed out of place.  

"Tell me, do you know what the biggest problem is with the Long Patrol?"

Serenity's stammering voice displayed her evident confusion.  Her mind tried grasping at every rumored shortcoming, but couldn't imagine which could have caught the king's attention.  She decided the fastest way to learn what problem brought him to her was to defend their honor.

"The Long Patrol is the finest fighting force ever assembled.  Every hare is the best of the best.  They have no equal when it comes to the battlefield."

King Brisson laughed.  "And that, my dear sow, is the problem.  I rule a loose union of some twenty-five realms, each with their own military force.  They resented the hares and their fighting skills when my father first formed this alliance some fifty years back.  I'm sad to report they still do."

"If you're aware of the problem, why not have creatures other than hares, become part of the Long Patrol?"

"It sounds like such a simple resolution.  The root problem is politics.  Integrating other species into the Long Patrol will lose me the support of the hares who consider it their exclusive domain.  Such a move could leave me without an army.  I would then be equal to some court jester."

"Politics doesn't concern me, Lord Brisson.  All I want to do is train the best fighters and make them even better."

The boar badger rose and walked to the window.  The room remained quiet as the ruler of the realm stared at the scenery beyond the window, his back to her.

"I'll be blunt; I need you, Serenity, because you have no political connections or ambitions.  Redwall's singular independence means no one ruler gains status over the others when I give you this honor.  I can place you in command and no noble will protest."

Sergeant Serenity's voice showed the deference of one who respected the position and the responsibilities of the creature she addressed.  

"Placing a sergeant in charge of such an elite unit means those under me would number no more than one or two dozen.  If you're motivated by politics, doing something like this has to be perceived as an insult.  Whatever unit you form needs sufficient numbers that other species have a viable opportunity at promotion."  

King Brisson turned around and sat on the window sill.  "I'm granting you the rank of Captain for the duration of this assignment.  When the camp finishes with this current batch of hare recruits, you will have unlimited use of the camp.  Each region's ruler is sending an elite unit here for what I called special training.  Your mission is to integrate them into a cohesive unit.  I expect this new unit operational come spring."


xxxxx



For over an hour, they discussed various issues regarding the formation of the new division.  When they finished, the King had his newest Captain wait within the Commandant's office.  As he left, three hares jumped to attention.  The king motioned to Colonel Darlow, indicating his desire that they should walk outside.  His two bodyguards followed at a discrete distance.

"I do believe you were right in recommending her, Colonel.  Unlike all the other candidates, she has extensive knowledge of other species on a personal level.  She will mold those divergent qualities into a force worthy of matching our best hare warriors."

Colonel Darlow nodded as she kept pace with her king.  "Living under the Badgermom means living with many different species.  Serenity knows more about handling other species than she realizes because of that intimate contact.  She can relate to them better than any hare on that list of yours, my liege.  I spent two years under her mother's care and learned the hard way that other species deserve our respect.  Something too many hares never learned or seriously considered."

King Brisson chuckled.  "Perhaps you can tell me more about those days at a later time, Colonel.  For now, I would appreciate it if you and your staff extend all the assistance you can to Captain Serenity, as she has a difficult task before her.  It means no winter vacation, but this is far more important than you can imagine."

"You need only command, my liege, and it will be done."

Chitter leaned onto the crossbar, his harness tightening around his shoulders.  He maintained his steady pace, knowing he covered more ground if he didn't overexert himself.  Around the next bend, the sign he expected appeared, telling him how far he was from his destination.

A dozen paces beyond the sign, the hard-packed earth turned into a stone road.  He evaded the many work crews repairing the thoroughfare after a hard winter by keeping close to the middle of the road.  His pace increased thanks to the smooth surface and the downhill gradient.

An hour later, he approached the town's outskirts.  He diverted course to circle the buildings since that route remained less traveled at this hour of the day.  It took time traveling through a congested area and he wanted to rest before the market opened.  On the far side of the town, he turned down a familiar street. 

A series of miniature fortresses lined each side of the wide lane.  Armed sentries patrolled the walls, each wearing the colors of their particular employer.  Guards at the gate stood straighter as he made his way pass them.  A few even waved, hoping to catch his attention.

The first two fortresses remained shut, though the placard by the gate announced they were open and accepting new business.  The guards at the next fortress motioned him to keep moving, which he did.  He continued down the avenue.  At the sixth fortress, the sign by the gate displayed a familiar stripped color scheme.  He made for its entrance, passing a pair of armed sentries who made no move to stop him.

Once he entered the fortress, he turned left.  Chitter passed a small cottage, taking no notice of the ferret that entered the building.  He came to a long building, which had a series of open bays.  The first four he found occupied and barred by a closed gate.  The fifth one stood empty.

He maneuvered the cart into the stall, stopping when the crossbar reached the far wall.  Chitter removed his harness and grabbed the wooden chocks resting against the wall.  Just as he braced the wheel, he heard a familiar voice call him by name.

Three ferrets approached.  The one in the middle wore the attire of a wealthy aristocrat and carried no weapon.  The other two looked like the kind of beast best avoided if you intended living.  They moved to flank him.  One held his sword at the ready while the other rested his paw on his axe.  Chitter glanced at the horizontal crosswalk halfway up the wall where another armed sentry kept watch.  The guard's crossbow rested on his shoulder, but his eyes watched him.

His paw stayed away from his sword.  He reached into his shirt pocket and tossed the copper coin he placed there earlier.  The dapper ferret caught it in midair and placed it in his pocket.  The two guards retreated.  They moved behind the aristocratic ferret and sheathed their weapons.

"Chitter, my word, I expected you a lot sooner.  It's been four months since last you visited our fair city.  I do hope that full cart does not mean you intend robbing honest merchants of their last copper."

"As tight-fisted as this town's merchants are, Draedin?  I'll be lucky if I get enough money to replace these worn sandals, let alone show any profit."

The ferret pulled a white kerchief from his sleeve and waved it in the air.  The two guards standing next to him withdrew and the third one continued patrolling the catwalk.  The aristocratic ferret extended his paw and Chitter shook it.

"Let's conclude our business in my office like civilized beasts.  Your merchandise is safe at my warehouse."

They walked back to the first building he saw when he entered the property.  As they passed the occupied bays, he noticed the empty wagons.  He counted the days he traveled on his fingers.  Something was wrong, and he had to know.

"I thought the open air market was held every seven days.  If my count is correct, it opens tomorrow.  Those empty wagons worry me.  Did I miss it?"

"Your count is correct.  Those wagons belong to merchants here to buy, though I think they might be disappointed by the meager selection.  Most of the local farmers lost their crops due to a harsh winter.  Those still trading reported an increase in banditry and are reluctant about traveling beyond their homesteads.  Rumor has it somebody struck a place west of here and left nothing behind but the bodies of the landowner and his family.  Our Peace Enforcers said the farm reminded them of a field after an infestation of hungry locusts."

"That might explain the resistance I ran into while camping near one of the outlying farms.  I swear that stoat intended having me mounted on his pitchfork.  He didn't start talking like a reasonable fellow until he had me unarmed and treed.   Never apologized, just ordered me off his land."

While they chatted, Draedin filled out the billing for his service.  Chitter dropped the required coins on the counter and took his receipt.  Their business finished, Chitter reached for the doorknob.  However, the ferret called him back to his counter.

"If you don't mind a bit of friendly advice, I suggest you visit the bathhouse before making any sales pitch.  The stench is most offensive."

"Has the town decided to beautify the place by burning that hovel of yours to the ground?  Between ticks in the bedding and watered-down soup, I decided I must've fallen asleep at the local prison."

"Best you not tell my mate such things.  We can joke here, but that is one fiery ferret I married.  Last fool that made a disparaging comment about her boarding house got run out of town.  I tell you, seeing a lady badger running down the street screaming in fear, while my mate pursued her with a rolling pin sure provided some welcomed entertainment.  Of course, bailing her out of jail proved expensive."

Chitter shouldered his travel pack and left the warehouse.  He walked five blocks down and three more to his right before spotting his destination.  A large hanging sign swung from a chain above the wooden sidewalk proclaiming the place as "The Exotic Nesting Nook."  The building stood four stories high and with the exception of the port's fortification, dwarfed every nearby building.

As he approached, Draedin's mate rushed outside.  She barred his approach.  How did she know I was coming? I just arrive.  Her sour expression let him know he had no chance at entering her establishment without first using the bathhouse.  After an exchange of coins, Chitter relinquished all but one set of garments, knowing that everything would be cleaned and pressed within the hour and waiting for him in his room.

It took time filling the tub with enough hot water so Chitter could enjoy a good soak.  He no sooner immersed himself when the door opened and a younger and smaller version of Draedin walked inside.  The young ferret placed several towels within easy reach and handed him a cake of soap and a bottle of dipping solvent.

Chitter relaxed in the hot water, enjoying the sensation.  Without opening his eyes, he spoke to his young attendant.  "The candied chestnuts are in my backpack, upper left pocket, on the flap."  He listened to the child rifle through the pocket and his excited squeal upon finding the candy.  "So Tranasey, what's your pleasure?"

"I missed your last trip here because my auntie broke her leg and needed help with the farm.  Please, sir, tell me all about where you come from?"

"I am nothing more than a humble merchant, living with my expectant wife, Highclimber.  My home is a place of squirrels and otters, with the squirrels living in treetop drays and the otters occupying a communal hut built from logs by a wide stream.  They fish the stream and we harvest the fields and trees.  Everyone benefits."

Chitter enjoyed talking about the places he visited since Tranasey seemed enthralled about the world beyond his home.  Whenever he finished one story, the fellow would beg for another.  Since he made several trips here each season, he did what he could to stay on Draedin's good side by entertaining his son.

"Did you know my mate and I were orphans raised at Redwall?  When we married, the two of us decided we would move to another village.  Since we didn't care where we lived, we went wherever the next squirrel visiting Redwall called home."

"Redwall?" the surprised voice had Chitter open his eyes for a moment and the soap soon forced his eyes closed.  He listened to a voice tinged with wonder.  "The stories I've heard about that place.  It must be great growing up in a home filled with different species.  Only other creatures I ever see are the guests, and none of them talk to towel boys."

Another male voice intruded on their conversation.  "If you're looking for information about Redwall, the best source comes from those that live there."

Chitter plunged under the water, rinsing off the soapsuds.  When he surfaced, he squeezed the water off his facial fur while searching for the source of the new voice.  At the opposite end of the room, another squirrel had entered the bathhouse.  While the young ferret rushed about preparing another tub for their newest guests, Chitter called out to him.

"Narkade, I thought you were still living with your mother back at Redwall."

"Until six months ago, that was true.  I ran off and joined a troop of squirrel thespians under the tutelage of a lady named Bushface.  Mother's last message wished me good luck on this tour.  We're performing for the next three weeks at the town's opera house, or what passes as such."

Both of them continued their animated conversation as they caught up on the latest news.  When the water in Chitter's tub turned cool, he climbed out.  After a vigorous shake and a good toweling, he dressed.  He invited Narkade to dinner, which he accepted.  As Chitter made his way to the Inn, Tranasey blocked his way.  He might have protested, but the young ferret's face had such a worried expression that the words died unspoken.

"Be careful where you wander, sir.  There are many in this town who speak of marauding rather than trading.  They say ferrets should hold power with a sharp sword and not a dull coin."

Chitter ruffled the youngster's head fur.  "I have heard such grumblings from some of the impoverished or the hot-headed drunks as they stagger from a tavern, Tranasey; it never goes further than talk."

The young ferret kept his voice low.  "All I'm saying, sir, is that the Peace Enforcers have their paws full as it is.  Between these bandits beyond the town limits and a series of murders within, there are many that don't take to outsiders like they did before."





A skiff pulled into the shelter of the cove.  While its crew rowed the craft towards shore, one creature stood at the bow.  When the keel grounded, he jumped into the knee-high water.  He waded in from the sea, not caring about his wet legs.  His purposeful steps took him to a nearby chair where his assistant waited with a towel and a pair of dry boots.

"Thanks for meeting me, old friend.  Shipboard business took a little longer than I expected.  Fortunately, outstanding issues have been resolved."

"Everyone will be pleased, Brigadier.  I had your command staff gathered when I saw you in the boat, sir.  You can give them the good news."

Brigadier Shawarran marched across the seashore.  His friend, Colonel Nateem, followed a pace behind him.  They continued through the camp until they reached his command tent, which hid the entrance to a deep cavern lit by several lanterns.  Brigadier Shawarran approached the long table where his officers stood at rigid attention.  With a sweep of his long cape, he took his accustomed place at the head of the table.  Everyone sat.

He got right down to business.  "I have just spent the last day speaking with the Admiral and every ship's Captain.  What they tell me isn't good.  Four of our troop ships are still missing and presumed lost with all paws after that storm we encountered.  We lost five of our six merchant vessels, meaning we have no supplies beyond whatever we can commandeer.  The ship's food supplies are no better and will be exhausted in four days, and that's if we deny the oar slaves their rations."

There was a momentary silence as everyone assessed the information.  From a point halfway down one side, a large sea rat rose.  He waited until the Brigadier acknowledged him.

"Our forces are not that much better off, Brigadier.  If we hadn't gone to half rations when we first landed some six weeks ago, and if our foraging parties hadn't found some supplies by raiding the nearby farms, our only remaining option would be a forced reductions in our slave population."

A female stoat jumped to her feet.  Her hackles rose as she stared at the other officer.  The two of them remained locked in their staring contest until the Brigadier asked for her report.  The female stoat's hackles lowered when she turned away from the sea rat.  She checked a paper in front of her before addressing him. 

"As much as we need food, we also need those slaves.  Without them, most of our army would be assigned to other duties, reducing our effective fighting force by more than half.  If we go into combat, it will be with less than fifteen hundred effective soldiers."

The wolf nodded.  "According to the tally sheets, we departed with a force of eight thousand warriors and a thousand slaves.  Our losses have reduced our warriors to three thousand, but all our slaves survived.  These slaves might be placid now, but if even one dies and the rumor starts about a new food source, there would be a revolt.  We cannot afford such a distraction when we are so close to launching our offensive."

An ermine sitting next to the snarling stoat raised his paw.  When the Brigadier acknowledged him, he gave his report.  "While you were gone, sir, another launch delivered the report we have been expecting.  General Zavallin's forces initiated their offensive three weeks ago.  They are meeting stiff resistance, but our forces are advancing on the first of two primary objectives.  We have our go for the conquest of Ferretville."

A general air of celebration swept through the assembled officers until Shawarran slapped his paw on the table.  The officers quieted as he read the various reports sitting by his chair. 

"Our soldiers are ready, how goes our efforts at conquering the port?"

Colonel Nateem opened a folder by his seat.  He read the pages within while the room waited for his evaluation.  The stoat rose, walked to the map and took hold of the pointer.

"Both our strategies have gone better than expected.  Our primary plan relies on a dissident squad of guards within the fortress.  They are scheduled to have morning gate duty in three days and promised they would keep the gates open, no matter what.  With your permission, Brigadier, I will inform them we intend commencing our attack that morning."

"You said both our strategies.  You never said anything about an alternative."

Nateem smiled.  "Our losses required a reevaluation of our original battle plan.  When we received word that our attack could begin, I sent a skiff offshore to the anchored merchant vessel, ordering him into our cove.  We can hide five hundred fighters within the ship.  The revised plan has those soldiers attacking the main gate from within the fortress at the same time as we launch our frontal assault.  If the dissidents fail to show, or the gates are closed, we still have a viable backup."

Shawarran nodded.  "The port is protected by a civil police force, not a standing army.  Most are armed with nothing more lethal than a wooden stick.  Once we have secured the gates, resistance will quickly collapse."

When a female stoat wearing the insignia of the medical unit glanced his way, Colonel Nateem answered her unasked question.  "The worse case scenario has us losing three or four hundred and having another hundred needing the services of our medical staff.  This port city anticipates an attack from the land and has all its defenses designed to repel such an attack.  Our forces will be behind them; it should be a short battle."

As he stood, everyone at the table came to attention.  "Put everyone back on full rations.  In three days, we either feast on the larders of Ferretville or the meat of our slaves."

Brigadier Shawarran pulled his boot on just as Colonel Nateem entered his tent.  "If I ever find the sadistic ... cobbler ... who made these ... accursed things, I'll force him to march a hundred leagues in them."  He slammed his left heel on the ground and sighed.  "So what news have you, Nateem?"

"Your gamble seems to have worked.  Our food is gone, but the soldiers are eager to fight.  Even our slaves seem impatient for the anticipated victory."

He nodded.  "The reports about our army's success helps.  Everyone is expecting little opposition, though I wonder what has happened during the usual two-week lag in communications from the north."

"Our soldiers moved into their final staging areas during the night.  If our turncoats show up at dawn, we can storm the gate and the battle should end in less than ten minutes.  Our ship will be entering port at the same time, which puts the defenders between our two forces."

"You've done well, Nateem."  Brigadier Shawarran stared up at the starry sky, pleased that it promised good weather.  He then turned to his second, "By the way, did you find an assignment for Captain Purrnella that keeps her out of trouble?"


Captain Purrnella's mood matched the predawn sky.  She anticipated an opportunity at combat, but drew an unappealing assignment.  She understood the reason for keeping her off the ship.  The port authority's paranoia regarding species other than ferrets would put them on alert if her unit joined that force.  Purrnella didn't argue about missing that duty, the Brigadier's subterfuge made sense to her on a tactical level.

However, she expected to lead a unit storming the main gate or one of the town's dozen Peace Enforcer's stations.  In the confusion combat created, she could bloody her claws.  The idea of close quarter combat with untested fighters appealed to her.

The only thing keeping her claws off Colonel Nateem's throat was his rank when he announced her mission.  "How can you put me in such a low-risk support role?  My experience in combat makes me more valuable attacking the port than scavenging supplies."

Colonel Nateem's voice remained calm despite the proximity of her claws to his neck.  "Your tendency for overindulging in mayhem could cost us valuable allies.  If a soldier from your unit kills one civilian, you better have a dozen witnesses to justify it.  If you're the one who does the killing, I doubt that will save your hide."

Each time she thought about the slight, her anger grew.  Yesterday, she spent hours sharpening her claws in anticipation.  She even tested them on an unsuspecting slave passing her tent.  So much blood pleased her, and she did let him live.  Though based on the Colonel's comments, her fun may have cost her any chance at combat. 

She climbed down from the hill overlooking her assigned section of the town.  Her unit milled about the carts, acting as if they won some grand prize.  Each time she heard one of the soldiers comment about their easy assignment, her claws slid out.  When one rat called their role vital, her tail slashed the air behind her.  Bad enough she commanded a unit of reluctant warriors, but when she learned she had to guard a contingent of slaves, she almost refused the assignment.

Two of the slaves had their backs to her, unaware of her approach.  She couldn't resist the opportunity.  Her claws extended to their full length.  A quick swipe wouldn't disable them, but it would satisfy her urge to draw blood.  She approached them with all the stealth inherent to her breed.  Her paws swiped at their backs, missing them.

It seemed inconceivable.  Then she discovered the reason.  Her mind remained so focused on the two young slaves that she never saw the other slave standing behind her targets.  Now the two young voles stood behind the slave overseer, no doubt expecting her to protect them from her wrath.

"How dare you interfere, Wobbles.  I catch two lazy slaves nattering and you intervene."

"If you harm them, where will we get replacements?  We need these two if we are to complete our mission." 

Wobbles pushed the two youngsters further behind her.  Wobbles approached Captain Purrnella, in a submissive posture.  No doubt hoping to defuse a tense situation. 

She considered her options.  Purrnella thought of pushing past their perceived protector and battering the two slaves.  It would at least provide her some entertainment.  She knew Wobbles couldn't stop her if she attacked the two young voles; it was her right as the ranking officer.  Maybe targeting Wobbles would provide a better object lesson.  Then she had an idea.  It made her purr.

"I will give you a choice, Wobbles.  When this day ends, you may either surrender those two to my idea of an appropriate punishment, or you can give them a public flogging as a reminder to the others that I will not tolerate laziness.  Either way, these two will be spending the next few days in the infirmary, if I am feeling generous."

Purnella enjoyed watching Wobbles squirm.  She guessed both options did not appeal to the squirrel.  If she got to select the punishment, Purrnella expected at least one less slave before morning.  The other alternative would make Wobbles an outcast among her fellow slaves, even though they knew she had no option. 

Wobbles never got a chance to respond.  Several signal flags snapped up along the hillside.  Purrnella saw the flags, pivoted on her heel, and shouted orders to her unit as they prepared for the upcoming battle.  Slaves slipped into their harnesses as they pulled their carts, following the soldiers.  Purnella led the charge over the hill separating them from the town.  Her first objective, a building Colonel Nateem identified as a large boarding house. 

All moved through the sleeping town.  Purrnella's claws flexed as she pointed at the main door.  Perhaps a fool would think themselves some great hero and challenge her.  She would welcome such heroics since she could then bloody her claws without disobeying her direct orders not to kill any of the civilians.


Chitter and Narkade finished a hearty breakfast and held their mugs high enough that the bartender noticed them.  Draedin's mate strolled over and poured each of them a hearty portion of apple cider before she moved to the next occupied table.  Chitter added his empty plate to the stack of dirty dishes sitting on the table's edge.

"I got to see your performance yesterday, Narkade.  You do have talent.  Even after seeing you do it, I'm still fascinated how a squirrel went from playing a cringing mouse slave to vixen warrior and back during that show."

Before Narkade could answer, glass from the door panels as well as splintered wood filled the air.  Five large rats stormed in, armed with various weapons.  Their shouted orders became part of the bedlam erupting in the common room as the other customers either screamed or dove under their table. 

The ferret bartender grabbed his club and jumped over the bar.  His life ended before his feet hit the floor.  A well-aimed bolt from a crossbow pierced his heart and his lifeless body rolled to the middle of the floor.  While one rat reloaded his crossbow, an additional five beasts entered.

Draedin's mate lunged for the body of the dead ferret.  Two rats raised their swords.  Only the intervention of a female wildcat prevented her death.  The wildcat delivered a solid kick to the lady's shoulder, sending her skidding across the floor until her back banged into the wall.  By then, the rest of the Inn's terrified staff had assembled in the kitchen doorway.

From his seat, Chitter watched the invaders.  Sometimes a merchant saw more than any trained warrior.  He noticed the uniformity of their garments, which meant these were soldiers, not some sea-borne collection of pirates.  He watched as the intruders took up a station that allowed them to both cover and support each other without any words being spoken.  They moved so well Chitter knew these beasts had trained for this mission, which told him this was no raid. 

His ears told him even more.  As a merchant who frequented this part of the continent, he recognized the major regional dialects.  He also knew many of the ones used by sailors visiting the town.  This one remained unknown to him.

Narkade slid his paws off the tabletop.  Chitter tried stopping his friend without any success and they found themselves staring down the length of a crossbow bolt.  The ermine's blank expression made Chitter stutter as he hissed in a louder than desired voice.

"Narkade, put your paws back on the table, but do it very slowly.  These bandits will shoot anyone that gives them the slightest reason to do so."

The wildcat turned from the lady proprietor.  She approached their table without interfering with the ermine's line of fire.  None of the other patrons, workers, or raiders moved.  For several long seconds the wildcat scrutinized them.  When the wildcat spoke, she did so in a low voice that held a note of menace, her full attention focused on Narkade.

"Your friend is right.  It would be safer if you kept both paws on the table at all times.  My unit is under strict orders not to kill unless provoked and you saw what happened to that fool with the club.  So tell me the truth, are you armed?"

"I have a short sword about my waist and a dirk in my left boot," said Chitter.  "My friend is unarmed.  I'm going to put both on the table."

As Chitter's right paw dropped below the table, the ermine shifted his aim towards him.  His paw came up with the sword and dropped it on the table.  Another move below the table and a small knife joined it.  The wildcat's voice purred, but her claws remained visible.

"Are those all your weapons?"

Narkade snapped off a less than polite answer, which raised the hackles of several nearby invaders.  When one moved towards them, an upraised paw from the wildcat had him retreat.  The wildcat pulled the table away from their bench, scattering the dirty crockery.

"Frisk these two squirrels.  Let me know if either one has a weapon."

Chitter stood, keeping his arms away from his side.  A glance at Narkade had his friend imitating his stance.  A rat patted them down, relieving them of their purse.  The wildcat did nothing more than growl and the rat returned their property.

"They held nothing back, Captain."

The wildcat's expression became that of a pouting child as she waved the two squirrels back into their seats.  She made no move to return the table to its proper place.  The wildcat examined her claws as she stepped away from them.

"Pity neither of you tried holding back a weapon.  Your deaths would serve this town well as an object lesson to any other fool that thought about defying us."

A sharp whistle from the wildcat had half of the remaining rats following her outside.  As the intruders exited, a contingent of five beasts entered the room.  Like the soldiers, they wore uniforms, but of an inferior quality and a different color.  Unlike the other raiders, they carried no weapons.  Chitter guessed they served the others. 

Two adult mice and two vole children darted through the common room.  The mice ran up the staircase towards the upper floors.  The vole children entered the kitchen area.  Nobody within the common room interfered.

The kitchen door swung open and the voles relayed sacks of food through the door.  When the mice returned, they carried bulging sheets.  Some of the ornate pewter candlesticks from the upstairs hallways stuck out of their improvised sacks.

The four moved under the directions of another beast that intrigued Chitter.  This fifth one might be a squirrel of many years as evidenced by her grey muzzle, but her stubby tail confused him.  Chitter wondered if she was some unknown species native to whatever land these intruders called home. 

Though this strange creature dressed like the other workers, she appeared to have some command latitude.  None of the soldiers contradicted her as she shouted orders to the other four.  It made him wonder if her loyalties were to these soldiers or her fellow slaves.  Perhaps he could use that divided allegiance against this enemy. 

Chitter kept quiet as the intruding rats bullied the other customers.  Several of the uniformed intruders patted down those guests not yet searched.  The rats confiscated all weapons in case somebody thought they were invulnerable or wanted a chance at playing heroic warrior.  They didn't have to worry, the body of the ferret bartender lying in a pool of blood acted as a testament to their willingness to use deadly force.

A large ermine entered the common room.  His brilliant white coat showed blotches of dark brown fur as his lighter summer coat replaced his heavy winter-white pelt.  It must have itched, as the ermine officer often clawed at his shedding fur.  He yanked one large clump off the side of his face and discarded it on the floor as he crossed the room.  Chitter called out to him.

"Hey, ermine, did you know this place has a bathhouse?  They keep a good selection of fur-rakes and strippers back there that can remove your winter coat in no time, if you need one."

The ermine gave him a quizzical look before he wandered closer.  He placed his paws on his hips and glared at him.  Chitter tried projecting a friendly face, but the ermine kept fingering the hilt of his sword.  He decided he must have made a less than favorable impression on this officer.

With a sinister sneer, the ermine spoke.  "Trying to get rid of me?  Figure these rats are too stupid not to stop whatever you two squirrels are planning?"

The ermine scowled first at him and then at his companion, Narkade.  One rat suggested the ermine accept the offer.  The ermine ordered him over as a babysitter for the two squirrels as he backed away from them.  He had just entered the passageway between the common room and the bathhouse when the wildcat poked her head inside.  Her snarl caused the ermine to hustle back.

If the ermine's voice a few moments back had an intimidating tone, it didn't come close to what the female wildcat possessed.  Even as the ermine stood like a living tree out on the floor of the common room, the wildcat circled him, her voice screeching out, rising in both volume and pitch.  Patrons sat at their tables mesmerized by the wildcat's actions as well as several of the rats, until a paw swiped at a nearby support beam.  The sharp claws gouged the wood so deep that splinters sprayed across the area, sending two female shrews diving beneath a tabletop.

For a moment, the wildcat's attention shifted from the male ermine to the disappearing shrews.  Moving with amazing speed, the wildcat seized the table and heaved it behind her.  When the female wildcat pointed, the two lady shrews moved to the designated chairs.  All could see her unsheathed claws and heard her deep growl.  Chitter guessed one or both shrews would feel the brunt of her anger.

Three creatures came out of the kitchen, distracting the agitated wildcat.  One vole rolled out a barrel of flour across the floor, while the other girl staggered under the weight of a sack of potatoes.  Their unknown leader carried another barrel of flour over her shoulder.

"Captain, with your permission, may I send Saupna and Harosa back to camp?  We have one cart loaded with food and ready for transport.  If they return to their mother with these supplies, they can prepare the officers' mess."

The wildcat swiveled her hips until she faced the kitchen doorway.  A quick glance over her shoulder at the frightened shrews must have convinced the Captain that the two shrews posed no immediate problem.  Chitter observed the miffed wildcat as she addressed the strange creature.

"And how do you intend transporting the rest of the food we confiscate back to our larders, Wobbles?  If I send these two back, where will I get replacements?"

"If we send the full cart back now, two stronger slaves can return the empty one later.  I'm certain camp personnel will find ready replacements when they receive your message about these full lauders."

The wildcat did nothing more than snort.  With a sharp bark from the adult slave, the two vole children hurried towards the street.  As the three slaves passed the Captain, she followed them out the door.  For a moment, none of the soldiers made a move.  Then the ermine lieutenant's rigid pose slumped.  He cast a quick glance to the street before walking behind the bar, declaring his intention to have a stiff drink.

Whatever brew he found, it proved distasteful.  After wiping the foam off his muzzle, the ermine lumbered over to the ferret proprietor that the Captain had kicked earlier.  His shouted inquiry got a frantic shake of the head from the frightened female.

"Don't try telling me this swill is your best ale.  An owner always has her best hops hidden somewhere, just in case an important visitor stops in."  He lifted the sobbing proprietor to her paws.  The ermine yelled into her face.  "So break out the good stuff 'cause that important visitor is standing right here."

Chitter grabbed Narkade's wrist and pulled him along.  Several of the rats turned in their direction until Chitter addressed the ermine.  "My friend and I will bring up a barrel of her best from the storage room."   

When the ermine waved them away, Chitter led Narkade through the trapdoor behind the bar.  They crawled along the length of a narrow passageway until they found themselves standing at the top of a rickety staircase.  Dropping into the basement, they took a few seconds orienting themselves within the dark room.  The near wall held racks of bottles, which Chitter ignored.  He wandered down the first row of kegs, reading the markings on the side of each.

Narkade grabbed Chitter's wrist, pulling him closer.  There was no hiding his disgust.  "You intend serving those . . . killers, like honored guests?  I always thought you better than that."

Chitter wrenched his arm free.  "Use your head.  We have got to get out of here, and fast.  Sooner or later, these invading soldiers will begin questioning everyone.  As a simple merchant from a small hovel of a village, I won't generate any special interest.  But you are the only son of a prominent ruler known throughout the land.  If you don't escape, they will use you against your mother and Redwall Abbey."

The gravity of their situation finally dawned on Narkade.  "Fine, we're here, now what?"

"Like I said, I'm a merchant, and I have delivered many a keg to this very inn.  There's a chute where the kegs are rolled into the basement, we'll climb up and exit through the back alley."

"Great idea, but have you forgotten about those rats upstairs?  If we don't come back real soon, one of them will find out how we escaped."

Instead of answering him, Chitter wandered up and down the rows of kegs.  His joyful cry drew the reluctant Narkade closer.  The squirrel watched as Chitter first tapped a keg and then held a mug under the spout.  A twist of the wrist and the mug filled with a dark liquid.

"Take this and soak your muzzle with it.  Then take a mouthful and gargle, but don't swallow, as this is one potent brew."

It took a great deal of grunting and groaning carrying the keg up the stairway, which was the easy part.  Moving the newly tapped keg through the passageway between the upper landing and the service door proved more difficult than Chitter envisioned.  As they cleared the entrance, the two heaved the keg from the floor to the bar.  Chitter grabbed a tankard, filled it and staggered over to the ermine.

One taste was all it took.  At the ermine's pleased look, Chitter suggested that he and his partner return to the storeroom for additional kegs.  With a wave of his paw, the ermine gave his blessing to their suggestion.  Chitter rushed over and pushed his friend back into the tunnel as several of the rats laughed.

"Did you smell that one's breath?  And the other one, the way he staggered?  Two silvers say those two squirrels don't return and another silver coin has them passed out under an empty keg."

Back on the staircase, Narkade balked.  "These ferret merchants are not the most trusting of creatures.  Wouldn't the owner lock that chute?"

"It is locked, but from the inside with nothing more secure than a sliding bolt.  We can exit this cellar as easily as you would your room upstairs."

Neither of them hesitated at the stairway.  Both knew they were in a race and the starting flag dropped when they reentered the service tunnel.  They weaved their way through the stacked kegs until Chitter pointed to the back wall.  As expected, Chitter found the wooden chute against the far wall.  A little bigger than a keg in width and height, it led to a pair of wooden doors.  The contraption offered no hindrance to them.

As they approached, a voice chimed in from a dark corner.  "You'll never get out of this town without my help."

"Tranasey, you gave us a good scare," said Chitter. 

The young ferret moved to the base of the chute, blocking it.  Chitter gave a quick glance behind him, glad the stairs remained clear of any soldiers.  They couldn't delay.

"Listen, we have to leave, but you don't.  Stay down here and when those soldiers come looking for us, tell them how we got outside.  I don't want you getting hurt."

"Hurt?  Those rats killed my uncle.  He might wave that club around, but he never hit anyone with it.  I saw what they did to my mother, so don't tell me I'll be safe if I hide down here.  Anyway, you need me."

Narkade snapped out an angry retort.  "We don't need some undersized, flea-bitten whelp slowing us down."

"That's where you're wrong.  You two bushy-tailed tree hoppers show your faces outside this inn and every green shirt will use you for target practice.  You want to get beyond the town's limits unseen, you need me.  I know ways that will get you out faster and away from most of the major roads, but you have to take me with you."

"Much as I hate agreeing with him," groused Chitter, "he's right.  Those soldiers will stop anyone not in uniform."  Chitter chewed his lip for a few seconds before he bopped the ferret youth on his muzzle.  "Fine, we'll take you, but if you fail to follow our orders, to the letter, I'll tie you to a tree for the soldiers to find."

The small ferret disappeared as he climbed the chute.  The hollow echo of the bolt sliding back came to them and they hustled after Tranasey.  At the top of the incline, they found the boy grunting as he pushed against the heavy door.  Chitter reached over the ferret and added his strength.  A few seconds later, it opened.

Their escape almost ended before it started when a green-coated stoat wandered into the alley, attracted by the odd noise.  Both squirrels were fortunate enough to find a hiding spot behind a trash heap before the soldier spotted them.  However, the stoat noticed the young ferret and quickly grabbed him by the throat with one paw as he went for his sword with the other. 

Chitter snagged a nearby broken table leg and with a mighty swing, clubbed the soldier from behind, killing him instantly.  Chitter unbuckled the sword and fastened it about his own waist.  He then tossed a sheathed dagger to Narkade, who attached it to his belt.  Checking that the alley remained empty, Chitter turned to their young guide.

"A dead soldier behind your uncle's tavern, and you missing, I'd say you're committed.  Got any way of getting out of here without going into the street?"

The ferret youth gave a snort that changed into a respectful, "yes sir," when he looked a second time at the dead stoat.  Chitter knew the young ferret's life almost ended if not for his intervention.  Chitter dragged the body closer to the building, and then buried it under some trash.  It wouldn't fool anyone doing a methodical search, but might give them a head start on any pursuit.

Tranasey led them to a high wooden fence and pushed against two boards.  When they didn't move, Narkade gave a low growl, expressing his displeasure.  The ferret picked up a small pipe and poked it through a knothole.  There was a soft thud and when the boy pushed against the planks for a second time, they moved aside.  Everyone passed through the opening.  On the other side, Chitter waited until Tranasey replaced the beam of wood.  Then all three hastened their steps.


Wobbles assisted the two slave children as they finished loading supplies on the cart.  She then led the voles up front and helped them don the harnesses.  Captain Purrnella, kept a watchful eye.  The two voles were about to return to camp when another officer approached.

"Captain Purrnella, I need one of your slaves for chariot duty."

"I thought we lost all our ponies in the storm, Major."

"We did.  Lucky for us our last troop ship, which we thought lost in that storm several weeks back, made landfall less than an hour ago.  They started out with twenty ponies, but only five survived the trip.  Brigadier Shawarran wants them used for perimeter duty."

"I'll send Wobbles back with this wagon," said Purrnella.  "She's an experienced driver, which should please our commander."

"Slinking out of Ferretville is a lot harder than I imagined," Chitter said.

The young ferret spared a quick glance behind him before checking the upcoming street.  So far, their luck held.  Twice, an undetected hiding place or hidden path helped them dodge a number of the green-shirted invaders as they patrolled the muddy streets.  Every step nearer the outskirts made such evasive moves even more difficult as the number of soldiers increased.

Without turning around, Tranasey tried explaining the problem.  "We're lucky, the port is mapped out and everything is orderly.  There's no place to hide.  The town's a warren of meandering alleys and cul-de-sacs.  If you're not on one of the main roads it's easy to get disoriented."

Chitter patted the young ferret on the back as they regrouped in the next alley.  As everyone tried catching their breath, Chitter complimented Tranasey.  "You're right, without your guidance, we'd all be captured, killed, or lost."

A hodgepodge of meandering paths wasn't the only obstacle hindering their progress.  Other refugees joined them.  Their threesome had increased as they moved further from the Inn.  Four ferrets that initially supported the invaders, now fled for their lives.  One vole couple believed safety lay beyond the town and back on their farm.  An elderly mouse feared for his life because he held an invader's sword he took from a soldier he killed.

"It's going to turn dark pretty soon, Tranasey.  Mind telling me how much further to the forest?"

"Another hour or two, and that's if we don't get lost in the dark.  There's a burned-out grain elevator at the edge of town, we can spend the night there, sir."

Chitter heard the screams of the populace and the smashing of doors and furniture as the invaders strengthened their grip on Ferretville.  None of those sounds left him in a talkative mood.  Now that a respite seemed possible, he offered his own observations.

"We should push on, Chitter.  There's a better chance of avoiding any sentries if we're moving at night."

"Agreed, Narkade, but we have more than the three of us and not everyone is ready for a sleepless night.  Much as I want to continue, we'll need a short rest.  Take us to that grain elevator."

Up ahead, Tranasey waved them forward.  He moved a door that hung on one hinge and sounded an urgent hiss.  One by one the others dashed from the alley across the weed-chocked street to the dilapidated structure.  As Chitter entered the building, he almost gagged over the stench.  The sooty smell from the charred walls, the moldy grain that coated most of the floors, and the rotting bodies of the birds, left him wishing they continued.

The female vole found a piece of wood that fit her paws and used it like a squeegee.  After a few moments, she had a clean spot by the wall where she and her mate could rest without touching the mold.  The others followed her example and soon cleared spaces about the room.  All slumped down, exhausted by the tension of their flight.  None commented about the smell.

Chitter dropped to all fours and showed off his agility as he climbed a set of rickety stairs to the second level.  The upper floor supported his weight and provided an ideal observation post.  He stared out the busted window, his ears twitching at every noise.

Now that everyone felt safer, the actor in Narkade came to the fore.  He engaged the others in lively conversations, sometimes performing whole scenes from memory.  When the old mouse demonstrated some knowledge of theatrical performances, Narkade no longer described some obscure scene or stage performance; he played the part for his enthralled, but captured audience.

The last rays of the sun acted like a spotlight as it streamed through a narrow crack in the west wall and Narkade utilized the bright illumination for some fancy dance moves.  Every creature there laughed and clapped in time to his motions. 

Chitter reappeared.  He bounded down the steps, avoiding those that couldn't support his weight.  At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped.  He stared at his friend, miffed by such antics.  Narkade must have sensed his displeasure as he miss a step in his dance routine.  The others ceased their celebration when he stopped dancing.

"Since everyone seems so energetic, what say we move out right now," asked Chitter.

Silence fell upon the tired group.  In just a few seconds, they returned to the spaces previously cleared and bedded down.  Narkade looked the most disappointed since he had lost his enthralled audience.  Though the others no longer showed any interest in his theatrical skill, Narkade had Chitter's undivided attention.

"You're so wide-awake, how about taking the first watch?  The second floor windows give an excellent view of the surrounding area."  Chitter eased his weary body onto the floor.  "Call me after the Town Hall clock has struck the hour for the third time." 

Sweet oblivion took Chitter as soon as he closed his eyes.  Somebody nudged Chitter awake.  As he rose, Narkade dropped to the floor, too exhausted to care about the dirt.  Another two hours and it was he who woke a bleary-eyed Narkade.

"Wake everyone, dawn is in another hour and we have to reach the safety of the trees before full light."

It took a few moments before the others gathered at the door.  Without a word spoken, they filed outside.  They continued trudging in a tight bunch as they made their way towards the forest beyond.  By the time the sun's rim popped above the horizon, they entered the woods.  An hour later, they left the trees and all signs of Ferretville. 

Noon came and everyone made good time through the open country.  All enjoyed their walk, thinking themselves beyond the reach of the invaders.  None check the area behind them.  That took time and all wanted nothing more than to put additional distance between them and the invaders.

Chitter scanned the area for a place where they could rest when he heard a strange noise.  An odd contraption that held a driver and two soldiers, rushed towards them.  As the thundering conveyance bore down on them, all fled in panic.

The elderly mouse fell behind the fleeing group.  The cart brushed past the fellow.  There was a loud scream as the whirling blades attached to the wheel's rim gored the old mouse.  A spear thrown by one of the soldiers in the cart silenced his cry forever.

Narkade spotted a pile of rocks ahead and at his signal, all ran for cover.  The two voles leading the way were overtaken.  One was trampled by the strange beast pulling the cart while a sharp edge along the trace severed the arm of the other.  As the terrified refugees sought safety behind the rocks, Narkade shouted at the injured vole who was shocked into immobility.  When the driver made a second pass, that one joined his comrade in eternity.

From behind one rock a voice called out.  "Anyone know what that was?"

A ferret responded.  "I once heard a sailor talk about ponies that pulled wagons.  He described them as dumb beasts, like goats, only bigger and faster.  Never thought I'd die because of one."

"We're not dead yet."  Chitter then shouted to Narkade.  "If that animal is mindless, all we have to do is kill the driver next time they pass.  Hand me your dagger; I'm pretty good throwing a blade."

"I . . . ah . . . I dropped it while running."

There was no time for recriminations as the two-wheeled cart raced past their temporary sanctuary again. 

"Well, at least they can't hurt us behind these rocks," one ferret yelled.

As the pony dashed by the rubble, two spears were hurled through the air.  A yelp, followed by a gurgling groan proved the unknown ferret's last comment inaccurate.  He now lay sprawled across a rock, two spears embedded in his chest.

Narkade picked up a long tree branch he found next to his hiding place, bouncing it several times in his paw.  He called Chitter to his side.  The squirrel barely dodged two spears aimed his way as their enemy continued racing back and forth.  His dive behind the rock bowled both Narkade and Tranasey off their feet.

"If we can get that cart closer, I can jam this branch in its spokes.  That'll stop them." Narkade hissed.

Gazing up the short hill, Chitter noted how the sun glistened off the wheel blades and the trace as the soldiers swiveled their vehicle for yet another pass.  "Got any bright ideas how we can do that?  And not get killed?"

In answer, Tranasey pushed himself off the rock and dropped into the field.  "Get ready."  The young ferret ran for the trees at the far end of the field.  At the top of the hill, the pony reared as it turned towards its fleeing target.  Every hoof beat cut the distance, but Narkade realized they would pass very close to the outcropping of rocks.

Actors excel at timing.  Narkade jumped from his place of concealment, lunging at the cart.  He jammed the thick branch between the whirling spokes and the wheel came to a jolting halt.  The sudden stop flipped the cart over.  Both soldiers fell onto the rocky field, stunned by their fall.

Chitter ran towards one of the soldiers.  "Narkade, you'll have to dispatch that other one."

Narkade rushed over to the semiconscious soldier lying on his back.  He reached down to the fox's belt, and withdrew a large dagger.  He held the weapon in both his paws with the blade pointing upward.  Narkade raised it until it was at eye level.  The sun reflecting off the finely honed blade and he spoke his part as if a huge crowd listened attentively to his words.

"Behold the accursed blade, once withdrawn from its leather sheath; it became a sharpened tooth that started a raging empire.  One small dagger.  Such a trivial thing, yet it sent fathers into eternal rest deep beneath the brine or sons to lie within some unmarked grave far from home."  Still holding the blade in both paws, Narkade raised the weapon as high as he could and reversed the point so that it was aimed at the dazed fox. 

"Let this bloody metal meld with the iron heart that ruled this now twice accursed land.  Allow its merger to forge a greater peace and end this ruler's gory reign.  Now the mighty tyrant shall feel the fang's bite." 

With that, Narkade brought both paws down with all his might.  His aim true, the blade pierced the soldier's chest.  Unlike the trick blades used by actors, the point did not retract into the hollowed hilt.  Before death took the fox, his eyes opened wide.  Shock and pain passed in an instant as the fox stared into the eyes of his executioner.  Narkade withdrew the blade.  When he did, blood covered his paws and chest.

"I have committed murder most foul.  The king is dead and now my sword carves a feast for maggots.  I have set a table for the most ignoble of insects, but did such a king, even an evil tyrant such as he, deserve this fate?  Can now the never-ending river cleanse my fur of this sundered life's blood and will the glorious sun, on the morrow, burn its memory from my mind?"

A paw tapped Narkade on his shoulder and he jumped off the body.  His eyes remained focused on the dead fox.  As he continued hyperventilating, Chitter grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.  Chitter moved between him and the dead body.

Narkade became aware of his surroundings.  The blade fell and Narkade dropped to his knees knowing the scene he had just played was reality.  His victim would not rise with the next curtain call, and that what he did, could never be undone.

"Killing another creature isn't something to enjoy.  Take pride in your reaction, but understand you had no choice."  Chitter knew his words brought no comfort; they didn't when another said the same to him years ago.

As the remaining members of their group gathered near, Chitter approached the pony.  Its agonizing cries resonated on his heart and he was moved to mercy.  Lifting his blade as high as possible, he hacked at the thick neck of the wounded animal.  With the third chop, the animal moved no more.

By then, Tranasey had joined the others some distance from the toppled cart.  He scanned the nearby field.  The first time he spoke, his voice carried no further than the nearest survivor.  None acknowledged his question, so he called out again.  This time, everyone heard.

"Has anyone seen the driver?"

Chitter stared at Tranasey, unsure why his comment sounded so urgent.  Then it registered.  He remembered the pony pulled something containing three riders.  They killed the two soldiers after they were ejected from the capsized cart, but the last occupant remained missing. 

He approached the toppled vehicle, not sure what he expected to find.  Broken spears and other gear littered the area, but no bloody corpse.  Chitter gathered his group next to the overturned contraption.  As they drew nearer, Chitter detected a moan.

"Give me a paw flipping this thing over," Chitter yelled.

"No wonder we couldn't find the driver; she's shackled to it," said Narkade.

The driver had her feet wedged into leather stirrups on the floor.  Her paws held onto similar straps attached to the inside so tight that her knuckles appeared white.  What drew his attention the most were her manacled wrists, and for a moment, he stood rigid, mesmerized.  Again the driver gave a low moan, which galvanized him into action.

"Tranasey, see if one of those soldiers carried a canteen." 

While the young ferret foraged among the dead, Chitter approached the driver.  She was slumped over as far as the chain allowed and seemed only semiconscious.  Chitter patted her muzzle until she opened her eyes.  He then helped her drink from a canteen the ferret retrieved.

"I remember you from the Inn."  Chitter snapped his fingers, pleased by his memory.  "Your name is Wobbles.  What is this thing and why do they let a slave drive it?" 

As he spoke, Chitter smiled at the old female, hoping a friendly face would help her relax.  He needed answers to what had happened over the last day and believed this strange beast could provide them.

"This thing is a chariot and driving one in battle is a hazardous task.  Drivers are usually the first killed because they cannot duck behind the armored sides while controlling the pony.  Slaves are considered expendable."   

He introduced himself and his companions, but the female's eyes flutter as they changed from lucid to a glazed-over stare.  Chitter tried reviving Wobbles once more.  Narkade stormed over to his friend and seized his shoulder.  Such was the force of his action that Chitter toppled out of the chariot. 

Narkade shouted, "We have to leave, and now.  These soldiers are going to be missed.  If we're still here when they come looking, we'll be lucky if they don't kill us all.  You know that."

"There has to be a way of freeing her."  Chitter's voice held a note of frustration.

"Those dead soldiers don't have a key and we have no way of breaking that chain.  Even if we did, she's injured.  We can't travel fast if we take her."

"One thing I learned growing up at Redwall, we free slaves, regardless of the cost.  Thanks to my real mother, I escaped slavery as a very young dibbun.  When I became old enough, I understood the price she paid for my freedom.  I swore no creature would ever wear chains, not if I could help it."

Narkade kept his voice low.  "And that's the key phrase, 'if I could help it.'  I don't want to leave her either, but what choice do we have?"

Chitter felt Wobbles' eyes focused on him and turned in her direction.  With a lithe bound, he again stood inside the chariot.  A moment later, Chitter had both paws wrapped about the shackles, his feet braced against the front panel.  Giving an ear-piercing scream, he strained every muscle in his body as he tried wrenching the chain out of a slot in the chariot's armor.  His effort spent, he collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

Savagely swiping the tears off his muzzle, Chitter approached the group standing a short distance away from the wreck.  None said anything about his futile effort at snapping the chains.  With an irritated wave of his paw, Chitter motioned everyone closer.

"I'm sick of running away from those needing help.  Mother Tassel taught me a lot better than that and I'll not shame her now.  Narkade, you can travel faster by yourself than with the rest of us.  You have got to get word to Redwall.  Tell your mother everything that has happened.  She'll know what to do."

"What about everyone else?  You have an obligation to protect them too, or have you forgotten?"

"They can travel with me to my village.  The residents of Green Birch will offer them a place of refuge.  Then I'm organizing a war party and come back.  If this invading Horde wants a fight, I'll make them rue the day they came to our land."

Chitter waited with the others until Narkade reached the woods.  The remaining survivors scavenged the area for anything useful while Chitter talked with the injured slave.  When the others indicated their readiness to leave, Chitter joined them. 

Halfway between the others and the overturned chariot, he stopped.  He ran back and jumped next to the slave, Wobbles.  His eyes bore into her very soul, which made her shudder.  Chitter grabbed her head and forced her snout under his armpit.  He held her tight, overpowering her feeble struggles.  His voice had a ragged, harsh sound to it as he whispered.

"Drink deep of my scent, Wobbles.  I swear, one day, I shall free you.  If ever you detect my odor, know that your salvation, and your freedom, is near.  This I swear by all I hold sacred."

Wobbles struggled, her battered body could take no more abuse and once again she slumped into unconsciousness.  Chitter placed the half filled canteen next to her before he left.  As he walked away, he glanced backwards.  She had not moved.


Captain Purrnella Slyclaw followed the main road to the northwestern base camp in response to orders received earlier that day.  Once she located the canvas huts that housed the Military Intelligence Unit, she asked for directions to the commanding officer's quarters.

Colonel Varden, the Chief of Intelligence, had commandeered a small hut and turned it into both his headquarters and his home.  Purrnella snorted at the extravagance, but chalked it up as one of the many privileges a commander's position afforded.  She expected some underling or slave to answer her knock.  Instead, the Colonel answered the door, inviting her inside as if this were a social call.

The grey wolf motioned her to a vacant chair.  He then poured her a measure of liquor before taking his own seat.  Neither spoke for a few moments as they savored the fiery local brew.  The Captain maintained her silence, waiting for her superior to make the first move.

"Tell me Captain; are the stories about you true?  Do you find excuses for engaging in physical confrontations because you enjoy inflicting pain or because you like dominating others?  I mean, was it necessary to put your lieutenant in a field hospital because two squirrels tricked him and escaped?"

Before she could reply, the wolf held up his paw denying her any chance at responding.  Colonel Varden rose and walked over to his desk where he removed a flask and poured a measure of its contents into a glass.  He added a bit of water and began swirling the mixture, but made no move at drinking the concoction.

"It doesn't matter.  You see, Captain, your crass methods are ineffective because they are the worse extreme.  You may gain some pleasure from your abusive actions, but you miss important information.  Now this," and here the wolf displayed the glass, "is the other extreme, a serum that lowers one's mental guards while causing no physical harm.  It too is not always effective as sometimes prisoners will tell you what they think you want to hear, even if it isn't the truth."

She shrugged, unsure this conversation led anywhere.  "So what do you do, Colonel Varden?"

"I use a mixture of the two extremes.  The trick is in knowing how close and to which extreme.  That's why I brought you here.  I'm questioning the slave Wobbles and since the two of you are acquainted, perhaps your presence might prove useful."

With that, Colonel Varden led the way outside.  They walked to a wide field where they saw a stoat kneeling by another form.  As they drew nearer, the body of the prisoner became visible.  She had been staked to the ground, her arms and legs stretched out and her eyes blindfolded.  Although the stoat made no physical move against the creature, the prisoner squirmed and whimpered.  The stoat held four fingers up before he resumed questioning the staked prisoner.

The wolf motioned her to a nearby bench.  They sat and watched.  She observed the other creature's suffering and purred.  When the stoat struck the prisoner with a leather strap he carried, the prisoner's reaction seemed so mild that she expressed her disappointment.  The Colonel leaned closer as he explained what was happening.

"His signal told me that he is going through the fourth round of interrogation with this prisoner.  She hasn't slept since we brought her here late last evening.  My inquisitor refuses to believe anything she tells him, which means he has been using that strap not only as an inducement to talk, but as a way of keeping her awake.  Notice how the prisoner suffers, but the whip does no serious harm, though she will be rather sore once he's finished with her.  I need information, but not at the expense of valuable army equipment."

Captain Purrnella took the hint and kept her voice low enough that her comment would not reach the bound prisoner.  "I would be more persuasive with that strap.  Tickling her isn't going to get what you want.  Slaves don't respond to anything less than maximum pain."

"This is the fourth time she has undergone interrogation.  Each time with a different officer.  The first one had her wailing loud enough to wake the dead.  The next two used pain to keep her awake.  Our friend out there uses the whip as a reminder of what can happen.  If I did as you suggest, she might very well die and we will have learned nothing."

"It looks quite ineffective, sir."

Colonel Varden smirked.  "You don't understand interrogation techniques.  I am giving her something we call the rock and feather treatment.  My officer has been the rock, harsh and unyielding.  After more than twelve hours of continual questioning, she is feeling exhausted and without hope.  Now I will step in and rescue her.  In her gratitude, she may reveal things she didn't even realize she knew.  Now watch and learn how to play a prisoner."

Colonel Varden rose and took a casual stroll over to the stoat that still questioned Wobbles.  The wolf and stoat argued.  The stoat shouted in an angry voice, claiming the squirrel withheld information and punctuated his comment by striking the prisoner's leg and back.  The wolf pulled rank and ordered the prisoner taken to his quarters and summoned a Healer, thus ending their masterful performance. 

Several soldiers standing nearby carried Wobbles inside the Colonel's house, but did not remove her blindfold.  Colonel Varden had the squirrel tied to the bedposts, claiming the Healer had ordered it.  Wobbles tried resting on the bed, but the restraints kept most of her body suspended above the mattress.  The wolf ordered the blindfold removed and Captain Purrnella complied.

Wobbles took one look at her and renewed her struggles, fear evident in her voice and in her expression.  Colonel Varden rushed to the side of the prisoner, expressed his concern about her distress, and eased her fears with the promise that there was no danger.  He then produced the beaker Captain Purrnella saw him prepare earlier.

"Drink this; the Healer tells me it will dull the pain."  Varden gave Wobbles an inquisitive look, while he pointed at Purrnella.  "I take it you either know her or about her reputation?" 

Wobbles nodded.  "I was given to her family when she was but a kitten.  Her father then sold me to the army.  Stories about her are a major topic of discussion in the slave camp."

While the Healer worked a soothing salve into her bruised body, Colonel Varden questioned Wobbles.  Sometimes he asked her about Purrnella or the other slaves in the camp.  Eventually, the wolf quizzed her about the loss of the chariot.  Wobbles babbled, telling the Colonel everything she knew.  By the time the Healer was done, the squirrel's speech slurred as the effects of the drug and the long period without sleep took its toll.  Wobbles directed her final comment at Purrnella before passing out; the slave's voice held a defiant tone she never exhibited before this day.

"He got . . . away, and you'll . . . you'll never find him."

Once outside the room, Captain Purrnella spoke with Colonel Varden.  "Any idea if she was speaking about Narkade, or their leader."

"Most likely she is referring to the one she called angry squirrel.  Wobbles didn't remember him by name because she faded in and out, but she does recall his promise to free her.  That might prove useful in the future if this other squirrel does decide to fight us."

"I wouldn't trust her, Colonel.  Wobbles has been a model slave, very submissive until now.  I have never known her to speak in such a manner before today.  Perhaps she has a rebellious side."

Colonel Varden laughed.  "It's the drug.  Some prisoners change personalities under its influence.  The meek are boastful, the cowardly, brave, and the submissive, assertive.  Her tone of voice is inconsequential."

He then expressed his gratitude for frightening Wobbles, as that was why he had her there.  He considered her a prop for the interrogation, nothing more.  In her anger, Purrnella denounced his interrogation methods as ineffective.  The Colonel laughed at her indignation.

"An Intelligence agent gathers bits and pieces from any number of sources and combines them into something useful.  When I use what Wobbles gave us, I am going to have some very important information for Brigadier Shawarran, and you never noticed it.  In your haste to inflict pain, you act like a fool who squanders a fortune on something worthless.  No wonder our commander reduced your rank to captain."



Inside the room, after the two officers left, Wobbles fell into a deep, exhausted drug-induced sleep.  Her tired body sank into the soft mattress, her limbs free of their painful restraints.  Her breathing eased as her mind relaxed.  Darkness fell upon her.

From this blackness, a thin ribbon of light appeared.  She reached out, thinking the colored light a solid object.  Her paw passed through it and within her mind, she saw the image of some creature polishing boots.  Wobbles brushed another lighted thread and saw a fork stab a potato.  She continued falling through the colored threads, bombarded by unknown moments of time as experienced by others.  Since she saw and experienced their visions, she had no way of knowing the source.

With a jolting abruptness, the falling sensation stopped.  She twisted her head to one side and a huge spider approached her.  Behind this nightmarish creature, Wobbles recognized the pole she had touched seven years earlier when a witch gave her a vision.  Like that time long ago, all of the surrounding threads terminated at the pole. 

"The time is drawing near when the prophecies revealed will come to pass.  Be vigilant, Wobbles."

The sensation of falling resumed.  As she tumbled through the blackness, another bright light shone down on her.  A very small squirrel stood in silhouette.  Based on its size, she knew it must be a very young child, perhaps a toddler.  The unknown squirrel receded into the distance, but not before he stretched his paw towards her and cried out in a heart-rending voice just one word: "Mommy."

As darkness overtook the child, Wobbles tried recalling the one she lost, but the passage of time had dulled her memory.  Yet one thing did come to her tired mind.  She recalled the name of her child, a name that remained unspoken for more than twenty years. Within the room where she slept alone, Wobbles called out his name. "Chitter."

"Shall we continue to the final item on our agenda," asked Brigadier Shawarran.

Outside his commandeered office, which belonged to the former mayor, the town's clock struck noon.  Brigadier Shawarran felt euphoric.  Three days into the occupation and his staff reported no incidents during the night.  He expected any armed resistance to last at least a full week, maybe longer.  Now he shifted his focus from pacification to his primary goal, the expansion of the port facilities.

The engineers announced the completion of their initial survey.  Their commander seemed very anxious about returning to his work as he groused about the time wasted at such meetings.  The Brigadier ignored his comment, knowing he would complain about a sunny day if it hindered his work.

The weasel ceased throwing numbers at him and got to the summary of his status report.  "Oar slaves from the beached warships are working at dredging the channel and widening it.  We hope to adhere to our original time schedule, barring any further injuries.  Additional slaves could insure timely completion of our task."

"With pacification done, we can take slaves from the outlying settlements," said the Brigadier.  "Best we avoid taking this town's residents as we need their cooperation.  However, I want all efforts regarding army recruitment doubled as we have too few if we meet any organized resistance."

Brigadier Shawarran stood, ready to dismiss his staff.  His Intelligence Officer raised his paw.  Since the wolf seldom spoke at these meetings unless he had something he considered vital, Shawarran gave him leave to speak.  The rest of his Command Staff turned in their seats and groaned, knowing the meeting might last longer than anticipated.  Colonel Varden stood so all could see him.

"I have learned of a citadel far to the north of us, called Redwall Abbey.  This place has quite a reputation.  It prizes peace over conquest and the residents welcome strangers with open arms.  They have no standing military force, save one warrior and a guiding spirit that many believe can become real in times of need.  Stories say no enemy has ever conquered Redwall, though many have tried.  Best of all, they remain independent of the Northern Alliance."

Several staff members barked in amusement.  Varden, waited until a sense of decorum returned.  The other members of the Command Staff acted as though this information held no importance.  However, a nod from the Brigadier had the Intelligence Officer continue his briefing.

"My informants tell me the place is now ruled by an elderly female squirrel.  Fortune did not favor us when the son of this Abbess of Redwall, evaded our perimeter guards.  It seems he and his band of refugees somehow overpowered one of our chariots even though they were unarmed."

There followed a moment of agitated murmuring among the officers.  The war chariots had proven themselves a vital weapon when the Town of Ferretville fell to them.  If the chariots could conquer an entire town without suffering casualties and then be defeated by an unarmed civilian, it shattered their sense of invulnerability.  Colonel Varden held his paw up for silence.  When the Brigadier made no inquiries, he continued his report.

"I have it on first paw knowledge that this squirrel, Narkade, is on his way back to his home at Redwall Abbey.  I'm certain he will alert them to our presence.  If he travels with a minimum of rest, I estimate his trip will take at least seven days.  It might take him a day or two longer since he has to forage for supplies."

One officer, a female stoat that had many battle scars attesting to her prowess, gave a deferential cough.  When Brigadier Shawarran acknowledged her, she asked about the other refugees that accompanied the squirrel.  Colonel Varden perused his notes before he answered.

"The others are fleeing to a place called Green Birch; perhaps a four-day march from here.  It is a small village nestled in a grove of trees near a river.  Its inhabitants are squirrels and otters, numbering less than a hundred, counting the young.  I doubt any of them are true warriors."

The female stoat stood up to her full height.  Every officer there saw her hackles raised, a sure sign she wanted a fight.  In the unexpected pause, the stoat faced her commander.

"With your permission, Brigadier, I would like to take a strike force and intercept these refugees.  Civilians don't move as fast as a trained military unit.  If we leave now, we can intercept the escaped civilians at Green Birch and contain the news of our presence.  The longer this land remains ignorant of our intentions here, the better.  Best of all, any captives can be added to our contingent of slaves."

Brigadier Shawarran granted her request.  As she departed, he turned to the ferret sitting on his left, asking how long it would take to move a sizable force against the Abbey.  When his logistics officer indicated a minimum of twelve days, he pounded his paw on the table and growled in exasperation. 

"Not good enough.  We must arrive within two days of that squirrel or the Abbey will have sufficient time to prepare adequate defenses.  No more than ten days."

An ermine down the far end gave a snort that attracted the attention of every officer.  He returned their icy stares with one of his own until Brigadier Shawarran demanded an explanation.  The ermine never flinched.

"Do we care about some distant Abbey knowing we're here?  You said they're peaceful and isolated by choice, so where's the danger?  Redwall has no army that can challenge us and since they are not allied with the Northern Alliance, they will not be apt to relay any intelligence."

Shawarran growled, expressing his displeasure at the ermine's assessment.  "Those are the very reasons why we must attack.  In our paws, the Abbey becomes a dagger aimed at the belly of the Northern Alliance.  Any idea how we can mount an offensive before this place can raise a viable defense?"

A ferret on the opposite side of the table asked if a scouting force could get there any faster.  Another officer answered his comment by stating it would cut the time by one day, still leaving the defenders sufficient time.  The low snarl at the head of the table indicated that such a delay remained unacceptable.

A heavy silence settled over the Command Staff like a thick fog as every officer tried devising some alternative.  Everything depended upon speed; they had to get there within hours of the squirrel's arrival.  Nateem rose. 

"Why not use our ponies?  Discard all their armor and hook them to several light carts.  We should get there a lot sooner.  Our soldiers may even beat that messenger if we move fast enough.  Since they have no army, even a token force can defeat unarmed civilians.  All we need do is get through the main gate."

The ferret responsible for the ponies nodded.  Her quill flew across the paper in front of her as she did some rapid calculations.  When she finished, she declared her findings.

"It will work.  Figure four carts holding ten warriors each.  They will reach their destination in nine days.  Our quick response units can follow this initial strike force and will get there eighteen to twenty-four hours later, which will double the number of warriors.  Within three days of our first unit's arrival, we can muster a force of a thousand soldiers.  The one drawback in such an audacious plan is the lack of supplies.  We can get there, but not back."

Colonel Varden spoke.  "This Abbey has an abundant food supply.  If the stories are true, they somehow missed the crop blight hitting this land, which means a bountiful harvest in another two or three months.  Once we take possession of Redwall, we can feast on its rich lauders.  When the Northern Alliance learns this famous citadel has fallen, it will dishearten every soldier.  Our General will be very pleased by our initiative at crushing their spirit.  We can hold our position with a small force since these creatures are pacifists."

Within the hour, orders were issued.  Nateem gathered his unit and prepared the carts.  Brigadier Shawarran exited his office carrying his backpack.  He marched up to the lead cart and with a lithe bound, joined the other soldiers. 

"I intend being there when Redwall falls," said Shawarran.



While Tassel's young charges attended the Spring Extravaganza, the Mother Abbot treated her like an honored guest.  Each night Tassel found herself sitting next to Robertasin at the head table.  The Abbess entertained her with stories of her son's youth at Redwall, while prodding her for stories regarding her two pups and the other dibbuns under her care.  Such unusual attention made her nervous, but Bruno encouraged her to accept Robertasin's obvious gesture of friendship. 

After another entertaining dinner, Tassel and Bruno relaxed in the Abbey's Common Room.  As conversations ebbed and flowed, one of the sentries crossed the room at a leisurely pace.  Each time he spoke, residents rushed from the room.  When he passed their table, Bruno snagged his arm, wondering what had everyone excited.

"The children return from the Spring Festival.  They should reach the gate in another ten minutes," he said as he continued through the crowded room.

"It looks like our holiday is over, husband.  Best we meet them at the gate," said Tassel.

She arrived just as her son led a large contingent of dibbuns pass the inner gate.  Many darted off to parents, the excitement of their trip still fresh on their minds.  Those Tassel cared for surrounded her; their voices creating a cacophony of exuberance.

Bruno gave a bark that overpowered the young voices.  One by one, the dibbuns quieted as they stared at Pa Badger.  With order restored, Bruno no longer needed to shout.

"I'm sure everyone has a story to tell, but for now, let the elders talk."

"You can tell me everything in the morning," said Tassel in an effort to forestall any arguments.

By the next afternoon, she had heard about the many wonders from all but her youngest charge.  Tassel led the young mole, Bridgett, to a bench warmed by the sun.  She lifted the dibbun onto the bench as she was reluctant to climb onto it.

"Everybody else already told you what happened.  Why do you want me to tell it too," Bridget said with a pouty voice.

Tassel prodded the girl, assuring her of her interest.  The mole's brow furrowed as she thought, no doubt considering each event.  Her eyes glowed as she faced her.

"Captain Serenity took us to a feast where we saw the King.  I even gotta chance to dance when a band played music and everyone clapped for me."

Bridgett stepped back and tried doing a few steps on the bench.  Mother Tassel clapped as the girl pranced.  The mole leaned closer to her as she revealed even more about the party her daughter had arranged.

"There was one mean old lady spikedog that said bad things about you.  She called you a vermin and said Redwall should get rid of you." 

Bridget jumped off the bench and stepped back several paces.  She then strutted forward while waving her slate board like a fan.  The mole's portrayal of the Countess Dorsattin Sharpae, the most powerful members of the Council of Nobles, proved less than flattering. 

Her son's account of the party and the meeting with the Countess matched the child's.  It seemed the noble lady hedgehog maintained her dogmatic dislike for her, though they never met.  Thorn could not convince the powerful noble that she had reformed over the many years.  The Countess wanted Tassel removed, but so long as Redwall expressed a willingness to keep her, she would not act on her personal dislike. 

Badgermom Tassel caught movement at a window on the second floor of the Abbey.  Her eyes marked the window and she knew what creature must be looking her way.  It had to be the Abbess since the window was the one in her office.  Tassel doubted many other black-furred residents within Redwall would have some reason for being in that particular room at this exact moment.

Robertasin, Abbess of Redwall, stared across the courtyard, observing Tassel with one of her young charges.  She wondered if the badger knew just how much her attitude had changed.  Robertasin tried hammering that point home while Tassel was her special guest, but didn't know if she had succeeded.

"Mother Abbot, are you listening to me?"  The voice did not have the respectful tone to it a resident would use.  It carried a suggestion of superiority, which made her slow down her reaction as a way to reaffirm her dominance.

Robertasin turned from her office window as if she had plenty of time.  The room's other occupant sat on the sofa under the mounted shepherd's crook, his head tilted to the side as he stared at her.  His long white legs were stretched out before him and his shirt had ridden out of his britches, showing the grey fur that covered his slim stomach.  In one paw, the hare held several sheets of paper and even more sheets littered the nearby floor.

"Yes I am, Markus.  Just because I want to give my eyes a rest doesn't mean I'm not listening."

"Abbess, you have got to do something, and do it soon.  When you placed this Abbey on a war footing ...."

She glared at the reclining hare, her voice hissing like an angry adder.  "Keep your voice down you long-eared, blabber mouth.  We have got to maintain secrecy."

The hare's snort expressed his exasperation better than any words.

"This secrecy has gone on far too long, Abbess.  There is open talk about all the weird things my unit has done and those elders we have employed are wondering what is happening.  I have done everything in my power, but rumors are surfacing."

"Such rumors remain nothing more than wild speculations.  When it comes time for me to make an announcement, everyone will be praising your steadfast assistance."

Robertasin returned to her desk and dipped her quill in the open ink bottle.  Her paw traced the words on the long list before her until it reached a point near the bottom.  She drew a smudged line through the words, gave a giddy yip, and dropped the pen.  One more item eliminated from their list and another step closer to insuring the security of the Abbey.

"When we started this, you said the emergency was expected within five days.  Here we are going into the fourth week and are yet to see any indications of imminent danger.  Just look at how all this secrecy has affected the most jovial of creatures.  That cellar hog has been growling at his staff because you keep insisting the inventory numbers be kept accurate."

"Markus, that fellow will become a hero when the siege begins.  Thanks to him, we have canned whatever foods we have.  Meats and fish are either being salted or smoked for long-term storage.  He even spotted a few leaky cellars that can be fixed before the heavy spring showers hit the area saving a lot of our perishables."

General Markus swung his legs over the side and stared at her.  His expression confirmed how worried he felt, and his words dispelled any doubt. 

"Like it or not, I think our secret is slipping out.  Healer Shortspike has an idea what's coming because of the additional medical supplies we procured.  We keep giving her things she listed as traumatic necessities while ignoring the maintenance herbs and potions."

The Abbess waived her paw dismissively.  "She has no idea what's going on."

"You think so?  According to your resident warrior she has it figured out.  Two days ago, he escorted her on a hunt for some medicinal roots.  While her helpers gathered and processed the material, she asked him one question: 'How many casualties do you expect?'  I'm afraid Jazzin's silence confirmed her suspicions.  Others will soon guess what's happening and when the word does get out, every resident within these walls will panic."

Robertasin leaped out of her chair as if it turned into the pointy end of a spear.  Her bushy tail snapped to straight up as she marched over to her window.  The Abbess remained standing there for several moments before she returned to her desk.  She acted as thought she was not aware that her fingers were drumming the desk.

"Very well, Markus.  If nothing happens in the next five days that supports my contention, I'll reveal everything to our Counsel of Elders, but in private.  That should satisfy their curiosity and buy us another week.  We must continue our preparations, regardless of the cost.  I'll not inform the general population until we know the threat is real."

"What happens if this threat to Redwall's safety never materializes?  Have you thought about that possibility?"

She did not answer his query.  Markus went about gathering his papers.  From where she sat, his furrowed brow and worried expression could be clearly seen.  His eyes stabbed her as he weighed his words.  When the Long Patrol General spoke, he used a voice better suited to that of an army commander rather than a friend on holiday.

"I believe your vision has got to be wrong.  No military force would consider Redwall a first-strike strategic objective, and we know of no bandit strong enough to consider an unprovoked attack.  An army would strike a more viable target, like the badger King's citadel built on Fire Mountain or some inlet that can support seagoing vessels, not an isolated inland fortress."

Robertasin listened to his assessment before she wandered back to the window.  The Abbess allowed her gaze to wander about the courtyard where she watched others moving about, each of them performing their normal, routine tasks without any concern.  She spotted Tassel still conversing with the young mole at what she guessed was a fun time for both of them, trying to forget why she continued meeting the hare in relative secrecy. 

Such a peaceful scene made her stomach churn and she felt a sharp pain in her chest.  Robertasin knew the stress of keeping the secret affected her health, but had no confidant she could trust with her forebodings.  The Abbess knew her position isolated her and that terrified her.  She alone was responsible for all the residents that put their lives in her paws. 

For the first time in her reign as the Abbess of Redwall Abbey, she experienced the icy fingers of fear.  The dream happened so long ago, but too many Abbey leaders recorded prophecies that later came true.  She dare not ignore it.  She wondered if she remembered the words of Martin the Warrior, or was it her stressed mind playing tricks on her when she made that diary entry.  Did Tassel's recent nightmares have any connection to her vision of a future conflict? 

No doubt many residents speculated about what form of insanity had taken hold of their leader.  Though she hadn't told Markus, she heard a rumor the Council of Elders might seriously consider a motion asking that she be removed or forced into retirement.  They believed her recent actions indicated she no longer possessed the mental capacity to continue as Redwall's leader.  It seemed their final decision hinged on who should replace her.

"I know I'm right."  Robertasin whispered.  "I wish I was wrong, but everything my gut screams is that we have too little time."

Tassel kept quiet, happy to hear about the Spring Festival.  Bridget ceased talking about her experiences once she realized she had told the last story earlier.  The young mole returned to the bench, and requested some chalk.  Tassel retrieved a piece she had in her pocket and handed it to the young dibbun.  The child focused her attention on the slate propped on her lap.

Badgermom Tassel relaxed; enjoying a very pleasant spring day.  Most of the children she cared for worked in the fields beyond the outer walls.  This early in the season, every resident assisted in preparing the land for seeding.  The school cancelled all morning classes since crops held a higher priority.  Lessons could be delayed until the afternoon.

Elders passing Tassel gave either a soft hello or a simple nod.  Tassel found such exchanges of pleasantries far more common since the Abbess announced her desire to seek clemency.  Tassel felt a new sense of belonging at Redwall.  Whenever she moved about, she remembered to keep her masked face held up and welcomed the many greetings directed her way.

Movement across the courtyard caught her eye.  Three creatures drew closer while engaging in an animated discussion.  Two she recognized.  The squirrel with her finger waggling inches from the other's muzzle was Highclimber.  One look at the agitated hedgehog with her head bobbing from side to side had everyone scurrying from their path.  Tassel wondered what possible dispute had those two ladies exchanging such heated words.

One woebegone male otter stood two paces back, his eyes darting from one elder to the other.  As the two females continued their verbal altercation, the otter looked as though he wished the lawn beneath him had turned into a wide lake.  Then he could dive deep below and out of harm's way. 

Tassel stood.  Satisfied Bridget would remain on the bench, she approached the two combatants.  The male otter must have noticed her approach as he now faced her.  Tassel guessed he would welcome her intervention since he seemed to be the reason for their altercation.

Then she hesitated.  His face, it's the one I didn't recognize from my dream. 

This close to the two elders, Tassel had no trouble hearing their heated exchange.  A momentary lull in their verbal barrage ended with the Healer's comments.  Based on the way Highclimber rolled her eyes, the squirrel must have known what Shortspike would say.

"I cannot believe you're that dense.  There's no way I'm taking that ignorant teen as an apprentice.  The bloody fool doesn't have any idea how to read or write.  What good is a Healer who cannot pass on their medical knowledge to others?  I'll not waste my time."

Highclimber's response held a sharp barb.  "Niltan has done an excellent job in our village helping our Healer, without the need for letters and numbers.  You forget we grew up in Redwall where there is schooling.  Not every village can afford a teacher.  Healers have learned their trade from other healers longer than this Abbey has existed."

"You speak of the past," said Shortspike.  "Medical knowledge comes as much from books as it does from practical experience.  The world is changing and without an education, he's worthless as an apprentice."

"Our healer thinks he has talent.  Why are you spurning him," the squirrel asked.

By this time, Tassel stood near the two combatants.  One glance at Highclimber convinced her that she was about to reargue her position.  Based on Healer Shortspike's expression, she remained unmoved by the squirrel's passionate plead.  As to the object of their angry words, the young otter's woebegone expression said he wanted to be anywhere but here.

"The solution is so simple; I'm surprised neither of you thought of it," said Tassel.

Everyone turned toward her.  Both elders crossed their arms, giving their opponent sideward glances, but remained silent.  Assured of their undivided attention, Tassel offered her solution.

"Since our young otter is here without any elders, I'll take the boy as one of my charges for as long as he lives here.  Whenever he isn't needed for medical training, he can attend classes.  That way he'll receive a proper education and will have several responsible elders caring for him.  Shortspike, I'm sure a willing and talented apprentice can be a great help to you.  As you said, a healer needs to pass on their knowledge, and you have so much you can teach him.  By the time he's ready to be a healer, his education will make him far more valuable.  The way I see it, you both come out better." 

Healer Shortspike mulled over the idea.  "I would prefer he master his letters and numbers first, but if he promises to attend Abbey school, I'll accept him as an apprentice.  He can work with me in the infirmary, but unless there's a medical emergency, his schooling comes first."

The squirrel did not react to her proposal.  Tassel remembered how Highclimber sometimes ignored what others said if it contradicted her views.  Than the dark expression melted and she nodded.  Highclimber gave the hedgehog a hug.  "I'm sure that's agreeable."

While Healer and squirrel exchanged another hug, Tassel scrutinized her newest charge.  Before she could offer Niltan a greeting, a familiar paw gave her shoulder a light squeeze.  Tassel leaned back, feeling her mate's presence.
If Bruno overheard the earlier spat, he tactfully ignored it.  A wide smile and a slight bow of the head acknowledged the otter's presence.  He turned to the squirrel and asked the obvious questions.

"Highclimber, whatever are you doing here?  And where is that mate of yours?"

The squirrel bounced on her toes and with a grin that could not be contained, Highclimber blurted out the reason why she had returned to Redwall.  "I have such wonderful news.  I'm expecting." 

All of them exchanged a hearty round of congratulations. 

"Chitter and I decided I would have my baby here.  Since we have no grandparents, we wanted our Mother Tassel and Pa Badger there with us on that happy day, so here I am."

A slight frown crossed her face.  "The three of us planned on traveling together, but our village elders had other ideas.  They sent Chitter to Ferretville with the last of this year's trading goods.  They said the round trip shouldn't take but a week.  I decided to press on without him since we haven't heard of any bandits.  He should be back at Green Birch by now.  Trust me; he'll be regaling everybody with stories about his travels before the week ends."

Markus collected his pages and arranged them in order.  While he did this, he kept his eye on the Abbess, who continued standing in front of the window.  He flipped towards the back of his documents and scanned it a second time.

"Mother Abbot, most of the preparations within the Abbey are done.  The remaining items cannot be started until we know the danger is real.  Top of that list is contacting the surrounding communities.  Since many of them are nomadic, I have a few of my soldiers searching for them.  Even that is dangerous; I doubt anyone will believe we are looking for trading partners, not this soon after the winter snows."

Robertasin never got an opportunity to respond.  With an unexpected suddenness, the office door banged open.  The Mother Abbot showed how tense she felt when she jumped a full foot off the floor.  His reaction was no better.  Instinct and training took over as he assumed a fighting stance, facing the unknown intruder.

"Narkade, what in the cloud-filled skies are you doing here," shouted
Robertasin.  "I thought you were traveling the southern region with a band of squirrel actors.  And how do you explain your disheveled appearance?  I know I taught you better, son."

Markus hid his surprise at that last word.  Robertasin never mentioned a mate during their dinner conversations, and this fellow didn't share any of his mother's features.  Something he could ask about at a later time.

The exhausted male squirrel propped himself up by leaning against the front edge of the desk.  Narkade did not react to Robertasin's angry tone.  When he did speak, his voice sounded flat and bereft of all emotion.

"You taught me to always act when there is a need.  Redwall is in grave danger.  An army of vermin conquered Ferretville a week ago and I fear they're coming here, mother.  Surely that is sufficient reason for my dramatic entrance." 

Robertasin faced Markus.  "The two of us were discussing the when no more than five minutes ago.  I do believe it's time I inform the other members of Redwall's Counsel of Elders about our suspicions as my son has now alerted us to the danger.  If we receive confirmation, I'll inform all the residents."

Markus needed information, so he questioned the squirrel.  As they listened, Narkade revealed the fall of Ferretville.  He told them of his group's skulking through the streets of the Town as they sought some means of escape.  Then he related the tale regarding their battle with the chariot.  With some firm prodding, he even spoke about the episode of his killing a soldier.

Throughout his narration, Robertasin remained silent.  When he finished describing the death of the injured soldier, the Abbess came around the desk and wrapped her arms around Narkade.  The male stood more than a full head above his mother, but size didn't mean independence.  He needed the comfort of his mother's embrace, and he let his tears flow.

Markus understood what happened to Narkade.  He commanded soldiers trained to fight, yet he recalled how some reacted after that first battle ended.  Most shrugged it off, a few celebrated their victory while a small minority bawled when the reality of their actions hit them.  Sometimes overcoming the shock took a kind word, a sympathetic shoulder and a chance for a good cry.  Then there were those that needed a good, swift kick in the posterior or a hard smack across the muzzle.  Over his long career, he had seen every type of reaction.

Narkade never trained for battle, he knew nothing of death.  No beast ever prepared him for such a possibility.  One look at the squirrel convinced Markus that Narkade could never kill again, even to save his own life.  If he served under his command, Markus would reassign him a supporting role far from the fighting.

That tender moment between mother and son ended at the sound of an insistent knocking.  Markus looked at the Abbess and seeing her nod, moved to the door.  When he cracked it open, he noted the concerned look of the vole receptionist.  He had never seen her expression, other than serious, but now her forehead showed deep furrows as worry etched it.

"General Markus?  I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a messenger out here insisting she see you.  I tried accepting the message, but she said she had to place it in your paw, no exceptions allowed.  Her exact words."

He stepped out of the Mother Abbot's office and blocked any view of the room.  He believed the two squirrels needed a few moments of privacy.  A doe hare in the uniform of the Fleet-footed Messenger Corps stood at attention a short distance from the door.  Markus recognized the urgency of this particular message and why she insisted on giving it to him in person. 

She wore a golden armband.  Such an armband designated her as a messenger assigned to King Brisson.  This message had to be something of great importance, and it required his immediate attention.

The doe handed over the message and switched from attention to a parade rest stance.  It took Markus a few seconds scanning the letter before he again focused his eyes on the runner.  He folded the letter and walked over to Lilly's desk.  Markus pulled out a fresh piece of paper and wrote his response.  Though his attention remained focused on the document, he directed his words at the doe.

"You will take this reply according to your instructions, private.  I suggest you have a meal before leaving, avail yourself of the Dining Hall. It's a good five or six day's journey, so another hour will not matter."  Markus signed and sealed his response before handing it to the doe.  "You are dismissed."

The General returned the doe's salute before poking his head back into the Mother Abbot's office.  The two squirrels sat on the sofa, side by side.  Narkade still appeared to suffer from a delayed sense of shock.   Robertasin's eyes reflected his pain and a desire to remove the offensive memory.  Both squirrels turned in his direction.

"News has come to me confirming Narkade's report of an invading army on the move.  King Brisson has ordered me back as every soldier is needed.  I advised him Redwall anticipates being placed under siege within hours.  I remain here until I am certain the danger has passed."

Robertasin's eyes fixed on him; they reflected both relief and concern after he made his announcement.  "Will that cause you any trouble with your superiors?  Even a general must obey his ruler."

"Possibly, but I don't believe my hares would make that big a difference in the long run.  As a soldier on the battlefield, sometimes I have to act on intuition.  Redwall might not be a first strike target, but it is too important to leave undefended.  I believe my Liege will concur with my decision.  If not, I'll accept the consequences."

Robertasin gave her son a firm squeeze and a gentle kiss before she rose.  One look into her eyes and Markus knew the Abbey chose well when they declared her their leader.  With a determined stride, Abbess Robertasin exited her office. 

"Lilly, find the Captain of the Guard and have the alarm bell sounded.  I want every resident in the Grand Meeting Hall before the next quarter hour strikes, no exceptions.  It's time everyone learns what we have been doing, and why."


Robertasin listened to the bells ringing out the alarm.  It scared her to the core of her being.  Never, in all her years as the Abbess, did she ever have to give that command.  She stood atop the second floor landing, watching the residents arrive.  Despite her receptionist's efficiency, it took twice as long gathering everyone.

She spotted many familiar beasts and wondered how many would still be here after another day, or week, or whenever this ended.  In spite of the Abbey's history, she recognized the approaching danger as something far greater than any faced in their long history.  Redwall withstood the onslaught of tribal chieftains and ambitious warlords, but never fought an invading army.  Such thoughts caused a slight tightness in her chest as the reality of her announcement settled in her mind.

Robertasin shouted down to the multitude, demanding silence.  The buzz of conversations ceased.  Every face turned in her direction.  She had their attention.

The outer doors banged opened, sounding like thunder.  The hares of the Long Patrol blocked the doorway, standing four across.  Each soldier marched pass the threshold, they advanced to the middle of the room.   Half the hares broke left and the rest turned to the right.  When they reached the wall, they turned towards her end of the hall.  She lost sight of them when they moved under the balcony.  A moment later, a solid wall of armed hares marched forward until they formed a living barrier beneath her.  Every resident took a step back, leaving a void between them and the uniformed soldiers.

The Long Patrol carried their weapons and wore full armor.  The jovial expressions of yesterday disappeared, replaced with a blank look.  Youngsters clung to whatever elder stood near, many of them crying.  The hares came to attention with a loud thumping of one leg that frightened, rather than calmed the inhabitants of Redwall.

Abbess Robertasin could barely control her fury.  Here she had an important announcement and what happens?  She finds everyone's attention riveted on these visiting hares and their display of military might. 

Then the door at the far end of the balcony swung open and in marched General Markus.  While the hares under his command wore simple uniforms, the General's displayed ribbons attesting to his bravery and his long years of service.  She knew every eye within that room saw only the hare and that fact made her wish she could throw the bedazzling bunny over the railing for upstaging her.

When he got within three feet, he came to rigid attention and saluted her.  He did not shout, but his voice boomed across the gathered multitude.  "General Markus of the Long Patrol reporting for duty, ma'am.  We stand ready to obey your commands."

It stunned her.  Markus had just publicly declared his subordinate role.  With those few words, he announced his intentions of helping her, not replacing her.  That knowledge gave her a new sense of self-confidence.  In this time of crisis, what she had to say was not easy, but now she had the support she sought.

"People of Redwall, it is my sad duty to announce that we must expect an enemy army at our gates very soon.  They are a powerful force that has already conquered one city far to the south.  Now they are marching on Redwall."

Stunned silence greeted her announcement.  Robertasin gave none of them a chance to speak.  She couldn't afford to lose her command to a panicked mob.  She had to be the calming influence that instilled confidence.

"Over the last few weeks, King Brisson's hares have assisted us in doing everything possible to assure our ultimate victory.  I hoped it would not be necessary, but now that war has come, we are well prepared."

The Mother Abbot heard a few beasts cry and smelled the fear emanating from those below her.  They now understood the reason behind her many strange actions over the last few weeks.  Robertasin displayed a strong and resolute attitude that quieted the nervous shuffling of the many feet of the gathered creatures.

"I have a plan and it is time to put it into action.  Listen as I tell you what must be done."

Between the long six-day journey and stress from constant pursuit, Chitter found himself in the grip of a bone-numbing fatigue.  He pushed the refugees of Ferretville in his desperate haste for speed and distance.  Circumstances however, played havoc with his plans as his band kept encountering other refugees.  With each additional creature seeking safety, their speed decreased.  Yet Chitter couldn't find it in himself to abandon anyone asking for help.

Dawn found the bedraggled refugees less than an hour's walk from the safety of Green Birch.  Chitter knew this stream passed by the outskirts of the village and kept their scent hidden from anyone tracking them.  He looked forward to resting within the familiar collection of treetop drays and otter longhouse he called home. 

Chitter's eyes skimmed the horizon, worried that the soldiers still trailed them.  A sense of relief overcame him as all looked peaceful along their back trail.  Toward the village, a column of black smoke billowed upward.  He tried convincing himself it represented nothing more dangerous than some neighbor burning his fields, clearing it in preparation for spring planting.

He knew such thoughts illogical.  They cleared the fields last week.  Chitter shimmied down the tree to the waiting group.  As he drew near, it all but broke his heart seeing those trusting faces looking to him for help, and knowing he would soon crush such hope.

"Alright everyone, we're going to rest here awhile.  Those of you carrying a weapon, I need to know, will you fight?"

He had no trouble reading them.  Each creature's face mirrored his concern.  All had expected a place of safety.  When they learned the opposite might be true, it came as a crushing blow.  A lady mouse dropped on her haunch, buried her face in her paws, and cried.  None knew how to comfort her.

The refugees squirmed under Chitter's gaze as they considered their options.  One by one, those carrying weapons came to the fore.  No longer did they have a woebegone look.  Now they had a resigned expression that further pained Chitter's heart.

"I see smoke coming from up ahead.  I hope it doesn't foretell trouble, but best we check it out before we all go merrily walking into a pitched battle."

Seven armed civilians against a trained army?  It seemed the height of madness.  Had Chitter thought about it, common sense would tell him to divert.  But the place up ahead was his home and he feared that his mate, Highclimber, may have delayed her departure until his return.  Not knowing her fate consumed him with worry.

The small band of armed civilians followed him as he entered the water and moved downstream.  He felt the cold water swirl about his pants and paws as he stooped over enough that the marsh reeds hid them from anyone standing along the shore.  Chitter waved his paw and the other beasts drew near so their whispered voices would not carry to any creature standing beyond the sloping banks.

"Remain here until I call you.  If it appears too dangerous, we'll retreat.  The water cannot hold our scent, and the rocky bottom will leave no trail."

He crept to the top of the small rise, overlooking his home village.  The treetops beyond the open field roared in flames and they drew a breeze that whipped from behind them to the inferno that had been his home.  Chitter first feared the three green-shirted Horde soldiers standing outside the fire zone might catch their scent, but the dead bodies lying nearby must have hidden it.

Chitter waved the others closer and whispered his instructions.  As one, they rose from the bank and in a ragged line, charged down on the unsuspecting trio from behind.  Some yelled out in anger, but the crackle of the fire drowned out their voices.  At least it did until they drew much closer.

All three weasels turned.  The ones standing at either end went for their weapon while the one in the middle ran.  Chitter gave pursuit, not even caring if anyone else followed him.  He watched the soldier drop his sword and run even faster.  Chitter gained on his adversary.

They raced across the field until the soldier tripped over some obstruction.  Before the weasel regained his footing, Chitter pounced on him and the two rolled about.  A few seconds later, the soldier found himself lying on his back, both arms pinned to the ground; Chitter prepared for the final plunge of the sword into his enemy's heart.

The soldier screamed as he looked into the eyes of his executioner.  Chitter lifted his chest and place it on the hilt of the sword.  The weasel's terror had him loose his bladder as the blade pricked his hide.  Then he stopped and the young soldier stared into Chitter's eyes. 

"You want to live?  Fine, I need information."

For the next few breaths, the weasel spoke.  He told Chitter about their raid.  Then he explained how the officer leading the attack became angry when they located no food stored within the village.  As he babbled, Chitter noticed the arrival of the other refugees.  Their blood drenched weapons had the fellow shiver so hard that Chitter's blade scored his chest.

"The villagers, what happened to them?"

"They were taken prisoners.  Our commander split them into smaller groups before sending them south.  He figured having a few prisoners per squad added security and made it easier to prevent escapes.  Everyone would fear reprisals against the other captives."

He continued questioning the terrorized weasel about the prisoner details.  Satisfied with his answers, he stood.  The weasel expressed his gratitude, though he remained on the ground.  Chitter debated the wisdom of executing his unwanted captive, but could not act like some bandit raider.

"See that our prisoner is cleaned off and his paws secured before we depart.  I'll join you in a moment."

Several of the refugees dragged off their cringing captive while the last member of the raiding party followed him.  This ferret watched as Chitter removed weapons from the two dead soldiers and attached their sheaths to his hips.  He trailed him as he moved closer to one of the burning trees.

"I take it that particular tree is your home?"

Chitter nodded, unable to respond.

Undermined by the fire, the dray's floor no longer supported the weight of the furniture within the structure.  When it spilled onto the ground, Chitter sifted through the smoldering wreckage in a near frenzy as the tree leaned over, threatening to crush him.  The ferret rushed to Chitter's side when he heard his anguished moan.

He held a scorched box, its intricate carving no longer distinguishable.  The latches that held it shut appeared as melted blobs of metal.  Though it remained close, a crack nearly split the lid.  Chitter and his companion, retreated and without a word spoken, they made for the trees where the others hid.

"Mind telling me what's so valuable about that box, Chitter?"

"It's a memento from my childhood.  That box contains the only thing that connects me with my mother, my real mother."

"And you risked your life for some memento?  Valuable it might be, but worth your life?"

Chitter evaded the question.  "I thought it destroyed and had I come but a few moments later, such thoughts would be true.  I'll have the box fixed, after this war ends.  For now, I have to see about freeing my friends."

The ferret placed his paw on Chitter's shoulder, drawing his eyes.  "Friend, I'll go wherever you go, fight by your side.  I lost my mate to this murderous vermin Horde when they invaded our home, so I have reason for killing them too.  But there are others that want nothing more than a full belly."

"Not to worry.  There's a storage cellar on the river's bank.  Its entrance is hidden behind a pile of stones on the north side, which is why those raiders missed it.  We can check it out later.  For now; I have something far more important on my mind."

Drawing the short sword he took from their prisoner, Chitter handed it to the ferret youth, Tranasey.  He watched as the boy held the blade, a feral grin coming to his face.  The young ferret dueled with shadows for a moment, the blade catching the sunlight.  Chitter recognized the blood lust within the youth's eyes, but hoped he would not kill without provocation.

"Guard the prisoner while you're at the storehouse.  If we don't return by noon tomorrow, I want everyone going north for safety.  If our prisoner attempts to escape, kill him.  Those of you who are armed, follow me."

Chitter's war party had been tracking one group of soldiers for about an hour when the same ferret that had spoken earlier, paced him as they continued along the trail.

"Do you think your words were wise?  It's one thing killing in battle or in self-defense, such an act is acceptable, but that dibbun is just searching for a reason to kill."

"You're Draulbin," Chitter asked.  When his companion nodded, Chitter tried to calm the elder's concerns.  "You noticed it too, his urge to kill?  I will keep his monster chained, but it means leaving the cage open."

Chitter noticed the fellow's confused expression.  "Something my drill instructor told me when I joined a militia unit in South Forest.  I wanted to claim the title of champion warrior after returning to Redwall.  Such is the folly of youth.  Our unit had to fight a gang of bandits and I learned about the monster that lives within all of us.  I found killing in battle too enjoyable; it frightened me to my core."

"What did you do," inquired Draulbin.

"When I served out my time, I returned home and married.  Until today, I believed my monster destroyed."  Chitter snorted.  "The beast within has waited for this moment.  We must become allies until this war ends.  I fear calling it out, but we both know I will need him all too soon."

"So how will you control that dibbun's monster?"

"I'm sending you back, right now.  Lead the others to safety.  If Tranasey still wants to kill the prisoner, tell him you intend turning the weasel over to the Long Patrol for interrogation.  That way, no harm will come to him.  Use the dibbun's blood lust as a tool to control the prisoner.  Tranasey wants to kill and that weasel knows it, he'll give you no trouble."

Chitter watched the older ferret retreat.  The others asked why he left, but the elder ferret remained silent.  One of the remaining war party hurled an insult.  Chitter rebuked him by telling everyone Draulbin followed his orders.  They accepted his explanation and doubled their pace as they tracked their quarry.

Night fell and the war party pressed on, seeking any signs of the Horde soldiers.  Chitter spotted their campfire on the far side of the field.  A quick count showed there were twenty members of the village being guarded by a dozen Horde soldiers.  Two-to-one odds were not good, but Chitter counted on surprise giving him the initial advantage. 

As the moon slid behind some clouds, Chitter nudged the fellow next to him and in a few moments, everyone crept forward.  After some whispered instructions, all kept low and advanced with as much stealth as possible. 

Such a simple plan.  Sneak up and kill the guards.  Release the prisoners and withdraw before those sleeping knew anyone had entered their camp.  Thanks to the rolling clouds, even the moon's light faded out when they drew near. 

Everything went as planed until one guard spotted movement and challenged the intruder.  Somebody threw their dagger and the guard screamed in agony.  In seconds, the entire camp erupted into a state of frenzied activity.  Chitter had no time wondering what went wrong or who did what.  He dashed forward and with a mighty thrust, gutted the startled guard closest to the prisoners.  All about him, voices shouted and screamed while the sound of metal meeting metal resounded.

With a sudden abruptness, all turned quiet.  A quick look told Chitter every soldier had entered Dark Forest, but so had two of his own raiders.  He remembered the first guard and thought there had been at least one or two others he may have injured or killed, but he didn't know for sure.  One lost track of events during combat.  For the moment, the monster within him felt satisfied with tonight's battle.

Chitter approached the prisoners and sliced through the ropes securing them.  He recognized the village Healer.  "Silsack, my wife, was she taken in the raid?"

"No, she left for Redwall the day after you left for Ferretville.  Impatient little lady you married.  My apprentice, Niltan, accompanies her, so she's in good paws."

A deep sigh of relief escaped Chitter.  His wife was safe.  He could strike back at the invaders without worrying about her or the unborn child she carried.  Chitter offered the former prisoners the scavenged weapons.

"I know Silsack will not fight because he is a healer, but what about the rest of you?  Will you join me in this struggle?"

One otter hefted a small war axe and twirled it about.  After giving a demonstration of his dexterity, he slipped the handle through his belt.  "Before these raiders came, my blade bit deep into any fallen tree, providing everyone with kindling.  Until my mate and kits are returned, I swear my axe will cut only bone.  But I do have one question, Chitter.  Do we have any realistic chance of winning?"

Chitter understood his question.  Only a fool fought when the forest burned.  They needed somebody who saw the road to victory, and he did.

"Their weakness is a lack of food.  We attack their supply depots and the Horde must assign extra soldiers to guard them.  There will be so many guarding their food that whatever offense they try will fail for lack of numbers."

One by one, each squirrel or otter pledged their support.  Even Silsack joined them, though his oath as a Healer prevented him from using a weapon.  Now he commanded a force of determined fighters; the war had just begun.

Bruno pulled the cinch tight on his backpack.  He never realized how little he possessed until he prepared to depart Redwall.  He could pack all his clothes and still have space for something else he might need.  Perhaps living in one room helped.  He wondered if any of the other elders leaving the Abbey had difficulties deciding what to discard.

He picked up the tools he obtained earlier and his backpack.  As he stepped out of the room he called home, he had to dodge his wife.  Tassel marched up and down the central aisle, her paws resting on her hips while her gravelly voice barked out orders to the children.  He stopped at the first bed, disassembling it for storage.

Last night proved less than restful as many of their young charges needed comforting.  None wanted to leave the one place they called home.  Tassel gave them no option, and Bruno, as Pa Badger supported her decision.  He understood the reason behind his mate's inflexible stand, staying here was too dangerous.

Chaos ruled the Dormitory.  Children sifted through their meager possessions as they packed every garment.  Footlockers were inspected as the youngsters tried selecting the one personal item they would take with them.  Everything else went into a communal chest that would await their eventual return.  The dibbuns scurried about like bees in a disturbed hive.

"There will be no breakfast if I don't see every backpack ready for the carts in ten minutes," Tassel bellowed.

Tassel's switch struck the bed belonging to a male mouse.  "When I said every garment packed, I didn't mean some."

Bruno jumped off the floor, his job unfinished.  He ran to his mate's side.  His paw pushed her arm down, lowering the switch.  He moved between her and the frightened mouse, repacking his clothing.  A quick pull and he cinched it close.  The mouse's expression turned to relief as Bruno snatched the backpack off the bed.

Pa Badger noticed every child's stuffed backpack stacked on another bed.  He rushed over and grabbed the straps until all ten hung by their straps off his arm.  He turned towards the hallway exit, which took him pass Tassel.  He kept his voice low so none of the frightened dibbuns heard him.

"Have them go to breakfast, Tassel.  Our blacksmith, Egress, said he would help you with the beds after we leave.  I'm sure everyone will travel faster on a full stomach."

"You're right, Bruno.  Bad enough I have them scared out of their wits, no sense me making things worse by driving them away on an empty stomach.  I'll send them down to the Dining Hall while you get the carts ready."

Bruno had his paw on the hallway door when Tassel ordered everyone to breakfast.  Like a cork popping from a bottle, every waif under their care whisked by him and scampered down the stairs.  He turned his head and looked back, wondering why she said nothing about running down the staircase. 

He realized his mate had not witnessed their rapid descent.  She sat on the far bed, her masked face buried in her paws.  The silence within the room disturbed him more than the frantic activity.  Bruno wanted to say something, but his mind resembled a pristine chalkboard.  He followed the children, closing the door so it would not slam shut.

Instead of going to Cavern Hole, he went outside.  The few oxen owned by the Abbey stood between the traces of the larger carts.  They kept snorting and shifting their weight from side to side as residents raced around them.  No doubt they felt the anxiety infecting every inhabitant.

Bruno pitched the backpacks into one cart while his son, Thorn, worked on another.  Such heavy carts would burden anyone pulling them, thankfully, the oxen could handle the weight without difficulty.  He just wished they could make the oxen move faster.

"I don't think I have ever smelled fear in Redwall like I do now, father."

"It's been too far in our past since anyone attacked our Abbey.  I don't mean like the Recorder's tales of some band of outlaws or pirates.  They were more a menace than any kind of real danger.  An army is altogether different, they're well-organized."

Thorn gazed at the bassinets in his cart.  "So far, Abbess Robertasin has convinced almost every family into sending their infants to Salamanderstron and I believe most of the toddlers and dibbuns will also be riding along."

"Her determination at seeing them moved somewhere safe is commendable, son.  But there are still a few holdouts and the Abbess has been talking to them all night about the dangers of remaining at Redwall, without much success it seems." 

Bruno gave a stretch as his eyes wandered about the courtyard.  When the clock struck the quarter hour, he heard the Abbey doors open and watched their young charges join many of the other residents milling about the grounds.  If not for the serious expressions on the young and the worried one on elders, Bruno might think this the start of some pleasurable excursion.

No sooner had the doors closed than they flew open again.  Two creatures engaged in a heated discussion marched down the four steps to the courtyard.  The older one led the younger one by the ear and that one howled for all he was worth.  Bruno sighed, last night Tassel and Niltan acted like two rams vying for the same ewe.  Round two to their battle must have started.

"My word, Tassel, there's no need for this," Bruno said.  His admonishment fell on deaf ears as Tassel's finger stabbed the otter's chest, driving him backwards.

"I don't care who this babe thinks he is.  He's under my care, he goes.  End of discussion."

Bruno crossed his arms, giving his mate a hard look.  "Tassel, I thought we discussed this earlier.  The boy is Healer Shortspike's apprentice, she makes the final call, not you."

Freed of Tassel's paw, Niltan piped up as well.  "I'm under your control until there's a medical emergency.  Those were your words.  If there's to be a battle, then I'm needed here.  Even the Healer agreed I could stay if I wanted to, and I do."

"As much as I prefer he attend to the health of those traveling, I must support his decision."  Seeing Tassel about to argue, Bruno grasped his mate's shoulder, giving it a light shake.  "His choice is helping those who will require his special skills when and where they are needed most.  Honor his choice."

Bruno stared deep into the eyes of his mate.  They remained standing there for a short time before Tassel gave him a hug.  She said nothing more and turned towards the building.  Bruno knew she conceded this battle, but admired the way she walked away with her confidence and dignity intact.

A step short of the top, the Abbey door opened.  The first one out the door was Narkade, who bounced off the Badgermom's chest.  He never got the chance to voice an apology as the next resident exiting the Abbey shifted him to the side.

Abbess Robertasin wore her green habit, the very symbol of her leadership position at Redwall.  Those who gossiped in hushed whispers about her strange actions over the last few weeks now praised her foresight.  She addressed Bruno, though she kept her voice loud enough for all to hear.

"Narkade will be going to Salamanderstron as my emissary.  Best they are made aware of everything happening here.  We can use whatever aid King Brisson can provide."

"Everyone that will leave is here, Mother Abbot," said Bruno.  "Best we depart now if we intend making it to the Northern Roadway by nightfall."

Tassel hesitated, than reversed course.  She started down the steps, Bruno cracked the buggy whip and the hitched beasts moved.  Parents lined the way to the inner gate, but gave way for the Mother Abbot.  Badgermom Tassel followed close on her heels until they reached the passageway between inner and outer gate.

As each of the orphans under the Badgermom's care passed her, they exchanged a final fierce hug.  The older ones tried putting on a brave front, but the tears running down their muzzles betrayed their true feelings.  When Bridgett embraced her, she clutched onto the old badger.  Bruno pried her fingers from his mate's dress and led the bawling girl to the other dibbuns.

Thorn might be old enough that others considered him an elder, but he too had unashamed tears in his eyes.  Mother and son embraced and she whispered some final instructions.  The young boar nodded and returned to the cart with all the bassinets.  One more wave and he too passed beyond the gate.

Husband and wife stood, side by side, each afraid to speak.  They exchanged a few kisses and a fierce hug.  Bruno lifted his mate and turned her around before placing her sandaled feet upon the ground.  Tassel grabbed him, checked that nobody lingered nearby, and removed her mask.

"Tell me the truth, husband.  Do you have any regrets for marrying me?  Have you ever looked at my face and felt shame?"

"Not a one!  I wanted children, lots of them, and you did that for me.  Sure, not all of them were badgers, but never was I happier than when we were together.  As to your looks, I bonded with you, not your appearance.  Why these questions?"

"I fear this parting more than any other in our entire time together."

Tassel leaned into her mate and rested her head on his chest.  Bruno's shirt felt damp and he knew his mate wept.  He too wanted to remain, but he had responsibilities.  His mind kept searching for an alternative without any success.  The time for parting had come.

"I promise, once this ends, we will never be separated again."  He gave her one more gentle kiss and then he too strode beyond the gate.

Robertasin stood on the road just beyond the main gate.  Bruno acknowledged her presence as he joined the caravan.  Armed warriors stood at a distance, watching the nearby forest.  He hoped their services would not be needed.  All along the walls above, Bruno listened to shouted farewells. 

All too soon they passed beyond hearing.  A few travelers stopped for a final wave.  He resisted the urge, fearing his resolve would waiver.  His mind sought a compromise, one that insured the safety of those unfit for combat, and the need to stand with the defenders. 

On the fourth morning, an elder approached him.  Bruno's mind went blank and he could not recall the shrew's name.  He decided a simple nod would do.  The fellow drew closer.

"Many of us talked long into the night, Bruno.  We intend returning once we reach the territory ruled by the Northern Alliance.  We would be honored if you led us."

"I am no warrior.  Only once did I draw my weapon, and even then, I never used it.  Why would any be willing to follow me into battle?"

"A warrior's skill is not what we need, sir.  You are a leader, somebody who can inspire others."

Bruno remained silent for a few moments.  "Than here is my first order.  Select no more than one in four to join us, but tell none who will come until we reach our destination.  The safety of the others comes first.  Tell those remaining at the badger king's home they can return with whatever relief is sent.  I'll tell Thorn he must care for the dibbuns.  Even if we hurry, it will be another ten days before we see the walls of home."


Abbess Robertasin stood outside the gate.  Like the trees beyond the field, she thought her feet planted in the cobblestone.  Time slowed for her, and yet it felt as if the caravan disappeared over the hill between two breaths.  A silence descended on her from the walls above, telling her those on the battlement no longer saw their loved ones. 

That silence signaled the opening stage of the siege.  There still remained a great deal of work to do.  Every additional day strengthened them.  It also heightened their fear.  She nurtured the first, and intended to do everything she could to lessen the other.

Workers plowed over the soil, destroying the crops planted but a week earlier.  She wondered if the furrowed fields would ever yield another harvest.  Other work details labored outside and she worried if there would be sufficient warning for their safe return.  Robertasin knew the work needed doing, but her position as Abbess made her responsible for anything that might occur, which made her chest feel heavy.

As she turned, she detected movement on her right.  She muttered a few choice words about an eye that lost details and made a complete turn for a better look.  At the edge of Mossflower Forest, a contingent of hares marched on Redwall.  At the forefront, General Markus led his unit of the famed Long Patrol, singing a stirring song of a glorious battle from long ago.  The other hares continued with the chorus as they marched through the gate, pulling a series of carts laden with sacks of grain.

"Were you successful, General Markus?  Did our runners warn the other nearby villages of the danger?"

"Indeed we were, Mother Abbot.  My scouts have passed the word to every know village in the region.  Within the next two days, everyone will evacuate the area.  We may even get a few additional fighters, though that isn't certain.  Any food that cannot be taken will be burned, per your instructions.  It seems a shame torching that grist mill though.  We'll need it once the fighting stops."

Robertasin continued her visual inspection.  "A mill can be replaced, fields replanted, and homes rebuilt.  Lives lost, cannot come back.  My son, Narkade, made it clear this invading army needs supplies, so anything we do that denies them such material will hasten their departure."

"There's still much to do if we intend defeating this foe.  Best we get started, Abbess."

She reversed her course, walking back to her office.  The gatekeepers leaned against the wall on either side of the passage, ready to seal out their enemy.  The sound of the hare general's sandals reminded her of a funeral dirge.  She wondered how many times such music would play in the days to come.

Another sharp jolt of the racing cart threw Brigadier Shawarran into the soldier next to him, jarring him awake.  His riding companion, a stoat, continued her uninterrupted snoring.  He envied the other Horde soldiers riding with him since they could sleep while the cart pitched and swayed like a ship on a storm-tossed sea.

He checked the area behind him.  Four other ponies galloped at full speed, each pulling their wagon.  Drivers lashed their steeds, demanding an ever faster gait.  For six days, they had pushed their ponies at breakneck speeds across the countryside.

What happened to the sun?  It was overhead at our last stop, now it's gone.

"Glad to see you're awake, Brigadier," said the driver.

The fox driver's attention shifted to the road.  "It's fortunate we had no need to hide our presence, Brigadier.  Thanks to your constant snoring, I do believe every beast within a hundred leagues knows where we are."

Before the Brigadier could respond, the driver pulled on his reigns and with a mighty kick, set the brake.  A snarling growl from the weasel wearing sergeant stripes and every soldier sleeping within the flatbed stirred.  Soldiers tumbled from every cart, rushing about the area in what was a well rehearsed procedure.  In a matter of seconds, guards were posted, tents pitched, and cooking fires lit as everyone prepared for a good night's rest.

Colonel Nateem approached the rear of his cart and held out his paw.  Shawarran didn't need the assistance, but accepted it as a privilege of rank.  The two of them walked about the campsite.  When they had completed their circuit, they returned to the cart dispensing food and drink.  The two remained silent while each filled their mug from the small keg sitting in the back of another wagon.  Together, they made their way to a shady patch near a tall birch tree.

"So tell me, Colonel, how long before we reach this Redwall Abbey?"

"We'll set out about an hour before dawn and arrive by noon.  When the sun sets, we'll be feasting within that Abbey and sleeping on soft beds."

"Too bad we couldn't ride these through the gates of that Abbey.  If our information is correct, the turn is too sharp for our carts at full speed and this forest may not allow sufficient space."

"The forest will get us close enough.  Unless their guards are expecting us, they shouldn't have sufficient time to bar the gates."

"And the rest of our forces, Colonel?"

The stoat didn't answer right away.  Instead, his second in command took a long sip of the Ferretville brew, allowing another officer time to approach.  The two conferred as if he didn't exist.  When the other officer departed, Nateem answered his question.

"Based on the campfires my lieutenant spotted, we can expect reinforcements the morning after our arrival.  Our gear will come by caravan four hours later.  If all goes as planned, we will have half our army camped at Redwall within two days."

Brigadier Shawarran leaned back against the nearby tree.  He drained his mug and placed it on the ground.  His voice changed, losing the hard edge of a commander talking to an underling.  It sounded more like one friend conversing with another on trivial matters.

"There's just so much that can go wrong when you act in haste.  If that squirrel is fast, and never stopped, he arrived yesterday morning.  I must believe they will prepare some defense.  Our only hope is maintaining our initial element of surprise and overpowering them before they bolt the Abbey's doors."

"Colonel Varden assures us this place avoids fighting, if at all possible.  Best they can do is close the doors.  By the next morning, our slaves will deliver the gear we need for storming the Abbey.  It will just delay the inevitable by a few hours, nothing more.  It'll be like that castle we captured two years ago; you know the one I mean?"

Shawarran nodded as he recalled that battle.  He might not remember the castle's name, but he did recollect how easily the place fell.  The walled city looked impregnable, but a lack of any effective fighting force made the stony stockade nothing more than a challenging obstacle course.  His unit gained entry with little resistance.

He compared that castle to this Abbey.  Both had a peaceful reputation and neither had the will or desire for fighting the Horde.  If it had not been for a handful of warriors, his soldiers would have walked into that castle unopposed.  Shawarran wagered this Abbey had a similar number of creatures who could rally its inhabitants into a futile resistance.  Even if the fugitive squirrel made it here before them, it would take time, even for the most charismatic of leaders.

Brigadier Shawarran had two problems weighing heavily on his mind; the expansion of the port facilities at Ferretville and the capture of Redwall Abbey.  He had committed his soldiers to both missions and if he failed either, there would be dire consequences.  If he abandoned the assault, the Abbey might alert the Northern Alliance.  Failure at the port could cost him prestige with his commander and the loss of any spoils after the war.  Neither alternative appealed to him.

He soothed his anxiety with the anticipated gains his bold action would garner.  Done right, Shawarran might convince General Zavallin his Division played a major part in the success of this campaign.  That, in turn, he intended parlaying into an appropriate award.  Just the thought of his new title, Lord of Redwall, made him feel like an aristocrat. 

As for his primary assignment, slaves and prisoners taken here and in future raids on the surrounding territories would hasten construction of the port.  Once the Northern Alliance fell, the battles turned political.  Each officer would vie for land grants as rewards for their military victories. 

Shawarran knew his opportunity for such wealth and power died at the invasion's conception.  He knew the officers opposing the Northern Alliance would make the better impression and earn the power he craved.  If he wanted any of the spoils, he needed to make a most favorable impression on the ermine General, something his current assignment didn't allow.

Now, on the eve of the most important battle of his career, Brigadier Shawarran closed his eyes and pondered the possible outcomes.  He smiled and hummed to himself, confident of his inevitable victory.  Never did he consider defeat.  He expected some minor resistance, but like Colonel Varden, he dismissed its effectiveness since the Abbey had but one true warrior.

Of course he dismissed this unknown female squirrel who ruled Redwall Abbey as incompetent.  In all his past campaigns, whenever his force came across a town or village governed by a female of any species, they always capitulated.  One tried fighting.  She was so inept that the town replaced her with an older male and the new leader surrendered.

"It's a pity that squirrel slipped through Purrnella's claws.  Imagine, the son of Redwall's leader as a hostage for their surrender.  If I had him, this conquest could be done with some raw recruit and a reed sword."

Nateem's face had a pensive expression and he ordered his second in command to disclose what bothered him.  The stoat didn't give an immediate response.  He checked the area, making sure none overheard their conversation.  Satisfied, he leaned closer.

"I fear this Abbey shall not be like some over-ripened tree.  We cannot pluck whatever we want without suffering the consequences.  My mind shows me a stout forest sentinel with the fruit resting like jewels atop its leafy crown.  To eat, we must brave the adder's nest by the base, the hornets within some hollow, and a climb that challenges the bravest squirrel."

Shawarran  responded with a light bark.  His friend's habit of using metaphoric comments whenever he perceived danger had him laugh.  He stretched out on the ground and draped his right arm over his eyes while he continued chuckling.

"May I continue your analogy, Nateem?  I shall offer you my vision.  Our soldiers have a passion that burns.  Such a fire will clear any viper's nest and the smoke will frighten such annoying insects.  With enough pruning hooks, even the highest fruit can be snatched with little effort."


xxxxx

Marching on the Abbey proved more arduous than first anticipated.  Morning sunlight filled the sky, but the forest trails remained hidden in shadows.  The trails reminded Brigadier Shawarran of a snake as it took so many unexpected turns.  Several turned impassible and they lost time backtracking.  Their food exhausted, the soldiers voiced their discontentment as the walk extended beyond the noon deadline.

Brigadier Shawarran needed a clear path.  One that gave his force the best chance at surprising their adversary.  That was a crucial element to his battle plan.  He hoped this Abbey's leader believed the Horde would either remain in Ferretville or it would take much longer moving a sizable force against them.

It galled him that the original timetable forced them to move faster because those following expected this fortress to be already in their possession.  Shawarran knew his reinforcements moved along the roads, confident of his success.  If his force arrived without securing some entry point, the battle might take longer than the twelve hours he considered the maximum time needed to conquer this place.

An advance scout relayed a signal back to the main body of soldiers.  Weapons slid out of sheaths and the Horde formed a skirmish line.  In quick order, the soldiers reached the forest edge, where they all awaited the signal to attack. 

Brigadier Shawarran kept himself hidden behind a tall tree even as the soldiers crouched near the open field.  He opened his backpack, withdrew a small spyglass, and inspected the high walls.  Shawarran counted five guards patrolling the battlement.  The Abbey's entrance remained open. 

While Brigadier Shawarran watched, a large contingent of woodlanders strolled at a slow pace towards the gate.  As he examined the returning workers, his confidence grew.  None of the woodlanders crossing the open field carried weapons.  Either they had not taken the warning seriously or thought there was no imminent danger. 

Brigadier Shawarran's couldn't contain his elation.  "I do believe we did it.  I see nothing in the way of defenses and the those manning the wall are more interested in spotting friends among the returning workers." 

With a wave of his paw, the soldiers rose from their place of concealment and charged.  An alarm sounded.  The exhausted workers raced towards the gate even as three creatures exited the Abbey.  Brigadier Shawarran recognized the uniform of the two creatures flanking a mouse.  This he didn't anticipate, hares of the Long Patrol stationed at the Abbey.

The three warriors closed the distance.  Shawarran almost pitied them in their pathetic effort at stopping his force.  According to the pre-invasion intelligence report, the Long Patrol hares were a formidable force.  Still, two hares and a mouse challenging his force of thirty?  With grim determination, he prepared to sweep away the valiant creatures.

Colonel Nateem dodged around the mouse, receiving a slight slash from the woodlander's sword and raised his war axe for a killing blow against the hare before him.  The hare blocked the weapon and kicked the stoat in the stomach.  The two weasels that followed behind his second in command were not as lucky.  Both were caught in the follow-through stroke from the hare's scimitar.  A single slash disemboweled both soldiers.

The mouse lowered his shoulder and slammed into a female stoat, sending her into several of her companions.  Pivoting on his foot, he drove his sword into the chest of a vixen fox.  Ducking beneath the slashing sword of a ferret, the mouse used his momentum and spun again in place.  His hapless opponent screamed in pain as the mouse continued his suicidal charge.

The second hare used her spear like a quarterstaff, striking out at any and all comers.  She grasped the spear at one end and dropped to her knees.  The doe used the shaft like a scythe and swept four of the invaders off their feet.  A short sword nicked her shoulder before the hare regained her feet, but that creature paid a dear price as the hare drove the point of her spear deep into the shoulder of her opponent.

A rat got behind the first hare and threw his knife.  Somehow the throw sailed past the buck hare and the rat found his leg slashed by the hare's scimitar.  Three Horde fighters charged the buck and all three went flying from a roundhouse kick.  Another ferret tried chopping down the hare, but missed the swift moving beast and took an elbow to the head for his audacious action.

The mouse swung his sword and its keen edge snapped his opponent's blade at the hilt.  He elbowed the large stoat and heaved him into a group of rats standing to the side.  One rat darted past the entangled bodies swinging his metal studded club at the mouse's head only to have his shoulder lanced by the sword.  As the mouse pulled his sword clear, Brigadier Shawarran stepped forward.

Meanwhile, when an axe sliced through her spear, the doe used the splintered end and drove it into her attacker's gut.  As the Horde soldier wreathed in pain, the female hare snatched his axe and threw it with all her might at a creature attempting to circle the male hare.  The courageous doe never knew if her effort succeeded.  A spear from a charging ferret sent her on her journey to the spirit world of Dark Forest.

The buck's scimitar flicked forward and nicked another Horde beast.  He danced to the side as a fox lunged with his spear.  Though the fox missed, his thrust forced the hare to move to his left, bringing him in range of three soldiers.  All three lunged with their swords.  Two blades the hare turned away, but the third found his heart.  As his body slid off the blood drenched metal, his spirit joined the doe at the gates of Dark Forest.

Brigadier Shawarran held his cutlass at the ready as the mouse approached.  He could not help but admire such fighting spirit.

"Your futile effort at stopping us has failed, mouse.  Even now your two companions have fallen.  Surrender and I will spare your life in tribute to your bravery."

"Surrender was never an option, wolf."

"There is no need for you to die.  The battle is over and you have lost."

The mouse rushed him.  "To the contrary, we accomplished our mission.  We have delayed you long enough that the gates are now barred and our friends are safe inside."

A well aimed spear took the mouse from the back.  The sword dropped from his opponent's lifeless paw.  It landed at his feet.  Brigadier Shawarran felt overwhelmed by the treasure he discovered.  He sheathed his weapon and grabbed the sword wielded by the dead warrior.

He pointed his new sword at three of his soldiers.  "You help the wounded; the rest will follow me."

His soldiers fell behind him as he raced across the field.  The mouse was right, the huge gates were closed.  How did they react so fast?  He scanned the battlement and found no beast standing above him.  Then he noticed the smaller door in the gate.  He lowered his shoulder.

Brigadier Shawarran slammed into the door.  His command rammed the gate.  It buckled inward, but not enough.  The gate returned to its original position.  Frustrated by the barred gate, he banged his new sword's hilt against the door.  He ordered a retreat.  Though they walked back to the forest, the defenders never fired one sling stone or arrow.  Once he knew no paw held weapon could reach him, he faced the fortress and raised his new sword in tribute to the three dead warriors.

"All quiet to the east," Robertasin asked.

The two hares stood just inside the outer gate.  They faced her and gave a deferential bow.  Their action showed respect for her position as the Mother Abbot of Redwall.  She acknowledged their action with a slight head bob.

The male wore the badge of a sergeant, while the doe showed the insignia of a private.  Though the doe stood closer to her, she remained silent. The buck kept his voice level, speaking without any emotion as he delivered his report.

"We went about a good hour's run along the forest northern border and spotted nothing.  Then we went west, behind those hills across the stream and found no signs of trouble.  All is quiet, Abbess Robertasin."

She thanked them for the information and allowed them to pass her.  She decided to check with those assigned to the main gates.  The Gatekeeper didn't see the necessity of posting a full crew at the gates ten days earlier.  Each day he complained about the extra work.  After the Mother Abbot's speech about an invading army two days earlier, he complied with her wishes.

Robertasin passed a few pleasantries with the guards.  These hedgehogs might look like all brawn and no brains, but they knew more about some of the residents than she did.  She enjoyed swapping gossip and thought her presence would let them know how much she appreciated their efforts.  While they conversed, she listened to the hares as they talked with the Abbey's champion warrior.




Jazzin stopped polishing the sword he held across his lap, gazing first at the buck and then turning to the doe standing before him.  The buck sat on the bench with a heavy thud.  He leaned far enough back that his head rested on the stone wall.  With a low grunt, he closed his eyes.  Jazzin then looked at the doe, his question unspoken, but asked.

"You know how the Sergeant here hates swimming.  If we returned five minutes later, we would have missed the boat, literally."

Jazzin again polished the sword, but chuckled at the doe's comment.  He remembered an incident some weeks earlier when the buck tried helping an otter pup out of the pond and fell into the water.  Poor fellow had to be rescued by several nearby otters.  When they lifted the hare back to his feet, everyone saw the water was no higher than his knees.  Jazzin didn't recall which embarrassed the buck more, having to be rescued, finding out how shallow the water was, or the sound of everyone's laughter.

"So the bridge has been dismantled?"  Checking to see that both hares nodded, Jazzin stuffed his polishing cloth into his vest pocket.  "Abbess Robertasin will be pleased with that news.  The spring season surge has that stream cresting near the top of its bank, so I doubt anyone will be challenging a swift current and it's a good two hour hike in either direction to the nearest ford.  Even without a heavy rain, that stream will remain impassible for the next six to ten days."

The buck leaned forward and held his paw out, pointing to his pocket.  Jazzin passed the cloth to the hare, who unsheathed his scimitar and polished his weapon.  The hare finished his task and returned the cloth.

"General Markus believes any danger will come from the south.  He plans on sending a large scouting party in that direction tomorrow morning, see if we can find signs of an approaching army.  That's the reason I volunteered for today's scouting trip to the north, he'll let me stay here."

The three of them shared a good laugh.  That was when the doe walked to the bench and sat on the opposite side.  She stared at the weapon he held across his hip and reached for it.  Her paw hesitated.  She changed her motion to a simple point.

"Is that the sword I saw hanging in the Tapestry Room?"

Jazzin grasped the hilt and lifted the blade, giving both hares a better look.  "It's the same one.  According to the history of our Abbey, this is the legendary Sword of Martin.  A blade forged from sky metal for our founding warrior.  Some say it has special powers and determines who will wield it.  Would you like to hold it?"

Before the doe could place her paw onto the hilt, the alarm bell sounded.  Jazzin gave the Sword of Martin a flip into the air and snatched it with his other paw.  He jogged down the passageway and several paces beyond the gate.  A large contingent of beasts broke from the forest, racing for the gate.  Based on Narkade's description, these were the Horde soldiers the Abbess feared might storm the Abbey.

A male voice startled Jazzin.  "Those soldiers will reach the work party before they get halfway to the gate.  Somebody has got to delay them."

Without hesitation, he ran towards the advancing enemy.  To his right, the buck brandished his sword.  On his left, the doe held her spear at the ready.  She shouted to her two companions.

"If you ask me, the three of us against all of them isn't what I call a fair fight."

The buck snorted.  "Then I suggest one of us drop back and give them a sporting chance."


Abbess Robertasin felt herself pushed aside as the three warriors exited the Abbey.  She heard their boastful banter and her eyes followed their path to the Horde soldiers.  She muttered a few curses about her poor depth perception, before she found her voice.

"Get ready to close these gates," she yelled.

Robertasin urged the work crew to greater speed.  In her haste to see everyone reach the safety of the Abbey, she almost blocked the passageway.  The cart's wheels snagged her green habit, giving it a slight tear.  As the workers passed her, a paw grabbed her arm and yanked her back.  The two doors slammed shut, one crossing the very place she occupied a few seconds earlier.

"By the Eternals.  Those three fools have mounted a suicide attack."

Nobody listened.  The heavy wooden barrier closed, but remained unlocked.  The gate crew threw a wooden latch that spanned the two doors.  She knew the enemy would soon be massing for a charge.  She couldn't imagine such a flimsy piece of wood keeping out a determined invader.

Abbess Robertasin shook with fear, shouting at the top of her lungs.  "Drop the beam.  Drop the beam."

From behind the stone wall, a beam of wood slid out.  Unlike the latch, this wooden barrier rivaled the ceiling rafters in thickness.  In her mind, it moved at the pace of a snail as the gate crew maneuvered the beam through several metal rings.  The hedgehogs guided it along the door until they seated it in the opposite stone wall.

A second beam slid out a paw's width above the ground.  Like the first beam, the gate crew guided it through several rings.  The first beam blocked the upper third of the visitor's door, which allowed others to enter the Abbey without opening the gate.  One hedgehog dropped a metal bar across the central portion of the visitor's gate.  Robertasin relaxed.  No beast, even an enraged badger, could break that iron bar.

The Chief Gatekeeper lifted the metal bar sealing the visitor's door.  His paw reached for the doorknob.  Robertasin couldn't believe it.  Here they were sealing the gate and this fellow wanted to open the door.  Before he could act on his impulse, Robertasin pulled the old hedgehog away from the wooden latch.

From the other side of the closed gate, they heard a loud thud.  The gates moved inward, but the first beam did not allow an opening.  The wooden barrier shifted back into its proper position.  A second, but less insistent knock sounded.

"Our warriors," shouted the Chief Gatekeeper.  "They're out there.  We have to help them, Mother Abbot.  Please, let me open the gate."

"Listen, spikedog, I want to believe our people are outside that door, but I know they're dead.  The three of them saved every creature within this Abbey."  When the Abbess saw the old hedgehog about to argue his point, she snarled in an even lower voice, trying to maintain her dignity and keep their conversation private.  "If there is anything General Markus has drilled into my thick skull, it's this: War is a matter of numbers.  Make the enemy losses more than yours.  We lost three lives and I don't intend having their sacrifice trivialize by some blubbering, sentimental fool."

Another voice intruded on her conversation.  She turned, finding General Markus standing at parade rest.  His voice remained cool and in command, but his posture held a note of deference as he addressed her, acting like there was no other creature around them.  No doubt his report should be made in private, but he projected his voice so all within the passageway heard.

"The initial attack has been repelled and our enemy is withdrawing.  Work details on the far side of the Abbey have slipped inside through the two sally ports, which are now secured.  I have observers stationed along the outer battlements in the unlikely event they try anther assault.  Reports indicate more than thirty beasts at our gate.  I shudder thinking how many we might have lost if they got inside."

An uneasy silence hung over all the creatures.  It continued until a single hammer sounded.  All looked at the hedgehog who disturbed the quiet.  The fellow pounded on a bracing beam, knocking it into place.  One by one, the other hedgehogs joined him as they reinforced the gate.

General Markus turned and walked towards the inner gate.  He waited until she joined him.  The two remained silent as they climbed to the roof of a tower where they could survey the battlefield.  The guards withdrew at the hare's command.  He closed the tower's door before joining her at the rampart.

"I understand how hard such a call can be for a new officer.  It's never pleasant sending others out to die while you remain somewhere safe.  You made the right decision, Mother Abbot.  If they got past the inner gate, the chances are our dead would number more than three hundred."

Robertasin watched the Horde soldiers move to the edge of the forest, dragging their dead and wounded.  A tall wolf left the safety of the forest for a point beyond range of any but the most powerful bows.  The wolf raised his weapon as if he saluted them.  He continued waving his weapon for several moments before he faded into the forest.

"Did you see what he was holding, General Markus?  He has the Sword of Martin.  We have lost it to an enemy.  It is an insult to everything we believe."

"Then tell everyone the loss of the weapon has cursed the raiders to certain defeat and it will be recovered by some honorable woodlander after the enemy withdraws."

Robertasin didn't like that answer.  It trivialized the loss of their greatest treasure, and yet, she knew Markus was right.  They could not sacrifice lives recovering it and safeguard those within the Abbey.  She had to accept the loss, for now.

She opened the door and waved the guards back to their post.  She descended the stairs and met the officers responsible for the security of the Abbey.  Abbess Robertasin issued her orders.  Once the officers left, she toured the outer battlement.  Each time she passed a guard on duty, she gave them a well done.  Little by little, she let it be known to one and all, Redwall would not surrender.

"We suffered four dead and nine injured in our initial charge.  Five of those injured can no longer fight.  The gate is locked and barred, but our scouts report two other points of entry have been located.  Those passageways are so narrow that only one soldier can enter at a time.  I'm sure they are well guarded, making it too dangerous as a point of entry, but the woodlanders might use them as a means of attack or escape so I have assigned one guard to each."

Brigadier Shawarran listened to Colonel Nateem's report, nodding whenever the stoat took a breath.  The rest of the report consisted of a detailed briefing regarding his efforts at surrounding the Abbey with the soldiers under his command.  When the stoat fell silent, Shawarran issued his directives.

"As our troops arrive, have them relieve your force.  Continue scouting this citadel, I want a viable assault plan ready by morning."

Colonel Nateem saluted, but did not leave.  Shawarran looked at his longtime comrade and knew he had something more on his mind, though he seemed reluctant revealing it.  He pointed to a nearby log and his second in command accepted the invitation.  Nateem moaned as the bandages around his waist shifted; irritating the injury he received earlier.

"Brigadier, two of the enemy's dead wore the uniform of the Long Patrol.  If they have a sizable force within those walls, this place might prove more difficult defeating than we first anticipated."

"I assure you, no such force is here, Colonel."  The Brigadier gave a light chuckle.  "If they had such a sizable force, we would be fending off their counterattack.  They are uncertain of our numbers, so they stay inside.  They will learn the size of our force when we scale those walls tomorrow.  Granted, our losses will be higher than first anticipated, but they haven't prepared any viable defenses other than that trench."

"We have no food, Brigadier.  Half of my available force is out foraging and what they tell me is not encouraging.  Fields have been plowed under and crops destroyed.  There is no food anywhere within an hour's march.  If we have to camp here for an extended period, our soldiers will become discontented.  We can expect desertion."

"That is why we attack tomorrow.  Our soldiers can go a single day without food.  We proved it back at Ferretville.  After the attack cleared out all opposition, we feasted.  The same will happen here.  Our soldiers will eat their weight in whatever food they want when victory is ours."

Dismissing his commander, Shawarran searched for a comfortable spot where he could rest.  Soft grass, a shady tree, and a setting sun put him into a deep sleep.  A firm paw shook him by his shoulder and he shaded his eyes from the rising sun.

Colonel Nateem led the Brigadier to a forest clearing.  As the two of them approached, Shawarran acknowledged his unit commanders who awaited his arrival.  Each officer snapped to attention and remained standing until he sat in the chair some underling carried from Ferretsville.  The officers sat on the ground and the meeting commenced.

One scout reported a weak point located where the forest came closest to the walls.  He indicated all of the trees nearest Redwall showed signs of recent trimming.  Though the crowns remained below the fortification's walls, they still afforded an ideal place of concealment.  The Captain commanding the archers assured the Brigadier he could pin the defenders along that segment of the wall.

Another officer discussed the trench surrounding much of the Abbey.  Their swift arrival prevented its completion, reducing a defensive barrier into a minor hindrance.  No direct assault could be made over the trenching, but the Abbey inhabitants couldn't use it as an additional line of defense.  His scouts said the central third of the front wall and the wall section bordering the forest remained unfinished.

Instead of the five thousand soldiers he expected,  they had just over two thousand able warriors.  Another thousand were bivouacked on the opposite side of a swollen stream, scouting for some feasible crossing point.  He preferred having the extra soldiers for this initial assault, but time was his greatest enemy.  The more he gave the Abbey, the better chance they could shore-up their defenses.

They discussed the upcoming battle until every officer knew his role.  He dismissed his staff, knowing he could do nothing until the appointed hour.  The Brigadier retrieved his backpack and withdrew his parade uniform.  Once he fastened the last button, he left the safety of the forest and moved to a point where he had an unobstructed view of the upcoming battle.  He never glanced back at the soldiers still hidden in the forest.  Such a move might be seen as a lack of confidence.  Footsteps behind him announced the arrival of several soldiers. 

"What a glorious day for a battle.  The sky is clear, the noon sun is high, and a strong wind crossing the field favors us.  Sound assembly, one horn only."

A single bugle disturbed the quiet.  Horde soldiers rushed the road where they arranged themselves as if they intended marching in a parade.  Every soldier stood in his assigned place, carrying a small shield, which they used to reflect the sunlight as they advanced. The field filled with the sound of metal on metal as the Horde soldiers pounded weapons against shields in time with their march while singing about their many victories.

When the soldiers advanced a third of the distance, the leading squads wheeled off the road.  The first unit moved left while the second moved right.  They continued marching in groups of twenty, turning either right or left.  When the fifth squad turned either left or right, all five made a crisp turn and faced the Abbey.

The soldiers advanced.  The Horde soldiers repeated the maneuver until they had a second row.  This time, both rows advanced, giving the remaining soldiers space for a third row.  A single note blared out and every Horde soldier came to a stop, allowing the dust to drift away on the breeze.

He felt somebody tap him on the back.  A quick look and the bugler handed him a note.  The soldier retreated a pace and came to parade rest alongside five other soldiers.

"Good news.  Colonel Nateem reports all is ready.  Better yet, our forces across the stream found a place to ford and will arrive within the hour.  A thousand extra soldiers might give us the advantage we need.  Instead of a diversion, I can change this into a full frontal assault."

Brigadier Shawarran examined the walls over the main gate and the towers flanking them.  "Civilians, that's all they have stationed up there.  It appears our quick arrival has left this Abbey ill-prepared for a siege.  Our attack will give them the bitter taste of war.  It takes time forging civilians into a viable defense and a single day isn't enough.  Mark my words they will break."


Right after the early morning briefing, soldiers slipped quietly through the forest, circling behind the Abbey.  After an hour, everyone arrived at the initial staging area.  Soldiers fell out and rested.  Colonel Nateem dispatched one unit across a field and into the forest where they could advance on a section of the wall their scouts deemed the best spot for the main attack. 

Their Captain led his unit closer, worried a sentry might detect them.  The forest floor was carpeted in a thick layer of dry deadfall that snapped with every footfall.  The strong wind to his back blew the scent of every soldier over the Abbey's wall.  In spite of this, no alarm sounded and no curious guard appeared at the wall. 

The officer pointed upward and archers climbed into the trees using the foliage as camouflage.  Though they remained below the top of the wall, they held an excellent positioned for the upcoming battle.  Each archer lowered a rope to the ground.  Other soldiers attached quivers full of arrows or crossbow bolts to these ropes and the archers hauled them to where they waited.

The Captain imitated the sound of lark and those on the ground retreated.  The officer withdrew his squad a hundred meters back before he waved them closer to him.  He relaxed, glad his part of the assault had gone as planned.  Once he cleared the area containing the archers, he ordered his unit to hold while he sprinted across an open field and reentered the woods on the far side.  He examined the Abbey wall one final time; he detected no signs of alarm from the red-stoned fortress.

The Captain searched for his commander.  Almost a hundred meters deeper into the woods, Colonel Nateem sat on a campstool, listening to the other officers reporting their readiness.  At last Colonel Nateem acknowledged him.

"Sir, all three hundred archers are in place.  They have sufficient arrows to provide suppression fire during our initial attack and should prevent any countermeasures until our force scales the wall.  Soldiers from my unit are standing by with additional quivers for each shooter."

"I'll advice the Brigadier."

Colonel Nateem dismissed the Captain and summoned a runner.  Once the runner departed with his message, he relaxed.  He sat in his chair for so long, he felt drowsy as time continued its relentless march.  To the north, the sound of a single bugle blast disturbed the quiet.  He waited.  Just as he expected, horns blew a steady series of notes he recognized as the prelude to the attack.  When they stopped, he stood, awaiting the final signal that would send his forces charging the walls.

He had the soldier next to him wave a grey cloth.  All around him, officers prodded those under their command.  He pointed in the direction of the Abbey and all moved to the edge of the forest.  Colonel Nateem withdrew his blade.  By ones and twos, the Horde force sprinted across the open field to the heavy forest.  The Abbey remained unaware of their approach.

"With the defenders focused on the main gate, my soldiers will fall on them from the rear.  A full belly and a soft bed awaits, and I intend indulging on both before this day ends."

General Markus kept his head low and his hat pulled down; hoping anyone observing him would not recognize his uniform.  He had debated the wisdom of abandoning uniforms, but thought the presence of the hares along the anticipated points of attack would bolster the courage of the residents. 

One bloody week of lessons isn't going to do it.  Our Mother Abbot's blasted insistence on secrecy is going to hurt when we cross swords.  I could have trained these civilians a lot better if we started when I wanted.  Let's hope they fall into our trap or we might be witnessing the conquest of Redwall.

He searched the Horde's camp for the wolf that held the Sword of Martin.  Markus knew deep within his bones this wolf commanded the enemy forces.  He found the wolf, accompanied by a stoat, studying the Abbey.  He wondered if this wolf would commit his forces to a frontal attack.  Everything depended on his opponent taking the bait.  If they committed all their forces to a frontal assault of the main gate, he doubt they could hold.

All remained quiet after the wolf retreated to the shadows of the forest.  As the sun reached its zenith, Markus noticed movement.  The wolf he saw earlier walked several paces out into the open.   A number of soldiers followed the wolf, but instead of weapons, these soldiers carried bugles. 

Time dragged.  The long wait ended when a single bugle blared out in the field before the main gate.  Markus hurried to his observation post.  A gust of wind displaced his cap and his ears sprung upright.  The Horde soldiers advanced on the Abbey.

Markus gazed upon the many frightened faces staring at the display of military might and discipline before them.  He listened to one or two defenders crying, but when he looked towards those residents, he saw them digging deep within for the courage they needed.  He knew they would do their duty when called upon.

General Markus scanned the surrounding walls.  A few residents leaning over the battlement, checking the growing number of Horde soldiers.  He kept a confident demeanor while he continued his long distance inspection.  A lady mole crawled along the base of the wall until she came within reach of his belt.  She gave a tentative tug.

"Begging your pardon, General, but we have everything ready for deployment.  Should we put them out now?"

"Not yet, my dear, no sense making our move until they make theirs.  Trust me; this is the hardest part of any battle, waiting for it to begin."

When the enemy units had advanced to a point halfway between the stream and the main gate, a single bugle sounded.  Every Horde soldier came to a stop, allowing the dust to drift away on the breeze.  Markus found the silence more disquieting than their display of military discipline. 

He left his post and climbed to the tower's roof.  Markus strolled to an open box sitting against the back wall.  His fingers raced along the many tubes within until he found the one he sought.  Markus withdrew a blue banner with a gold triangle, fastened it to a long pole, and hung it over the side facing the courtyard.  A few seconds later, a solitary beast raised a similar banner on a long staff and waved it.  One by one, the towers on the other walls displayed the banner. 

"Alright everyone, stand by to repel attackers.  Their plan is simple; they will attempt to secure these towers so the force crossing the wall between them can do so unopposed.  All we have to do is stop them."

The tower door opened and several residents wheeled in a large cauldron.  They stacked wood under it while another defender applied a torch.  As the workers fanned the blaze, others hauled up the wooden boards prepared weeks earlier.  Workers used heavy hammers as they prepared the contraptions for battle.  At each merlons these defenders faced him, awaiting his signal.

A lone hare wearing the insignia of a lieutenant darted across the battlement roof.  Markus moved closer while keeping an eye on all the defensive preparations.  He grabbed a resident carrying quivers of arrows.

"We cannot afford to waste arrows.  This wind is too strong and not every archer is an expert.  Have those on the wall exchange bows for lances."

The young shrew hesitated.  "What about anyone using slings?"

Markus laughed.  "Stones we have in abundance."

The shrew rushed down the stairs, leaving Markus.  He turned to the hare officer.  A curt command and the lieutenant made his report.

"General, I have one squad in the other tower and the rest of our unit spaced out along the wall.  All report ready for action.  I assigned two squads to spring our trap at the appropriate time."  The buck hare scanned the tower rooftop, and snorted.  "Civilians, if they run at the first sign of blood, we're doomed."

"His force outnumbers us by two to one, if the civilians hold, which is why I want our unit in full view.  My gut tells me this wolf has no intention of fighting a frontal assault with such a small number of soldiers.  This is a diversion for the real strike.  I expect you to keep me apprised of any such attacks if it comes anywhere but where we want him to hit."

General Markus dismissed the officer.  His mind spun like a top as he considered his options.  He had to believe the residents would fight.  If not, he sacrificed his unit for nothing.  He needed this wolf to act as he wanted.  If the wolf didn't, the number dead would give another meaning to the term Redwall.



Stormpaw felt less than useless.  Here she was in what had to be the greatest battle ever and she stood within the doorway of a tower far from the fight.  General Markus called her role vital; it didn't seem like it.  All morning she remained here, wishing she could wade through their enemy instead of hiding.  She peered out at the deserted wall and once again questioned the tactical wisdom of her commander. 

A horn sounded and from the neighboring tower, a flag was raised indicating the main gate expected an attack.  The color told her two things.  First, General Markus thought the attack was a diversion.  If the General was right, a massive assault would hit an unguarded section of the wall.  The flag's design let her know he expected the main thrust to be against her.

Stormpaw couldn't decide which she feared more.  If the General was right, she faced the brunt of that massed force without the manpower she needed.  Ten hares and twice as many untested residents against a thousand?  Did such a move signal confidence or desperation?  She tried comprehending how a mere lieutenant, received such an awesome responsibility.  If the Horde stormed this section of the outer wall, she hoped the General's plan would work.

Her second, a buck hare missing his front tooth, tapped her shoulder.  "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but sss-something is-sss happening.  There's-sss movement in the woods-sss."

She found the whistled s-sound a comfort, and not an annoyance as some did.  The fellow had a sharp eye and even sharper ears, which made him a great scout.  Several times in the past, his senses detected ambushes that might have killed her squad.  She followed the hare inside, hoping she would find whatever he detected, and at the same time, praying he would be wrong just this once.

She kept far enough back that no light reflected off her spyglass.  It made it difficult to do a proper scan, but her scout directed her.  Stormpaw kept the glass focused on the clearing.  Movement, two forms just dashed across the dry field.  It repeated.  The scout pushed her spyglass to the right.  At first, she saw nothing more than a forest dying under a severe drought.  Than she noticed one tree's leaves move against the wind. 

Stormpaw grabbed a red scarf and hung it out the window facing the inner courtyard.  The moment had come, the enemy had taken the bait.  She returned to the tower's doorway, listening.  In the courtyard, several residents prepared four war machines.  Time became her greatest enemy.

She grabbed her shield and took a deep breath.  The distance to the next tower measured a hundred paces.  In the past, she proved herself the fastest runner in the unit.  This time, failure didn't mean losing a prize; it might cost every resident their life. 

She charged across the gap to her first objective.  Stormpaw opened a bag and scattered the special blades.  No matter how they fell, two edges pointed upward.  She than used her sword's hilt like a mallet, breaking the clay urn.  An oily concoction spread across the stone battlement.

No time to admire her work.  She sprinted to the next station where she repeated her actions.  Time dragged.  She shattered the last vase and dove through the doorway and into the other tower.  Another hare caught her as she rolled across the floor.

"Take two up to the roof, make sure all is ready.  When it starts, things are going to heat up fast.  This better work or none of us will see the sun set." 

Brigadier Shawarran performed a final inspection of the wall.  Nothing had changed; his confidence soared.  Perhaps this feint would prove as effective as his main attack.

"Send the slaves carrying the assault ladders forward.  Then sound the charge.  These Abbey beasts have a reputation of not hurting slaves, that will serve us well."

All five bugles played a series of notes that made his fingers long to curl around his favorite weapon.  His emotions surged.  The soldiers standing mute before the wall launched themselves like a sea wave against a rocky shore. 

The slaves carrying the assault ladders lifted them even as the first soldier started his assent.  Those soldiers carrying grappling hooks prepared to launch them at the wall.  The Abbey defenders waited.

Some inner sense of foreboding had him study the wall a second time.  He shook with rage.  The defenders anticipated his move.  They deployed a wooden barrier that kept the ladder's grappling hook from securing to the wall.  Even as he realized the danger, the first ladder fell.  The slaves struggled to lift the ladder back into position and his soldiers became targets for the defenders overhead. 

He called one of his attendants forward.  "Find the assault officer and have him lean the ladders under that barrier.  Our soldiers will have to force their way onto the battlement."

A whistle blew and more than a dozen grappling hooks flew towards the wall.  They reached their apex and bounced back, with the exception of one.  That one hung suspended in midair as if it were a tethered hummingbird.  When his soldier gave the rope a hard pull, Brigadier Shawarran heard the distinctive twang of metal separating.  He called a second attendant forward.

"Have those soldiers using grappling hooks fall back and toss again.  The Abbey has wire strung between the towers.  We need to clear that first before we can attempt the wall."

Such elaborate defenses took time.  Even with help from a Long Patrol unit, these Abbey defenders needed more than a two-day warning.  Either this Abbey was more warlike than their reputation, or they had a much longer time preparing for an attack.

Shawarran's mind recalled the morning briefing.  His scouts reported villages abandoned and fields destroyed.  It confused him.  At this time of year everyone planted new crops while repairing homes damaged during the winter.  They should have found sufficient food and supplies, unless the inhabitants had advanced warning. 

His mind returned to the assault.  Soldiers surge over the wooden barrier, though a fair number fell to their death.  This Abbey couldn't muster that large a force without leaving a weak point.  He knew they would press the defenders back somewhere.  Trained soldiers defeated pressed civilians, regardless of their numbers or their determination.  Once they gained a point of access, it was just a matter of time. 

The tide of battle shifted.  The wooden barriers fell, as did many of his soldiers.  Those standing on the ladder had to reach up for the wall, giving defenders the time they needed to repel his attack.  Atop the towers, liquid flowed out of the gargoyles and sprayed over those below.  Screams of pain drowned out battle cries.

Hidden recesses within the wall opened.  Through his spyglass, Shawarran watched flaming rags destroy the few ladders and climbing ropes he possessed.  Within the protection of the tower's walls, lances shot out.  Soldiers had no chance at avoiding such weapons and had no opportunity at killing these defenders.  His soldiers fell off the towers and none replaced them.  With the two towers secured, those attacking the wall faced a deadly crossfire. 

"Where do you want my troops?"

The voice intruded on his thoughts.  He recognized it as the officer commanding the force delayed by the swollen stream.  Though he expected him, he anticipated using these soldiers to overwhelm the defenders wherever his first wave secured a foothold.  Perhaps victory remained within his grasp.

"Have you any ladders or grappling hooks," he asked.

"Those supplies were either lost or misdirected, Brigadier.  What are your orders?"

He had no choice.  Without those supplies, he lost the initiative and any chance at victory.  Instead, he shouted above the sound of battle.  Though he anticipated this outcome, it did not make the defeat any less bitter.

"Sound retreat.  I shall decide if a second assault is necessary after we regroup."  He pointed at the officer.  "Have your soldiers assemble on the road, but beyond range of their weapons.  Keep the defenders focused on us and they might nor realize the danger until it's too late.  We will have this Abbey by nightfall."


Colonel Nateem raced across the dry grass between him and the forest.  Once in the woods, units reorganized.  Military discipline and training took over and the soldiers moved forward.  Everyone hesitated at the marker his scouts left, waiting.  After experiencing many battles over the last seven years, Nateem still felt the nervous anticipation that came before every encounter.

Bugles sounded the charge and he knew Brigadier Shawarran attacked the main gate.  Nateem knew his commander didn't expect to succeed.  Its purpose was to keep the defenders busy while he breached the Abbey's walls.  Once he secured this section of the outer wall, he could overwhelm the defenders by sheer force of numbers.  The battle would be over quick.

He lifted a whistle to his lips and blew.  Soldiers surged forward.  Through the treetops, he listened to the twang of bows loosen flights of arrows.  If any beast guarded this section of wall, they either died in the initial volley or would fail to get any help soon enough.

Grappling hooks flew over the wall and atop the towers.  Nobody disturbed them.  His soldiers climbed.  It seemed so easy.  Everything happening according to plan.  He already anticipated the victory celebration.

Disaster hit.  A wall of fire burst out along the battlement and the rooftops.  Soldiers from the first wave fell off battlement and towers, their fur burning.  An officer came back, telling him what he already guessed.  The defenders used a heavy layer of oil on the stone tops and ignited it when his soldiers cleared the wall.  They had anticipated his attack.

Nateem shouted at the nearest officer.  "Delay the next wave another moment.  The oil will burn itself out soon enough.  If the defenders shift forces to counter our attack, they leave the main gate vulnerable.  One of us will break them."

Something flew over the walls.  Nateem's eyes tracked the flaming bales of hay as they flew overhead.  He ignored the fiery projectile as it would land well behind his soldiers.  It couldn't harm him or his troops, he dismissed the defender's counter as unimportant, though the presence of a war machine, like a catapult, indicated these defenders had sufficient time to built them.  That worried him.

His eyes wandered down to his boots.  Something discolored his left boot.  He glanced at the wall, saw the flames, decided he had the time, and sat on a nearby log.  It took a moment to remove his boot and examine it.  One sniff told him everything.  Oil, the shoe reeked of oil.  He tried puzzling out the meaning behind his discovery.

It came to him just as the danger manifested itself.  He remembered the sound of breaking pottery as he crossed the field.  It seemed so odd, he dismissed it as an overactive imagination on the eve of battle.  Now it's meaning came to him with absolute clarity.  If the defenders laid oily pots throughout the field and those burning bales hit one. 

A strong wind, tinder dry grasses, the forest suffering a drought, a heavy covering of dry debris, and a flame.  It roared like a maddened beast denied its meal.  Fire raced across the ground and atop the trees faster than any runner.  Smoke turned into a dirty fog that made eyes water and throats choke.  Visibility dropped.  The officer he spoke with vanished in the haze.  Some beast fell out of the tree next to him, burning.

Screams filled the air.  Somebody ran past him and into a tree, knocking himself unconscious.  Soldiers panicked as the fire and smoke intensified.  Colonel Nateem dodged several as he too sought safety.  One beast turned into a comet as he raced through his field of vision, disappearing in the smoke after running half a dozen paces.

He knew the battle lost; he needed to escape this trap.  He picked a direction and ran.  The boot he discarded since the oily stain might hold a flame.  As he ran, he passed soldiers lying on the ground.  Most twisted an ankle or broke a leg tripping over the heavy deadfall or each other.  A few thrashed on the ground as they burned.  Embers fell from the treetops like raindrops.  Bodies caught fire and they started new fires.  The stench of burning fur acted as an incentive for greater speed.

Nateem felt the heat and saw the wall of flames before him.  Every instinct said turn.  Instead, he removed his uniform blouse, covered his muzzle, and dumped his canteen over the cloth.  He took a deep breath, held it, and ran into the fire.  He dare not stop or fall, either would prove fatal.  His lungs demanded air, but he continued to hold his breath.  If he inhaled, it was certain death.  He ignored the pain from the foot missing a boot.

Cold air washed over him.  Nateem threw himself to the ground and rolled until certain no spark remained.  He inhaled the clean air, celebrating his victory over the fire.  A bloody foot seemed a small price to pay for his escape.  The reality of the last few moments hit him hard.  He lived, but how many others died?  That fire caught everyone unaware, and most paid with their lives.  As he limped back to camp, he wondered if he would ever find another boot to replace the one he lost.


Abbess Robertasin sat behind her desk.  She held a written report regarding this first day of battle.  Her eyes refused to focus on the words.  Her mind kept seeing bodies lying in the corridor by the Infirmary.  Perhaps she made a mistake volunteering to help the Healer.

"I'm too tired, give me a summation, General Markus."

"We repelled their charge against our main gate, as expected.  Eight were killed, all residents.  Another fifteen suffered minor injuries.  Healer Shortspike said they will recover over the next three days.  Enemy losses exceeded fifty, though I believe my spotters may have underestimated their count."

She nodded.  "What about their main attack?  Did that trap work?"

Markus almost gloated.  "They took the bait, Abbess.  We lost all our oil reserves and most of our grease, but our plan worked exactly as intended.  Best of all, we suffered no deaths; though three beasts sustained minor injuries.  None required medical care.  The forest might be burned, but those fallen trees will make any assault suicidal until they clear it.  All in all, we gave them a bloody nose they'll not soon forget."

Robertasin dropped the papers she held and buried her head in her crossed arms.  "And this is just the first day."

"Colonel Varden said I could stay on light duty.  If this is light, I'd hate seeing his idea of normal."

Wobbles muttered a few more choice words as the cart she rode in hit another bump and the healing welts on her back and bottom connected with some of the cargo.  While she rode, the other slaves and guards marched from dawn to dusk at double pace.  In spite of their efforts, they fell behind schedule.  Instead of arriving at dawn, they reached their destination at sunset, more than a day late. 

The cart hadn't yet come to a full stop when Wobbles jumped off, glad to be standing on her own feet once more.  At least her earlier interrogation earned her a ride.  Up front, a lady mouse dropped the trace and snarled back at her.

"I see no reason for you to complain, Wobbles."  The mouse moved closer to her.  The other slave had her paws clenched into fists.  "You got to ride while the rest of us had to run like the wind with our taskmaster's switch tickling our backs every step of the way."

Her companion, a dour looking lady hedgehog, remained in front, catching her breath.  Like Delcora, the hedgehog grumbled about her privileged status at every opportunity.  Unlike the mouse, the hedgehog preferred staying out of any physical battles. 

Delcora voiced her resentment and accented her comments by poking Wobbles in her chest.  Wobbles slapped the mouse's paw away and went on the offensive.  She shoved Delcora hard enough that it drove her two paces back.  As usual, the hedgehog gave her friend all the verbal support she wanted while remaining far from any confrontation.

"I earned these two golden disks because our masters know I get the job done."  Her comment silenced the hedgehog and now Wobble's finger pointed at the mouse.  "You, Delcora, have been with the Horde five years and are yet to earn a second white because you're lazy."

Delcora balled her fists.  Wobbles prepared to meet the challenge.  The mouse cocked her arm ready to punch Wobbles when a sharp voice commanded their attention.  Both Wobbles and Delcora stopped their fight, though each gave the other a sideward glance.

"There be none of that.  Settle your differences later, after you finish your work.  No guard will interfere, though I know a few who wouldn't mind wagering on the fight if you two don't mind an audience."  He laughed a mirthless laugh.  "We might even offer an incentive if the fight provides enough entertainment."

Wobbles gave Delcora a predatory smile that dared her to accept the challenge.  She bested Delcora in an earlier altercation, though it got no worse than a shoving match when they first came to this land.  Based on the mouse's expression, a bare knuckle brawl didn't appeal to her.  Delcora retreated.

With their quarrel resolved, for the moment, the guard issued his orders.  "You, Delcora, those carts need unloading.  Wobbles, grab a keg of ale and get it to the Brigadier's tent."

While Wobbles hustled to obey, Delcora meandered back to where the convoy parked.  As she passed the rat, he cuffed her and threatened her with even worse if she didn't move along.  Now Delcora jogged toward the carts, no doubt muttering words best not heard by the guards.

Balancing the keg on her shoulder, Wobbles asked for directions to the camp.  She hustled to the largest tent and approached the guards.  When she drew near, they blocked her way by crossing their spears before her.  She explained her presence and they moved aside.  One guard lifted the flap and earned a quiet word of appreciation from her.

She placed the ale on a low table, noting the presence of a serving tray.  A glance around at the gathered officers, and Wobbles took the initiative by pouring several tankards of the brew.  She moved around the outer edge, serving each officer in turn.  She knelt behind the wolf and held the tray.  Brigadier Shawarran took the proffered mug and she retreated to the keg where she filled several empty tankards.  What these officers said turned into background noise.

"Our initial assault cost us dearly, Brigadier," one ermine remarked.

Another officer chimed in with her report.  "Battle casualties exceeded two hundred on the diversionary attack at the main gate.  The primary attack cost us just under sixteen hundred and those who did survive cannot fight.  Until reinforcements arrive, our effective fighting force is under two hundred."

Colonel Nateem offered his assessment of the battle's aftermath.  "Our count shows a hundred unaccounted for; most likely they died in the fire and we are yet to recover their bodies.  If they're deserters, they'll join the others on the hanging tree.  I have patrols scouting the area for them, as well as any supplies we can scrounge."

The wolf withdrew his sword, Brigadier Shawarran drove the point deep into the tree stump they used as a conference table.  The golden hilt caught the lantern light, and every officer stared first at the blade and then at the wolf who wielded it.  Even Wobbles caught her breath as the light reflected off the red pommel stone.

"Unacceptable.  I refuse to believe an ill-prepared gaggle of peaceful woodlanders can withstand the mightiest military force ever assembled.  The only possible explanations for our failure, inaccurate information, insufficient supplies, or the incompetence of our soldiers."

An unidentified voice piped in.  "Perhaps they were better prepared than we were led to believe."

That comment had Wobbles give a slight nod.  The wolf must have seen her nodding.  Brigadier Shawarran jumped upright and in three strides, had a dagger pressed against her throat.

"Does our slave desire the defeat of her betters, or do you concur with whichever officer spoke?"

Wobbles made no defensive move; instead, she stared into the face of the wolf.  She kept her voice loud enough that all heard her as she respectfully responded, knowing her next words may well be her last.

"I have served the Horde for twenty years and have seen battles won and lost.  In all that time, never did I desert the unit I served.  My loyalty is something none should question."

The wolf kept the blade against her throat.  "So you think me an incompetent fool?"

"A wise commander realizes his enemy can be just as resourceful."

The blade slid down her chest, the point traveling through the fur between her breasts until it reached her stomach.  A second later, Wobbles heard the dagger settle into its sheath and exhaled the breath she had not realized she held.  Without warning, the wolf's paw slammed into her shoulders.  Pain raced up her body as she landed with a thud on the unyielding ground.

"Get out of my sight, slave, or I may just change my mind about letting you live."

Outside the tent, Wobbles could not stop shaking.  It wasn't the closeness to death or the night chill that made her shiver as she walked.  After twenty years in the Horde army, such things were commonplace.  The sword the wolf held chilled her blood, fear gripped her.  Seven years ago, she saw that same blade in a drug-induced dream, and she remembered the stern face of a warrior mouse with eyes that flayed your very soul.

Even though the Brigadier had not ordered her, Wobbles felt driven to check on the dead.  Her mind remembered a dream where a multitude of faces flashed before her.  Regardless of the sex or species of the creature, there remained one constant.  The sword, every warrior held it.

Wobbles wanted to convince herself the dream and the blade unrelated.  She tried dismissing the reality, thinking the sword just a coincidence.  That too failed.  Wobbles couldn't imagine another such weapon.  The sword in her dream and the one held by the Brigadier were indeed, one and the same. 

I must see the warrior's face, if it matches the one from my dream, than the prophecy is coming true.

The soldiers assigned to guard detail at the burial site did not stop her.  They seemed relieved when Wobbles announced she had been placed in charge.  Many of the guards withdrew far enough away that the wind dissipated the smell and they did not have to look at the dead.  Though one never got use to the stench, Wobbles learned long ago how to mask her aversion. 

She stood aside and watched as half a dozen slaves shift the dead into one of two carts.  As they carried the bodies, Wobbles examined the faces.  Most wore a charred Horde uniform, and her eyes slid over them like an ill-placed paw on ice.  Any creature not dressed as a soldier she examined, checking its species.  Some of these were the unfortunate slaves assigned ladder duty during the frontal assault; none of them survived.  A few wore a simple brown habit, which marked them as beasts from the citadel.

With the carts loaded, she led the way across a makeshift bridge and around a low hill.  There she found other slaves digging a massive pit.  To the side, bodies awaited their final resting place.  As Wobbles moved about the field, she glanced at the dead.  Like those outside the camp, most wore the uniform of the Horde.

Then one body caught her attention.  She knelt down, examined the face and shuddered.  She knew this mouse, not by name, but by appearance.  He showed signs of advanced age, yet his body showed a well developed physic.  Her paw reached out and felt the strong arm muscles.  She noted the many injuries he had suffered before dying and knew this one had to be a warrior.

Her hunt finished, she moved further down the trail.  She stood there watching the others finish the mass grave.  None of the slaves needed her supervision and the soldiers never questioned her presence.  Within her mind, Wobbles replayed the witch's prophecies.


Delcora rested by leaning her shoulders on the shovel she held.  Removing a clod of dirt from the earthen wall, she tossed it at her friend, Tergello.  The hedgehog acted like she  was digging, but did nothing more than shift some of the loosened dirt from her left side to her right and back again.  Delcora dragged her shovel along the ground until she stood next to Tergello.

"What's so important that you risk having us placed on report for malingering?"

Delcora joined her friend, scrapping the thinnest layer of soil so the guards continued past them as they patrolled the perimeter of the grave.  When she spoke, she whispered.  Best none of the guards hear what she said.

"That snotty squirrel is prancing about, giving orders again.  But something weird just happened."

One overzealous  guard approach and they ceased their conversation.  With the guard watching them, they gave full effort to loading the wheelbarrow assigned to them.  The guard remained nearby and despite their best efforts; the shoveled dirt soon filled it.  With no other option, they lifted the wheelbarrow and with a hearty grunt, pushed it uphill to the appropriate spot.  On their return to the burial site, the guard continued his patrol, leaving them unmonitored.  Delcora spoke as if their conversation had never been interrupted.

"I saw her fondling a dead mouse like he was some long-lost relative or lover.  Then I heard her speak about some prophecy that involves our Brigadier.  Mark my words, Tergello, I'll use that against her someday and then I'll be wearing those golden disks."

Everyone returned to the holding area once the last shovelful of dirt covered the bodies.  Wobbles spoke to a friend about what had happened.  She kept her voice low as she didn't want any of the other sleeping slaves disturbed.  When Wobbles was certain none of the guards were near, she finished her story.

"I recognized that mouse as the one I saw in a prophecy given me seven years ago.  I have been scared in many a battle, but never terrified.  My fate depends on knowing which is more important, honor or loyalty.  I hold the key and know not which door to unlock."

Unbeknown to Wobbles, Delcora overheard everything.  She remained motionless until certain the other slaves slept.  Delcora slipped over the boundary rope and snuck into camp.  She dodged from shadow to shadow, keeping herself hidden in the dark until she reached the back of Brigadier Shawarran's tent.  Deft fingers slackened one guy rope and she crawled under the loosened tent wall.

When she tried standing, a foot pinned her to the ground and something sharp tapped the back of her head.  "A slave sneaking into my tent at night?  I know promotions through assassination is not uncommon.  I removed a senior officer and turned a rout into victory.  The rest is history.  I wonder which officer felt the need for a bloody promotion."

The wolf turned the light up enough that he could see, but not enough to alert the two guards outside his tent.  She stood, the blade always hovering near her heart.  The wolf patted her down, his paws checking her body for any hidden weapon.  When he finished, he sat on his bed, facing her.

"You have no weapon.  I know you don't have the nerve to kill me, even if I slept.  I see it in your eyes.  You must have another reason for slithering under my tent like an adder."  The wolf smirked.  "No, not an adder, more like a harmless worm."

Delcora ignored the insult.  "I have information you need, something vital.  I'm here to bargain a trade."

"For your freedom?"  The wolf almost laughed when she answered no.  "There are proper channels.  What do you have that you consider worth risking your life?  Speak, if what you say has value, we shall bargain.  If not, my interrogators can always use test subjects for untried forms of torture.  Need I say more?"

This isn't how she envisioned their conversation.  Delcora intended teasing the Brigadier as she negotiated her best deal.  She knew he never made idle threats, which left her no alternative.

"Wobbles concealed information about a prophecy concerning this Abbey.  I overheard her say it involved you, Colonel Nateem and Captain Purrnella."

The wolf entertained himself by tossing his blade from paw to paw.  Her statement startled the wolf and he dropped the blade.  He retrieved it and placed it in its sheath.  His eyes bored into her.

"You have my attention.  Tell me what you want."

Not only did she survive, the Brigadier wanted to know what she wanted.  Her moment of glory and revenge.  Delcora savored her victory.

"I want to wear a gold disk in each ear.  I know how to read and am competent with numbers.  An educated slave should serve officers and not work with lowly grunts."

With a casual wave of his paw, the wolf gave her permission to speak.  Delcora told the Brigadier everything she knew.  When she finished, the wolf approached the entrance of his tent.  He stood there for several moments, speaking in hushed whispers.  At last he returned.

The wolf approached her, his paw open.  Brigadier Shawarran held two golden disks.  He pinned a gold disk above the white one she wore in each ear.  Delcora strutted about the tent as she fondled those earrings.  Now she served officers and held a position of power.  She need not jump every time that squirrel snapped her fingers.  Vengeance never tasted so sweet.

Brigadier Shawarran called her over.  Delcora stepped closer.  She never saw the dagger he plunged into her belly.  The pain proved greater than any she experienced.  She knew the blow fatal and looked at the wolf.

"If you're willing to betray a friend for such a trifling thing, then I fear someday you'll betray me.  You told me everything you knew, so you have no further value.  At least I spared you a long and lingering death with my interrogators."

With the coming of morning, Wobbles found herself summoned to Brigadier Shawarran's tent.  Inside, she faced two officers.  The wolf she recognized as her commander and showed her respect and subservience by first dropping to her knees.  As protocol dictated, she bowed deep enough that her forehead touched the ground.  Since she wore two golden disks in each ear, she came to parade rest until given her orders.

The second officer, a fox, handed her a sealed scroll and a flag of truce.  Wobbles listened to her instructions and with a quick nod, accepted the items.  The wolf dismissed her, she spun around, and quick-marched outside.  The fox spoke just as she exited the tent.

"You know they will kill her for such treachery."

"Than we lose one slave," replied her commander.

Wobbles had no chance to fathom their conversation.  She had her duty, regardless of the dangers.  For the first time, Wobbles got to see the impressive structure in the light of day.  As she marched up the road, she gazed on the fortress that defied the might of the Horde.  In her years of service, she had seen many such structures and a simple glance told her this one had been well-designed for defense.

She drew within a dozen paces.  A stone struck the road but a short distance before her feet, while three more ricocheted off the pavement behind her.  Wobbles raised her head and scrutinized the many defenders standing along the ramparts.  The hairs on her back tingled.  Her life might end if these creatures didn't honor her call for truce.

From the top of the wall, a deep voice boomed out.  Wobbles didn't know who spoke, but did recognize the voice as male.  Since she still lived, she called back to the unknown defender.  She projected a confidence that comes from performing her duties to the best of her abilities.

"I come as an emissary from the Horde, approaching your castle under a flag of truce.  If such customs are recognized by any civilized creatures living here, accord me the honor and respect an ambassador deserves.  Otherwise, dismiss me and I'll withdraw in peace."

A cacophony of voices roared down upon her and in those voices, she heard many threats and boasts.  Wobbles did not move, even when her flag took a stone and another bounced off the road. She did not react to the one that hit her side.  The noise receded enough that she felt certain her voice would be heard.

"My words are for the one known as the Mother Abbot and whichever beast commands the garrison within these walls.  I shall not shout like some benighted market haggler, but insist on a face to face meeting.  Will you come out and speak or shall I report to my master you have refused our efforts at resolving our conflict without further loss of life?"

"What business do you have with our Mother Abbot," a different male shouted.

Wobbles ignored the voice that shouted down from atop the high battlement.  She had made her point quite clear, speak as civilized creatures are supposed to do when they parley or dismiss her.  She waited in silence.

Wobbles stood at attention, holding the flag of truce.  Her eyes fixated on the massive door before her and she allowed no other sight or sound to distract her.  Such was her concentration that Wobbles tuned out all but the door before her.  She studied every grain in each timber; even the buzzing flies and gnats milling about did not affect her.

She recalled another time when she had been chosen for such a high honor by her commanding officer.  Wobbles remembered marching with pride at the rear of their army, carrying the banner of a conquered nation.  That was the time she led a formation of some fifty slaves, each bearing the flag of some vanquished unit.  Never had she felt such pride.

She had been given an assignment by Brigadier Shawarran and would not return until the mission had been completed.  The wolf explained the dangers but called her the best emissary available.  Such lofty praise and such an important task made her swell with pride.  Her initial fears dissipated since the armed defenders had not fired a second volley.

A shadow extended onto the door, covering almost half of the first beam.  Then the sound of wood sliding on wood came to her ears.  The sounds continued for several seconds before the small door within the larger one swung inward on silent hinges.

From the darkness beyond the open door, a voice called.  It conveyed an attitude like some high noble from home, a superior unwilling to subjugate themselves to any beast of a lower class.  Wobbles did not recognize his voice.  She took that as a positive sign.  Some inner sense told Wobbles the speaker had the rank and authority to receive the message she carried.

"Speak, Emissary, and we will listen.  Or, if you wish, you may enter with the assurance that we will release you unharmed."

"My master has commanded that I speak with you on an urgent matter, out here where all can see."

A female voice called out with a softer tone than the male.  "Emissary, your master ordered you to speak with us, and we will, but only if you come inside."

Brigadier Shawarran emphasized having them come to her was imperative.  Wobbles remembered the wolf's explanation and saw the logic behind it.  Force the defenders outside and she gained a position of dominance.  Despite her lowly status, when they left the Abbey, she held power over them.  Wobbles took three steps back.

"My orders are clear; we must do this beyond your gates.  What have you to fear?  I carry no weapon and our army is camped beyond the trees."

It was the male voice that responded and its tone contained a note of anger.  "Liar.  Even now we can see at least two soldiers within striking distance."

Her confidence never wavered, though she took a moment scanning the field.  Wherever she looked, the landscape showed no other soldier.  This angered Wobbles and when she faced the blackness framed by the open door, she did not hide that emotion.

"There is no soldier within sight, sir.  Unlike your rabble, we honor a flag of truce.  I can forgive ignorance, but your force fired several stones my way after I identified myself.  One hit my flag and another struck me.  Your actions are disgraceful.  I remain here because I serve my masters with honor and dignity.  Do you dare deny the truth behind my words?"

No sound came from beyond the open door.  Once more, she assumed a pose of rigid attention.  She continued holding her head high, knowing she represented an army that considered honor and duty synonymous.

"What if we prove you wrong, Emissary," asked the male voice.

Impossible!  Wobbles accepted the challenge.  The male issued orders like a drill instructor and she acted on them.  After reversing course, she marched forty paces before he had her pivot to her right.  She counted another fifteen paces off the road until the male yelled halt.

Wobbles planted her flag into the soft soil and relaxed her rigid military posture.  With a swift turn in place, she looked over the wide expanse and smirked.  Nobody was visible.  I knew no soldiers would be here, but best I humor theses Abbey beasts before returning to parley.  She examined the ground closer to her.

Then she spotted the anomaly.  She discovered a slight rise to the flat ground and what appeared to be a square cave.  Wobbles moved closer and as she did, she noticed the dirt-covered sailcloth dyed an earthen color.  She looked back at the Abbey and then returned her gaze to the object before her. 

As she bent down, the cloth was yanked aside by somebody hidden beneath it.  Once the dust cleared, four armed members of the Horde stood.  Each soldier had a crossbow bolt strung and ready.  The four rats gave her a withering glare as they folded the cloth and without speaking a word, withdrew. 

When they had gone more than halfway to the woods, the male voice demanded her attention.  Wobbles lifted her flag and once again followed the instructions of her unseen drill instructor.  She marched thirty paces to the left before she stopped.

This time she knew what to look for and soon spotted the opening.  She walked within a single pace before she knelt.  Like the other sniper's blind, a piece of sailcloth dyed the color of the surrounding field and covered with dirt hid it.  Had she not been directed to the exact spot, she would never have seen it.  Unlike the other blind, nobody within stirred. 

"If anyone is under this cover, the defenders know you are here.  You fool no one.  Perhaps you didn't know that I am operating at the explicit orders of Brigadier Shawarran and stand before you under a flag of truce.  Withdraw now or I will expose you."

When nothing happened, she yanked on the cloth.  Four soldiers stood, all armed with cocked and loaded crossbows.  One of the four rats was an officer and she took exception to her actions.

"We have been lyin' out here since the hour before dawn and you saunter on by and ruin everythin'.  You're goin' to pay for wastin' our flippin' time out here.  And that's a promise."

Wobbles cocked her head sideways, giving her comments some thought.  Wobbles felt confused.  Did Brigadier Shawarran know about the two sniper's nests?  What was their mission?  Would they have fired while she negotiated or did these rats intend holding fire until negotiations ended?  Was this the treachery the fox spoke about after she left her commander's tent?  Either was a breach of honor she thought no high ranking officer capable of doing.

Wobbles knew she appeared as deceptive as any collection of bandits.  A look at the closed door proved that.  She made her way to the road and gazed back at the retreating rats.  Whatever credibility she had, those soldiers destroyed it.

Her mission had ended in failure.  Worse yet, the honor of the Horde had been besmirched.  Perhaps, she thought, something might be salvaged.  Lifting her flag, Wobbles came to rigid attention and marched back to the gates of Redwall.  Several stones struck near her and a few flew so close that her fur sensed their passage.

Once again, she stood at the exact place where she had last addressed the unknown male voice.  She came to attention and watched the afternoon shadow stretch across the door.  Just as the line between light and darkness reached the far side, the small door opened.

A buck hare exited.  In stature, they were evenly matched, though his ears made him look taller.  His fur reminded her of the snows that covered the high mountains back home and she marveled at how well groomed he appeared.  The male carried himself with the bearing of an officer who served the military and his attire reminded her of a uniform. 

In one paw he carried a small metal shield, and in the other he held a rapier.  Its keen point pressed against her breast, just where her heart thumped at a rapid pace.  Wobbles licked her lips, but did not flinch when the hare nicked the skin and drew a bead of blood.

"Emissary, I am General Markus of the Fourth Salamanderstron Army, a unit of the Long Patrol.  In accordance with military law, I hereby inform you that you have violated all standards of civilized warfare by trying to assassinate us under a flag of truce.  Can you give me one reason why I should not execute you for your crime?"

"I spoke the truth when I said none were here.  Their presence was not known to me and if it had been, I would insist we speak inside.  A flag of truce that does not protect all is less than worthless."

A female voice ordered the hare to sheath his sword and he did so.  Once the blade disappeared, a creature dressed in a flowing robe of green stepped beyond the doorway.  Based on the information given to her earlier, she faced the Mother Abbot.

Lifting her paws, the Abbess pushed the cowl off her head and revealed her face.  Her fur was black; her facial bones outlined by a thin line of grey, which gave her a sculptured look.  One eye appeared a milky green while the other displayed a deep emerald color.  Her response to the Mother Abbot's appearance did not escape the black squirrel's attention.

"Your reaction makes me think we have met before, though I cannot recall your face."

"No, Mother Abbot, we have never met."  Wobbles removed the scroll Brigadier Shawarran gave her that morning.  "This scroll contains our terms for your surrender.  You will advise us come morning as to your decision."

After the hare took the scroll, the Mother Abbot spoke.  Her voice sounded soft and pleasant, yet it contained a note of righteous determination.  "We accept this from somebody who has demonstrated her honor and her integrity.  It took courage standing before us after such treachery.  Will you at least identify yourself, Emissary, so we may call you by name?"

"My name is unimportant, Mother Abbot.  Listen carefully to my words.  During the time I served the Horde, I have known many different commanders.  All have acted with honor, until now.  I fear Brigadier Shawarran might be the exception.  Don't trust his terms."

Having delivered the Horde's ultimatum and her personal message, Wobbles marched back down the road.  She wondered whatever possessed her to add that warning.  She would have to guard her tongue when she reported to the Brigadier.  Others had been executed for saying less.

Wobbles gave her report.  Birgadier Shawarran never looked away from the paper in front of him.  The wolf continued writing his message after she finished.  A knock on the tent's pole had the wolf raise his eyes.  A tall ermine marched within a pace of the Brigadier.

"Lieutenant, I have an important dispatch involving this slave and Captain Slyclaw, deliver it personally.  You are to transport our more seriously injured by cart back to Ferretville."  The wolf turned his eyes on her.  "Select seven other slaves to assist our injured.  I want both of you gone within the hour." 

Five relaxing days passed.  She enjoyed the peaceful ride, finding the duty of serving the wounded easy.  As she rested, her mind replayed the incident at the gate.  Like a thorn stuck in her paw, the snipers plagued her mind.  If she came under a flag of truce and those soldiers hid there first, did Brigadier Shawarran intend honoring the parley?  Something told her the wolf had willingly sacrificed his integrity.

Such thoughts were interrupted when the ermine riding next to the driver screamed.  As Wobbles turned forward, the Lieutenant's body topple off the cart.  The driver snapped the reigns.  An arrowhead protruding from the sideboard confirmed his frenzied warning.

She risked a quick look.  Two carts had toppled when the ponies pulling them, died under a cloud of arrows.  Wobbles watched the third pony collapse with several spears in his flank.  That cart fell over, spilling its cargo of wounded creatures and the slaves serving them.  Rebels swarmed over them like ants at a picnic.  The cries of the fallen reached a crescendo before they were silenced.  She worried about the slaves, did they die too?

Then her eyes focused on the back of the cart.  Two grey paws hung onto the edge and as Wobbles stared, a rebel struggled to gain a foothold.  The invader held a dagger in his mouth while trying to climb inside the racing wagon.  Her eyes darted toward the driver, but his attention remained focused on the road, unaware of the danger.

She viewed the fierce countenance of the rebel and shivered.  If he gets inside, we die.  I must stop him.  For a second, the two locked eyes.  It was the angry squirrel, the one that vowed to free her.  He froze in place, a startled look on his face.

Without conscience thought, Wobbles stretched out her paw.  She lunged towards the squirrel.  Her fingers felt the fur running along his chest and she tried gripping him.  The cart bounced over a rut, dislodging the intruder just as her fingers closed.  Wobbles leaned over the back of the cart as the male tumbled along the roadway.

The speeding wagon crested the hill and then slowed, even though Wobbles could still hear the driver snapping the reigns.  Despite the abuse, the animal gradually stopped.  With a whinny, the exhausted pony dropped to his knees and died. 

The driver checked behind him.  The fox unsheathed his sword, ready to fight.  Then the rebel squirrel surprised both Wobbles and the Horde soldier when he turned and retreated.  They stared at each other for a few seconds, looked where the rebel had stood, and back again.  They repeated the motion, but then faced forward when a branch snapped.

"Good thing our patrol arrived." said a Horde officer.  "Those insurgents have been getting more brazen with every succeeding raid."

While Wobbles carried a stretcher to Ferretville, she replayed the raid over and over again in her confused mind.  Did she really try helping that rebel?  Was she about to betray the army she served for over twenty years?  She had no answers, and that, more than anything else, kept her quiet during the long march.

The fortress home of the badger king within Fiery Mountain depressed Captain Serenity.  The enlisted soldiers whispered about the death of close friends.  Lower ranked officers equated upcoming assignments with an execution, only the where and when remained unknown.  The higher ranked officers cringed if any rumor placed them in command of a unit destined for combat.  Regardless of how many windows the household staff workers opened, the stench of defeat filled every room and hallway.

She walked through the fortress of Salamanderstron deep in thought.  The many beautiful tapestries Captain Serenity passed never registered on her mind as she replayed the latest meeting of the War Council.  News regarding the many defeats suffered by the Long Patrol disturbed her as much as the siege at Redwall Abbey.  She worried about her father fighting a guerilla war and her mother back home.

Her brother, Thorn, often voiced his concerns for the residents trapped at the Abbey but other dignitaries affiliated with kingdoms under attack clamored for King Brisson's attention.  Whenever he could spare the time from caring for the many children that accompanied him, Thorn demanded whatever news his sister possessed.  It hurt Serenity telling him Redwall must stand on its own without revealing the Northern Alliance's own disastrous war record.

Turning the corner, Captain Serenity spotted the one other inhabitant she preferred avoiding.  At the far end of the corridor stood a tall, female hedgehog whose ears came within a whisker of the badger's brow.  It was the Countess Dorsattin Sharpae, First Noble of the High Council.  Judging by the way the hedgehog approached, Captain Serenity anticipated no chance of avoiding her attention.

Captain Serenity admitted the hedgehog knew what royalty considered fashionable.  The Countess wore a knee-high skirt of the finest dark blue silk embroidered with silver and gold thread that caught the light and any wayward eye when she swiveled her hips.  The hedgehog's quills stood erect, indicating confidence, though they had been trimmed to a modest length.  Even her tan fur appeared feathery soft thanks to one of the Lady's many servants.  The Countess carried a folded fan like an officer's swagger stick.

"Why Captain Serenity, I have been looking for you ever since this morning's meeting."

With a flick of the hedgehog's wrist, the ornate fan expanded.  Its multicolored fabric caught Serenity's attention as the Countess fluttered it before her muzzle.  The Countess gave another twist of her wrist and now the open fan rested against her bosom.  Its colored bands highlighted against the white fabric of her blouse.

"I'm sorry, Countess Sharpae, the bad news from the front has me searching for some remedy to this Horde invasion, just like the Command Staff of the Long Patrol."

The fan snapped shut and Serenity felt it tap her shoulder.  "Please, when we are in private, I would prefer you call me Dorsa, or if you must be formal, Lady Sharpae.  Though I do think a title has a way of interfering with the work that needs doing.  Don't you agree?"

Captain Serenity rolled her eyes towards the rafters.  It seemed incredible such a powerful personage preferred attending to social amenities more than matters of state.  Both heard the news about the military being routed in every battle.  If the Horde had pressed forward, this fortress would now be under siege.

"Lady Sharpae, I know your reputation.  Forgive me for being so blunt, but I'm a simple soldier.  I prefer a direct strike.  If you have something that concerns me or this war, then speak without the riddles and insinuations common to nobility.  Neither of us have time for such maneuvers."

Now the fan opened with an audible pop, leaving just the eyes visible over the top edge.  When it dropped below Lady Sharpae's chin, the hedgehog's expression appeared blank.  She moved to the nearby window but kept her eye on her.  The fan continued its methodical wave for a few moments before if ceased.  The hedgehog beckoned Captain Serenity over and pointed to the harbor.

"See the warship? It serves as the flagship to my father's navy and brings news that might prove useful.  Perhaps if we presented this information to the King, he would be grateful."

Captain Serenity saw through the manipulation.  She knew the Countess had a reputation for brokering deals among the nobles.  Before the war, she used that talent so well she became First Noble.  However, the war ruined many of those arrangements and now several High Council members sought her position by undermining her authority.  Captain Serenity suspected Lady Sharpae feared an upcoming vote might topple her.

She tried excusing herself, but the hedgehog grabbed her paw.  For the first time, she looked at a frightened lady trying to maintain her position of power.  When Captain Serenity discovered the hedgehog's weakness, she attacked like any military person would do.  Her sudden change from avoiding the Countess, to one courting her favor, did not go unnoticed by the consummate politician.

Lady Sharpae tried asserting control with her title but Captain Serenity's verbal assault turned relentless.  After a heated debate, the Countess promised her support for relieving Redwall Abbey.  Captain Serenity got what she wanted but saw no chance of success since every noble clamored for the King's help against the invaders.  While the Countess continued fanning herself, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a small currier's pouch. 

"I know the information must be valuable, Captain.  My father would never waste the time of a Fleet Admiral as a simple courier.  Protocol requires me to submit this to the Council first, which I am reluctant to do.  If it comes from me, others will debate its merits until its value disappears.  I cannot allow that.  As one not beholden to any sovereign, you gain nothing showing this, though I do expect credit where credit is due."

Serenity read the report.  She did it a second time.  After securing the papers in the pouch, she retraced her steps without saying a word to the waiting hedgehog.  Lady Sharpae call out and Serenity beckoned her with a vigorous motion of her paw.  As she dashed to the Grand Audience Hall, the hedgehog's satin slippers slapped the marbled steps in time with her heavy sandals.

She rounded the corner and charged the entrance to the Hall.  Before each double set of doors, two hares stood guard while an armed squad augmented their numbers.  As she raced down the hallway, the soldiers at the  doors crossed their pikes, acting as a barrier to her progress.  The other guards assumed a defensive posture.  When Serenity tried passing, the squad's commanding officer made it quite clear nobody could enter the room. 

Lady Sharpae made her presence known.  The hedgehog reached for the doorknob, only to have the hare guards block her progress.  The Countess turned on the highest ranking officer she saw and stood so close their muzzles almost touched.  As she spoke, her voice climbed several octaves as she verbally assaulted the buck hare.

"Move aside, sir.  You are delaying the Countess Dorsattin Sharpae, first born daughter to the Earl of Vertgreen, heir to the throne, betrothed to the oldest son of Count Flingspike, commander of the Imperial Third Fleet, and the duly elected leader of the High Council of Ruling Nobles.  By the rights granted me by my titles, I may demand an audience with the King whenever I wish and with whomsoever I designate."

The officer's ears showed a slight twitching before every hare came to rigid attention.  Nothing blocked the door.  The Countess tapped her foot on the floor until Captain Serenity got the hint.  With a muttered apology for the delay, she turned the handle and followed Lady Sharpae inside.

The room beyond the doors had been carved out by artisans with the talent for manipulating stone.  It measured perhaps two hundred paces long and a third that in width.  Even a squirrel would find its dizzying rafters a challenge.  Along the north wall a dozen windows stood open to the sunlight's rays that flowed into the room. 

Captain Serenity never had a reason to enter this room.  Its ornate chandeliers, the thick carpet and rich tapestries bedazzled her.  As the two of them walked to the opposite end of the chamber, she passed under the many national banners hanging from the high rafters.  Up ahead, she saw King Brisson, ruler of the Northern Alliance, in conference with several hares, each wearing the insignia of General.

Lady Sharpae maintained a regal pace, always keeping two steps ahead of her.  The hedgehog stopped several paces from the King and executed a deep curtsy.  When the King acknowledged her presence, she rose.  The Countess addressed the boar badger with the appropriate degree of deference.

"Your Majesty, we bring you news that came within the hour.  Captain Serenity believes it to be of vital importance, and I beseech you to grant her an audience."

King Brisson said nothing.  Captain Serenity took that as his tacit permission.  She first handed the papers to the King before turning to the maps strewed across the conference table.  As she hunted down the appropriate maps, King Brisson read the document, then passed it to Grand Marshal Eytomin, supreme military commander of the Northern Alliance.  By the time the last hare read the material, Captain Serenity had everything ready.

"We kept wondering why the Horde never followed-up its victories; why they never pressed their advantage.  This scroll explains their reasoning.  Their primary objective hasn't been the annihilation of our army, but securing a sufficient food supply.  Once they have solved that problem, then their focus will shift to attacking our forces." 

Captain Serenity pointed to each chart in turn.  "They captured a slaughterhouse here, a major grain elevator here and in this battle, they took one of the largest root cellars of the Northern Alliance.  In each case, they allowed our forces to retreat." 

The assembled hares maintained a blank expression.  Captain Serenity threw her paws up in exasperation.  "Oh come on now, Generals.  Put it all together, merchant ships loaded with supplies instead of soldiers hugging the coast and the Horde seeking food stockpiled ahead of their marching army." 

One hare General grasped the significance of this new information.  The fellow drummed his paws on the table in exuberance.  A moment later, each officer joined in the celebration.  Frowns turned into wide smiles, one female general giggled.  The senior officer turned to his Liege and almost shouted the joyous news. 

"Not one of us saw the obvious.  The Horde doesn't have enough food.  They timed their attack to coincide with the spring harvest and the summer planting.  The invaders expected lush fields that could support their units.  None knew the Western regions suffered a terrible drought which blighted the crops.  If they intend pushing ahead, they need their supplies transported by ships anchored as close to the front as possible and they also must continue to forage.  Our navy is making such voyages too dangerous."

King Brisson approached the large map displaying the progress of the invaders.  His fingers traced the path from the first reported sighting and through the conquered lands.  He tapped the location of each quay raided by the fleet and the locations of each enemy ship sunk or captured since the war began.  His paw slammed onto the table as he gave an exuberant bark.

"If our enemy intends defeating us, they must destroy our army, but they first need a secured supply source.  Destroy their supply ships, deny them any stockpiled food on land, and we will force them into a confrontation of our choosing."

Now the real business of winning the war commenced.  Each general checked the region ahead of the invaders.  Lady Sharpae pointed out stockpiled food and the Generals examined the surrounding countryside.  The hares discussed strategies and plans made for the ultimate confrontation between the two opposing forces.  Captain Serenity wanted a pivotal role in the upcoming battle, as well as access to the city's blacksmiths.  The King granted both her requests.


Colonel Nateem hurried across the camp and flung open the canvas door to Brigadier Shawarran's Command Tent.  Inside, he accepted a towel and dried the heavy rain off his fur.  The last thing he wanted to do was fling water droplets throughout his superior's office.

"I'm not sure which I hated more, the month of drought or a week of nonstop heavy rains.  This cursed weather has played havoc with our troops, Brigadier.  Our foraging parties range further and return with less.  The soldiers are already on three-quarters rations and if things don't improve soon, we'll be going to half rations."

The tall wolf faced him with a look as angry as the storm clouds marching across the skies.  The Brigadier's paw rested on the hilt of the golden sword while he paced the area behind the table he used as a desk.  He remained silent for a moment before he returned to the large-scale drawing of Redwall Abbey.

"What about our latest attack?  Do you have an explanation as to how woodland farmers defeated us?"

Yesterday, Colonel Nateem ordered a thousand soldiers into battle against one section of the Abbey's defenses.  The open field removed all chance at surprise and the defenders rallied in large numbers on the parapets.  Slaves carrying their last supply of scaling ladders and grappling hooks led the way.

When the attack began, the first few warriors passed over a wide ditch a hundred yards from the wall.  These soldiers encountered no opposition as they crossed the depression and the rest soon followed.  As the massed soldiers passed over the bottom, the combined weight of so many collapsed the camouflaged covers.  Many plunged into pits filled with sharpened stakes while others tried to avoid the revealed traps.  Anyone unfortunate enough to cross the narrow passageways between the pits died from the defender's arrows.  Colonel Nateem sounded recall rather than witness the continual slaughter of his fighters.

He decided it might be far more prudent focusing his commander's attention on his efforts at countering the defense.  Nateem explained how he ordered heavy rocks rolled from the river and into the wide trenches.  He omitted the number of soldiers lost in the initial attack and in their subsequent efforts at locating other hidden traps.  Colonel Nateem knew the loss of soldiers and equipment made further attempts impossible until replacements arrived from Ferretville.

Brigadier Shawarran growled while he described the failure of their latest effort.  Some innate sense must have alerted his commander he had more bad news.  The wolf plopped onto the wooden bench.  A simple gesture of his paw had him continue his report.

"Isolated rebel attacks are increasing.  There is a male badger leading a band of woodlanders sniping along our northern flank that has succeeded in destroying much of our food supplies.  It now takes a full unit to ward off their attacks and guard the material we do find, which leaves us with a limited number of soldiers stationed here."

The wolf stared at the depiction of the Abbey's main gate.  Colonel Nateem feared his commander's stony silence as it usually came before an emotional outburst.

"Another insurgent group has attacked our supply convoys using hit and run tactics.  Their leader has intercepted much of what we transport.  This same rebel led the attack on Ferretville that destroyed several outlying warehouses.  His raids have delayed construction on the harbor by destroying valuable equipment or by freeing our workers.  According to Captain Purrnella, he anticipates every countermeasure.  She suspects spies among the town's residents."

"How did that wildcat become the ranking officer in Ferretville?  Unless I'm mistaken, both a Colonel and a Major outrank her."

Colonel Nateem shifted his stance, worried about his commander's irate tone.  "That's the final part of her report, Brigadier.  This squirrel rebel leader assassinated several of our high ranking officers.  His latest victim, Colonel Varden, happened two days before she sent this message.  As the longest officer in grade, Captain Purrnella now commands the garrison at Ferretville."

Brigadier Shawarran's temper exploded with the violence of a volcano.  With a furious motion, the wolf swept the drawings off the table, scattering them about the tent.  The bench toppled.  Then the wolf stomped over to the tent's canvas door, pushed it open, and stared at the heavy rain.

"Two days, that's all it was supposed to take.  We have camped here six weeks and I'm no closer to victory than I was when this campaign started."

"I swear all this bloody marching is wearing my feet right off my legs.  It seems that's all we've done since joining the army.  I don't know about you, but I expected something more adventurous than eating dust day after day."

Threadfoot sat in the shade of a tree and glanced at her companion.  She wondered if she looked as worn out after a week of forced marches as Sandythorn.  Right now, she didn't want to do anything but let the river's cold water rush over her swollen feet.

"Don't know why you're complaining, Threadfoot.  The two of us have had some pretty good luck since boot camp.  Think about it, we complete our training and both of us are offered the rank of Corporal and given our own squad to command.  Or would you prefer your original orders, being a private with the High Kickin' Sixth?"

News about the elite fighting force reached the Fiery Mountain fortress two days earlier.  None thought the news accurate, but Treadfoot knew better.  As their commander's aide, she had access to official reports confirming the rumors.  She almost cried when she learned about the virtual annihilation of the Sixth Army, one of the most elite units of the Long Patrol. 

They numbered over two thousand battle-hardened hares and five hundred veteran warrior badgers.  Two full divisions of the regular army supported them in a major offense against a numerically inferior force.  When these soldiers returned to Fiery Mountain, the Northern Alliance's mightiest army numbered less than a hundred walking wounded.  Not one badger survived the confrontation.  Nothing remained of the supporting divisions.  The Horde's war chariots crushed all opposition without suffering any appreciable losses.

Threadfoot's mood changed that day from one of expectation to somber reflection.  If the Northern Alliance's mightiest army failed, how could an untested unit do any better?  Their commander, Captain Serenity, accepted her orders as if she won some coveted prize.  She wondered how her family would react to the unemotional letter confirming her death.

Captain Serenity announced their new orders and the Long Patrol Auxiliary prepared for departure.  When morning came, they took to the road.  Soldiers marched through Salamanderstorn to the sound of drums beating out an easy cadence while residents cheered.  Those closest to the back listened to the many oxen grunt as the supply carts groaned in sympathy.  Officers stood to the side of their particular unit making sure none slackened the grueling pace. 

Just beyond the city, they encountered a civilian tending two oxen hitched to a cart.  Captain Serenity had the soldiers load their instruments into the cart.  Everyone changed out of their parade uniforms and these too, went to the civilian.  Once unburdened of such unnecessary gear, they marched.  Instead of music, the only sounds heard were the clinking and clanking of gear as they moved along the stone highway.

For the next six days, Captain Serenity demanded all the speed they could muster.  None complained since the badger captain marched at the head of her division.  If she rejected her right to ride, a privilege of her rank as the Divisional commander, they would match her pace.  Each time the army rested, the formation changed.  Units to the rear moved forward and away from the dust of so many marching paws.

On day seven, the unit reached their first waypoint.  Weary soldiers pitched tents, grateful for the early stop.  The two friends from boot camp hiked to the nearby river.  She didn't want to admit it, but Sandythorn had a great idea.  Threadfoot found the stream and surrounding grasslands quiet relaxing.

She picked-up a pebble and flicked it at her friend Sandythorn.  "Say Boo-boo, how do you rate the readiness of your squad?  You think those otters and mice can fight as well as a Long Patrol hare?"

Sandythorn never reacted to the pebble that ricocheted off her muzzle.  "Give us a target and my squad will clear a path for those squirrels you command, Maggot.  There's not a better bunch of warriors when they're carrying a sling."

"Never thought of squirrels as fighters, Boo-boo, but I have to admit there are a few that can challenge my skills with a sword during our workouts.  When my squad gets into combat, I'll wager those tree rats I command will give the Horde something to worry about.  Them beasties are going to make fine soldiers, mark my words."

Another voice intruded on their conversation.  "That's what I want to hear from my officers.  Confidence in their squad's ability to perform their duty."   

Sandythorn recognized the voice of their unit commander, Captain Serenity.  Like her friend, she jumped to attention, worried her unauthorized departure might have unforeseen consequences.  She stood there minus her sandals while her companion's eyes searched for her own discarded gear. 

She gazed upon the badger she remembered as a drill instructor when she first joined the military.  In what many called a bizarre twist of fate, King Brisson promoted her from sergeant to Captain.  The King formed a special division and placed the badger in command.  Captain Serenity selected a core of hares officers and over the next four months, molded a collection of diverse woodlander species into an elite fighting unit.

The war changed everything.  Instead of their unit patrolling some region for bandits, they continued training.  Some welcomed the additional time in the relative safety of Fiery Mountain's shadow.  Threadfoot sided with those hares who groused about their inactivity.  After the resounding defeat the Long Patrol suffered, her opinion changed.  Now she worried about their role in this war.

"I suggest you two return to camp and get some rest.  We move at first light when the rafts arrive.  In another day, we reach our destination.  If all goes as planned, we will engage the Horde on the following morning."

Threadfoot appreciated how Captain Serenity overlooked their temporary absence from camp.  As a drill sergeant, the badger insisted on strict adherence to military standards.  With a full division under her command, the badger seemed more willing to overlook minor breaches of the rules. 

She scrambled for her gear, almost bumping heads as her friend did the same.  A quick salute and the two hustled back to their squads.  It surprised her when she failed to hear the footfalls of the female badger.  Threadfoot risked a look behind her.  Captain Serenity stood there, facing the wide river.  Perhaps the badger needed the change of scenery as much as they did.


Wobbles took the time to enjoy a slow stretch.  She felt lucky.  No, every slave in Ferretville enjoyed the same luxuries.  After the town fell, the Horde commandeered a number of buildings for housing its soldiers.  Slaves too received better quarters. 

As a slave overlord, she shared the office of a warehouse with the other high ranking slaves.  The lower ranked slaves assigned here crowded the main building.  Whenever she stepped outside her quarters, the high walls surrounding the warehouse reminded her of the military slave camps back home.

She approached the main gate.  Two sea rats, still in their naval uniforms, guarded the only exit.  One rat challenged her, but the other whispered something and he relaxed.  Once the sentries had her tag number, they allowed her to pass.

Over the last two days, it either rained, or threatened to do so.  Today, a brilliant golden orb hung in an azure sky.  It made her walk into town enjoyable.  None of the residents gave her a second look, which allowed her time to observe them.  Instead of a docile and cooperative populace, she noticed angry glances at any Horde soldier passing them.  She had a feeling they resented Captain Purrnella's restrictive edicts and her habit of hanging anyone who voiced a negative opinion.

Wobbles continued to her destination.  Before the invasion, the building she entered housed a squad of Peacekeepers.  They still occupied the place and performed their old duties, but Horde soldiers oversaw their actions.  Wobbles went to the second floor, knocked on a door and took a seat once granted permission to enter. 

An old male weasel, past his prime as a soldier, greeted her.  "I take it you heard the news about the rebel raid last night?"  He offered her a page with a list of names and numbers.  "We took roll call and these slaves are missing, presumed stolen.  They were assigned to today's convoy.  I'll need replacements."

"Can you get me the duty roster for the upcoming two weeks?"

He handed her a second clipboard.  While she scribbled numbers, the old weasel leaned back in his chair.  "I want you to take that wheelwright, Firelog, with you.  He made a convincing argument for his reassignment to the Redwall siege when he visited me last night.  Best you go too, Wobbles.  Advise me how these rebel attacks are affecting the other slaves."

She juggled some of the more important work details, keeping workers she trusted.  By late morning, she joined a large convoy transporting supplies to the soldiers near the Abbey.  Six days passed without incident.  She wondered if the stories of raids this far from the port more rumor than fact.

Wobbles released her grip on the cart she pulled and dropped the handlebar that ran between the two traces.  She than placed both paws on the small of her back and gave a push, trying to work out the kinks from the long day.  She issued a low moan as she stood, which caught the attention of another slave as she parked her wagon next to hers.

"Pulling these heavy carts isn't such an easy chore, is it Wobbles?"

"The work would go a lot easier, Tergello, if you stopped your bellyaching.  I ran three slots back and heard nothing but your constant whining all day long.  I'm surprised the Trailmaster didn't have your muzzle tied shut so the rest of us could have some peace and quiet.  Worse yet, you've done it every day.  Even in my dreams, I hear your voice gripe."

Wobbles examined each wagon, assuring herself the traces faced inward and all harnesses stowed.  None needed her supervision as the work details prepared camp.  A glance towards the nearby forest showed a slave detail gathering firewood while guards secured the camp's perimeter.  Nothing disturbed the usual routine.

Several slaves worked on their section of the camp.  Bedrolls covered the grass, but left enough room that nobody touched their neighbor.  She started driving in the stakes acting as their boundary when somebody approached her.

"It looks like our luck's holding out, Wobbles.  The rains have moved off and we're making good time.  We'll reach Redwall Abbey by nightfall, day after tomorrow."

"You're right about that, Firelog.  After that raid on Ferretville, everything has been peaceful.  We only lost one cartwheel, which we replaced without delaying anyone.  The credit for that goes to you.  Perhaps so many soldiers has discouraged any filthy rebel attacks."

Wobbles anticipated some retort.  Firelog disappointed her when he remained quiet.  She gave the red-furred hedgehog a sidelong look, confused by his change of attitude.  While based in Town, Firelog advocated resistance or escape.  Out here, he acted like somebody supporting the Horde's efforts.  It unnerved her how he seemed to read her thoughts.

"I haven't joined your side, Wobbles.  What's making me so happy is getting this close to my former home.  It does my heart good seeing your efforts flounder before Redwall Abbey."

"Tell the truth, spikedog.  You're smitten by a certain female who got assigned long-term duty at the Abbey.  Instead of asking me for a transfer, you slipped off to the Slave Master behind my back.  If you hadn't convinced that weasel about the wisdom of sending you, I would have nailed your pointy hide to the nearest tree for bypassing proper channels."

"Tergello loves my stories and I enjoy her attention.  It's the one good thing that's happened since my capture.  Once you lose this war, I'll take her as my mate."

Wobbles wanted to vomit.  How a diligent and hard-working fellow could find such a lazy beast as Tergello attractive boggled her mind.  She couldn't think of a proper witty retort.  Instead, she pushed the love smitten hedgehog aside, leaving him to his delusions. 

The nearby stream offered her a quick diversion.  She rested her feet in the water, rinsing the dust from a long day's journey out of her fur.  Since she was downstream of the area designated for cooking water, she indulged in a quick wash.  It refreshed both body and mind as she shook the water from her fur.  Wobbles stretched out on a nearby rock, enjoying the warmth from the late afternoon sun.

A light kick to her ribs had her on her feet.  An officer stood in front of her, his spear in one paw while the other held a crumpled shirt.  Wobbles didn't remember working for him earlier that day, so his anger seemed misplaced.  The officer threw the shirt into her face and then struck her shoulder with the shaft of his spear.  His voice could waken the dead.

"You call that shirt clean?  Take a good sniff and I dare you to call it clean."

Wobbles did as instructed.  As she sniffed the garment, the body odor assailed her nostrils.  She recognized the scent.  Her expression must have showed the officer she knew the smell.  The fellow grinned.  The officer grabbed Wobbles by the scruff of the neck, twisted it until she yelped, and dragged her to an open area along the stream's bank.  Her mind raced as she tried sorting out the contradictions.  The officer leaned closer, his paw ready to strike.  He whispered in her ear.

"Sorry if I'm hurting you, but we must maintain appearances.  Nobody will approach if they think you're undergoing some punishment detail.  There's not much time, so just listen to what I say."

Wobbles dropped to her knees and washed the uniform.  As she worked, she listened while the officer told her about an upcoming rebel raid planned for tomorrow.  The raiders would target the wagons for destruction and keep the guards busy during a surprise attack.  In the ensuing confusion, they intended freeing as many slaves as possible.

"My commander sent that shirt hoping you understood its message.  He said I was to tell you your salvation and freedom are near.  Remember my instructions, it will reduce losses among the slaves."

Wobbles kept her eyes focused on the rock she used as a scrubbing board while she absorbed what he said.  She awaited further instructions, but the unknown officer kept silent.  Wobbles whispered a question that had plagued her mind since she first met the one she nicknamed Angry Squirrel.  No reply.  A quick glance behind her revealed nothing.  She found herself kneeling along the riverbank alone.

Her mind whirled about like some dust devil.  She wondered where her loyalties belonged.  In the past, such doubts never existed.  Had she learned of such a threat against the Horde in previous times, she would rush to the Trailmaster.  But the dishonorable behavior of Brigadier Shawarran at the Abbey and the harsh actions of the wildcat commanding Ferretville made her question her own ethics. 

By the time she returned to the slave campsite, Wobbles chose the safety of her fellow slaves.  She approached a few trusted friends and passed the word, believing in their discretion.  Wobbles went to her assigned wagon and hung the shirt, knowing it would act as a beacon to Angry Squirrel when the raid started.  As she ate, her mind continued its bouncing ball routine between serving her masters with honor or engaging in open opposition to those that demanded her absolute loyalty.

Several soldiers approached her campfire.  One of them pointed to her and she followed them.  A few moments later, Wobbles stood at parade rest before the convoy's ranking officer.  Five other slaves, including Firelog, knelt with their foreheads touching the ground.

"I just received word that certain personnel and vital war materials are needed at Redwall Abbey before morning.  You will, therefore, depart ahead of the convoy.  Be ready to travel in five minutes."

Dusk found her racing with the other slaves along a wide forest trail.  Wobbles managed to grab the wet uniform and hang it on the cart she tended, worried it might endanger whichever slave replaced her.  They moved past the moss-covered rock the officer described as the location for the attack.  Wobbles scanned the surrounding forest, wondering where the rebels hid.  For just a moment, in a high branch crossing the path, she saw the figure of a squirrel silhouetted against the moonlight.  When she refocused her eyes on that branch, nobody stood there.

"Tassel, what are you doing up here?  I thought you were working with the sewing circle, keeping the tapestry of Martin the Warrior in good repair."

"That mouse didn't like the Mother Abbot's suggestion that I help her.  Yesterday she did nothing but mutter about vermin fouling our tapestry.  This morning she removed everything I did and had the other members of the sewing circle redo it."

General Markus scratched his muzzle, trying for a diplomatic response.  "Perhaps your stitching wasn't to her satisfaction.  I understand Lady Sydamo is a perfectionist."

"Lady Sydamo still holds a grudge."  The masked badger's dissatisfaction was evident as she spoke.  "Her whole family has advocated my removal as Badgermom because of the crimes I committed so long ago.  I can understand their resentment.  Their family lost a beloved uncle due to me, and they are not the forgiving type."

Before General Markus could respond, another familiar voice spoke out.  This one carried a strong note of command and power garnered from her many years as the Mother Abbot.  The female squirrel approached the two with her habit's cowl thrown back, exposing her black-furred face.  Robertasin gave a slight nod as she acknowledged their greeting.

"My mistake, Tassel.  I hoped Lady Sydamo might reconsider her family's grudge if she worked with you.  Too bad she's so brick-headed.  Based on what the other ladies tell me of your sewing skills, if you were not our Badgermom, your paws would guide the sewing circle's efforts at maintaining our tapestry."

Tassel gave the Mother Abbot a quick word of appreciation before excusing herself.  They tried convincing the badger they welcomed her presence, but she insisted on leaving the two in private.  When Tassel left, the tower's rooftop had but two occupants.  General Markus turned on Abbess Robertasin as if she were one of his subordinates.

"How many times must I tell you not to stand along the outer wall or these towers?  If even one sniper slips close enough, we might lose you.  Anyway, a beast with one good eye isn't the best lookout."

Her retort had just as much fire.  "The residents need to see me walking about with confidence.  It gives them hope.  As to the cataract in my one eye, it might dull my vision, but it hasn't blinded me yet.  I have done as you suggested by remaining out of any combat situation, but I'll not cower like some dibbun under a bed at the sound of thunder."

He decided a change of topic more appropriate than repeating an old argument.  "I'm a bit nervous, Mother Abbot.  Every day that wolf will practice with the Sword of Martin in full sight of us.  Before he leaves, he challenges us to send out a warrior to fight for it.  He hasn't appeared all morning."

"Perhaps he tired of his constant taunts.  Nobody believes the wolf would honor such a duel.  He proved himself less than trustworthy when he tried luring us into an ambush while under a flag of truce."

General Markus never got a chance to continue their conversation.  Horns sounded from across the field.  He scanned the trees bordering the fields as he searched for signs of the anticipated attack.  Sometimes the horns signaled nothing more aggressive than a march just beyond an archer's best range.  A simple display of military might.

Horde soldiers arranged themselves in battle formation across the stream.  They could do nothing over there since the water prevented any direct assault.  A single horn sounded and four war machines came into view.  Markus recognized three of the weapons, but the unknown one advanced first.

The strange device resembled a portable ramp, but it lacked the height needed to clear the walls.  The rear half sat on twin wheels supporting the weight of several large stones while the forward half rose several meters above the attending Horde soldiers.  The infantry maneuvered the object until it faced downhill.  In response to a trumpet's blare, the soldiers gave a mighty push.  In seconds the wheeled ramp raced across the short road and bounded into the stream, where it stopped.

"Most ingenious.  Did you see that Abbess?  What I thought was an unknown siege engine has turned into a bridge."

Horde slaves scurried across the makeshift bridge.  As they ran back and forth, they moved the pile of rocks at the back to the downstream side of the bridge.  This kept it in place.  The bridge now offered a direct path from the Horde's camp to the gatehouse road.

While the Horde labored at anchoring their bridge, Abbess Robertasin rushed to the tower's base with instructions from General Markus.  A few quick words to those gathered below mobilized the Abbey residents.  From the courtyard, many residents strained to move the four trebuchets into position.  Tassel wound the windlass as several carts transported large stones to the waiting machines.

Members of the Long Patrol rushed up the two towers flanking the main gate carrying a disassembled ballista for each tower.  The hares hammered the pieces into place as they assembled the fearsome weapon.  A sense of restless anticipation infected Markus as one hare from the opposite tower signaled they awaited his orders.  He almost jumped when a doe announced her weapon stood ready.

Two siege towers and a battering ram lumbered forward.  Horde soldiers climbed into the towers while others pushed from the rear.  The three machines rumbled over the cobblestones as they approached the Abbey to the loud cadence of banging drums and blaring trumpets.

The machines moved downhill from the initial staging area at a fast pace.  Once over the bridge, the terrain flattened and the machines lost speed.  Halfway to the main gate and the gentle incline reduced their progress to that of a snail.  With every step forward, the speed slowed, but not enough that they stopped.

Atop the tower, General Markus continued watching the invaders as they approached.  He dodged the first arrow that sailed from one of the siege towers rolling towards the gate.  He called for additional shielding when the enemy unleashed a barrage of arrows.  The ballista gun crew stood by their weapon while others protected them. 

General Markus ordered a flag raised.  The residents within the courtyard responded to the signal.  Each beast standing at the lanyard released the catch and the weapon fired.  The counterweight dropped and the trebuchet hurled its stone over the wall.  With insufficient time for another volley, those manning the war machines grabbed weapons and raced to their assigned positions.

The heavy stones came down with a deafening crash.  They skipped across the cobblestones making a fierce rumbling noise akin to thunder as they rolled down upon the Horde's war machines.  The siege tower on the right took a direct hit that pushed it off the road where it became hopelessly mired in thick oozing mud.  The other projectiles missed the war machines, but crushed many a hapless warrior caught in its destructive path. 

Soldiers racing from the protection of the stalled machine braved the archers and sling beasts manning the Redwall battlements.  As the defenders fired, Horde archers matched them in an exchange of feathered shafts.  The anguished cries of those struck by stone or arrow filled the air.

General Markus risked a look, gauging the distance.  Certain that the one war machine had been disabled; he had another hare semaphore a message to the other tower.  An arrow ricocheted off one merlon and its warhead nicked Markus in the side leaving a bloody gash. 

"Aim for the right side.  If we can crush the side support, maybe the other ballista can topple it."

The doe manning the trigger gave a grunt and swiveled the oversized crossbow to the right.  Satisfied she had a clear shot, she released the huge bolt.  There came the sound of the ropes snapping as the ballista released its projectile.  The entire gun bounced off its support with the recoil, leaving the weapon useless and the hares manning it cursing as they scrambled for safety.

The bolt slammed into the tower's drawbridge and shattered half of it.  A single breath later, a second bolt from the other Abbey tower blasted into the siege tower's side.  The machine pitched over at a steep angle before righting itself.  Every Horde archer standing on the roof tumbled over the sides.  A lucky few landed in the mud and received minor injuries.  The unfortunate landed on a rock or the road where they cared about nothing ever again.

With a loud clang, the remaining portion of the siege tower's drawbridge fell onto the top of Redwall's battlement.  From his position, General Markus peered down at the wall, observing several members of his unit directing the defense.  Thanks to the severe shaking the tower took, the Horde lost its suppression fire and those within remained disoriented.  The defenders seized the offensive by charging across the damaged drawbridge sweeping away the attackers.  A few well-placed torches and the tower spouted flames skyward.

The other ballista fired its second bolt at the tower mired in the mud.  A solid hit above the drawbridge sheered off the section harboring the Horde archers.  With nothing hindering the Abbey defender's, stones, arrows and bolts took their toll of the thwarted Horde attackers.

An ominous boom reverberated through the Abbey's stone wall.  Markus charged to the forward facing side of the tower.  The battering ram had reached the main gate.  Several flaming arrows bounce off the roof protecting the battering ram, unable to lodge between the metal shields used as armor.  Additional defenders took station along the tower's battlement, but could not stop the Horde's war machine.  General Markus raced down the crowded stairway. 

Clear of the tower, he bellowed.  "One squad rally to me  Have somebody alert the gatekeeper that the gate will be breached.  Have every available resident standing ready to initiate the final defense."

Five hares followed him as he sprinted down the passageway between the inner and outer gates.  A quick glance at the main doors showed the ram's effectiveness.  With every stroke, the thick crossbeams that held the door in place bent inward.  The door screeched with every pounding blow and cracks widened. 

General Markus hurried as he wondered if the defenders had enough time.  Spiked bars slid out of channels on one side of the corridor and the hares pulled them across the width of the passage.  Once properly seated, the hares hastened to the safety of the courtyard.

Another blow came and the corridor filled with wooden darts as the door shattered.  Fierce war whoops sounded as Horde soldiers flooded the connecting passageway.  Those first few warriors who stepped onto the long metal spikes tried recoiling, but the press of bodies behind pushed them onto the spikes where they died acting as a bridge for their comrades.

Horde soldiers rushing down the connecting corridor stopped in their tracks as another wooden door slammed shut before them.  Sealed out by this second door and having no ram, they threw their collective weight against the flimsier barrier.  On the fourth rush, enough space opened that a fox made a thrust with a short sword ending the life of one hare caught unawares.  As the door returned to its original position, it crushed the arm like a grape beneath a foot.

Markus raised his voice and gave the command.  The hedgehog gatekeeper released the twin windlass that held the portcullis at either end in the up position.  With a mighty crash both iron barriers fell into place.  The long prongs impaled any Horde soldier unfortunate enough to be under it.  The metal barricade seated itself.  Those outside the wall tried lifting the gate without success as its weight defied their combined efforts.

Two lines of defenders armed with crossbows stood a dozen paces from the inner doors.  On the command of General Markus, the wooden gates swung open and a volley of bolts killed those caught between the iron barrier and the inner doors.  From slotted side openings along the passageway arrows flew and spears lanced into the Horde soldiers packed so tight between the iron gates.  The passageway filled with the screams of the dying and the stench of blood and death.  Some tried slipping between the iron bars despite the sharp blades that left them no avenue for escape.  Death claimed more and more of those trapped between the two barriers.

One of the last remaining officers rushed the heavy grill by the inner gate.  An arrow pierced his shoulder and his arm flapped against his side while blood turned the pine marten's grey arm an unnatural crimson color.  He pressed his muzzle through an opening.  His shouts overpowered the screams of those who suffered horrible injuries before dying.  Markus knew the sound of somebody desperate to be heard.

"For the love of mercy, stop firing.  We surrender.  We surrender."

Markus faced the helpless creature. 

"We take no prisoners.  Your only choice is either die from one of our weapons or by falling on your own sword."

The pine marten screamed as another arrow pierced his hip and again he begged for mercy.  Markus felt no pity for his enemy.  His only thought focused on the efficiency of those defenders firing on the Horde from a place of safety.  A female voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Cease fire.  Unless they hold a weapon within their paws, cease fire."

The Abbess of Redwall rushed him, her eyes reflecting a determination he never saw in her before this battle.  The slaughter ebbed before it came to a halt.  Without a glance at him, Robertasin faced the Horde officer who begged for mercy.  Markus told her to stop her advance when he judged her too close.  She obeyed.  When she addressed the Horde officer, her voice held as little mercy as he showed.

"If you believe in the Eternals, I suggest you beseech their intervention on our behalf.  If one Horde soldier gets over our walls or inside this courtyard, we will commence slaughtering whoever remains trapped within that corridor."

The pine marten shouted down the passageway and one by one the survivors stumbled forward.  Each Horde soldier bore some injury from the attack and many needed the help of comrades as they joined the only officer still living.  Their forlorn facial expressions showed no joy at surviving the massacre as all must think this but a short reprieve before the relentless slaughter recommenced.

Tense moments passed.  The gate shuttered and moved upward.  The bodies of a dozen Horde soldiers rose with the gate before sliding off the prongs and falling to the cobblestone ground with a meaty thud.  All signs of the gate disappeared within the stone archway.

Once the iron grill had lifted, several armed Abbey creatures raced down the passageway guarding two others that carried torches.  Another party of woodlanders pulled the dead out of the corridor and stacked them like cordwood in the courtyard.  Markus assigned a hare to guard the survivors.  The hare sentry held his blood-stained club at the ready.

Woodlanders blindfolded the Horde soldiers and led them to another area.  The pine marten officer requested medical treatment but Markus denied his request.  The officer asked for water and somebody placed a canteen in his paws.

"Very well, Abbess, what are we going to do now?  If we release these prisoners they will return to fight tomorrow or the next day.  I will not feed an enemy from our larders, nor will I allow our Healer anywhere near them.  Their execution would be far more compassionate than allowing them to die either of starvation or their injuries."

"General Markus, Redwall Abbey will not stoop to the same level as the vermin we fight.  I want some option other than cold-blooded murder."

Tassel chose that moment to intrude on their conversation. 

"If I may interrupt, I do believe I have a solution to your dilemma that will satisfy both of you."

What a night.  Could things get any worse?

Wobbles shifted her position as she rested against the wheel of her assigned wagon.  The other slaves hauling the supply wagons mimicked her pose by their wagon.  They had to stay in the sun as the carts couldn't be moved off the path.  A spring sun might not be hot, but it did attract the gnats.  After so many years in the army, she learned how to ignore the irritating insects.

The soldiers stayed off to the side of the path, where the ground offered shade and the trees provided them a comfortable backrest.  If she had to guess, they must be discussing their commanding officer.  Based on the looks they gave the weasel each time he passed, none of them were complimenting his efforts.

Either the lieutenant read the map wrong, or rebels changed the road markers.  The fool didn't check his map before he followed them.  Even with the full moon, the darkness of the forest hid nature's trap.  An hour into their run, they encountered mud.  Another hour passed as they ran in ankle-deep goop.  When the muddy path got too deep, the carts stalled.

Soldiers scouted the trail until they found firm ground.  By then, the carts sunk into the muck so deep that all five slaves working together could not pull one beyond the quagmire.  They unloaded the carts, carried the goods to the clearing where the soldiers camped, freed the empty cart, and repacked everything.  Once done, Wobbles had her fellow slaves repeat the process on the other four carts.

Dawn found them lost, late, and tired.  The lieutenant had no choice but to admit his mistake.  They backtracked.  This time everybody knew about the mud.  Wobbles had the other slaves empty each cart before they encountered the mud.  By the time they moved everything to the proper path, daylight turned the woods into a patchwork of sun and shadows.  At least the weasel commanding their group allowed everyone a long rest once they repacked the five carts.

They resumed their march, reaching camp an hour or two before noon.  Wobbles took one look and knew they missed the battle.  She counted no more than a dozen soldiers guarding a camp populated by more than a hundred slaves.  Tent flaps moved in the light breeze, their interiors empty.  When they reached the supply tents, she had the others unload everything while she followed the lieutenant to the Brigadier's tent.

A male fox listened to the lieutenant explanation.  It wasn't her place as a slave to comment on the competency of the officer.  She found the weasel's excuses quite flimsy.  A glance at the Brigadier's aide confirmed her suspicion that he didn't believe the officer, but didn't intend confronting him about it at this time.

After he dismissed the officer, the fox turned on her.  This contradicted the standard practice where the officer made his report and she supplied a list of provisions and personnel attached to the convoy.  For some reason, the Brigadier's aide wanted her to speak to the wolf.  When she followed the fox into the office, she found it empty.

"That's army life.  First they order you to move somewhere on the double and what happens?  You get where you're suppose to be and you wait.  After more than twenty years of this, you'd think I would learn."

"Oh stop your grousing, Wobbles.  You were expected last night and you arrive well after dawn."  The male fox's expression melted from its no-nonsense expression to one of confidant.  "I know your rank allows you to stand at parade rest after the Brigadier returns, but I suggest you keep your head down until he acknowledges you.  He's in a foul mood and if this attack fails, you'll not want to be his first target."

Wobbles thanked the officer and sat on the floor awaiting the arrival of Brigadier Shawarran.  After a long period of silence, she detected the faint sound of drums.  She recognized the cadence as the one used at the start of any major offensive.  No doubt the soldiers would be attacking the Abbey today in force.  She didn't know if she wanted her army victorious or did she hope their efforts would be stymied by the resilient defenders. 

That she even considered such a thing troubled Wobbles.  She had followed many commanders as a slave to the Horde in both triumph and defeat over her twenty years.  In every case she desired success for her masters and basked in their victories or sulked if they were defeated.  Until now.  She wondered if a different commander would have acted in such a dishonorable manner as the Brigadier at the parley.  Was that the crux of her nagging discontent?

Silence returned.  Left alone, Wobbles tried staying awake.  Her muzzle dipped and her eyes drooped.  The first time she jerked upright but the next time, she surrendered to her exhaustion.

Out of the darkness she spotted a thin grey line of light.  As Wobbles drew near, this ribbon glowed as if it contained an uncountable number of candles within it.  She floated closer, not even aware how she moved.  She reached out her paw, her fingers brushed the light, and her mind exploded with a happy vision of her childhood.  Her first master stood next to a boat she remembered.  Again her finger brushed the ribbon and her mate appeared as he did before illness claimed his life.

For the third time she touched the grey ribbon of light.  Wobbles saw her younger self with one paw inside a tree.  The paw pulled out a shirt of many faded colors and she detected a voice that snarled in anger.  Her voice.  She could not see the creature that invoked such a response before the vision changed.  Her younger self now raced into the forest. 

In the next instant, an unexpected brilliance enveloped Wobbles. All about her became as bright as day and she looked upon an apparition she remembered from a previous drug-induced sleep.  The giant spider that weaved the past, present and future approached her.  Though the creature displayed no visible mouth, Wobbles could still sense what the spider said.

"Once again I have called you to my realm where all that is to be is known.  You have seen the place where the prophecies will happen, and I must ask you; do you still remember everything that my servant revealed?"

"I recall the words the witch spoke to three others seven years earlier.  I also remember seeing you, Spider, and the cryptic message you gave me."

"I tell you now, Wobbles, before the moon is new a third time, what has been foretold shall be fulfilled."

A sudden crash startled Wobbles and her eyes blinked opened.  She remembered the light coming into the office from her right, now the beam of light shone through the canvas wall on her left.  She reached up to her face and rubbed her eyes.  Clarity came to her foggy mind.

Wobbles glanced towards the door and saw a male wolf enter.  Brigadier Shawarran, commanding officer of the Horde army based in Ferretville, and one of the three beasts given a reading of the future some seven years earlier, slammed his office door.  One glance told her everything.  His expression looked as if he tasted rotten meat and his heavy footfalls shook the floorboards as he stormed over to his desk.  From force of habit Wobbles placed her paws flat on the wood and pressed her forehead against the rough hewed wood.  Now she understood the Aide's warning.

"Incompetents, I'm surrounded by incompetents," he shouted.  "Those towers needed more weight in their bases and more armor at the top.  How did those engineers forget such a simple thing?"

Again the door opened, but it closed with far less force.  Wobbles stole a glance toward the creature entering the office.  She knelt so close to the Brigadier's desk that all she could discern were knee-high leather boots.  Wobbles pitied whatever slave served this officer since the boots were caked in heavy mud.  Then she recognized the voice of Colonel Nateem.

"Brigadier, the Engineers advised against strengthening the war towers, their weight would be too heavy for the bridge and they might stall while moving up even a slight incline.  If you wanted something that could withstand their defenses, then it required a stronger bridge. You didn't want to wait that long."

"Irregardless, four bloody months I've tried scaling those walls without success.  We need more bodies storming that citadel if we expect to prevail."

Colonel Nateem maintained a calm voice as he spoke to the enraged wolf.  He leaned on the desk within touching distance of Wobbles.  The stoat tried reasoning with the Brigadier.

"Sir, even with a larger contingent of soldiers guarding our supply convoys, we are not getting sufficient food.  Half our force is foraging for supplies and what they find is never enough.  There are stories circulating throughout camp of open brawls when some officer tried stealing his own unit's rations.  Last night I stopped one fight over the spoiled cast-offs we feed slaves."

There came the sound of a heavy body dropping into a chair as the wolf's voice lowered in pitch.  Somehow, neither officer noticed her presence; she remained silent.  A heavy knock interrupted their conversation and another pair of boots enter the room.

"Lieutenant, you were beyond that iron portcullis when it dropped.  An hour later, you and fifteen enlisted soldiers came crawling out of a sally port.  Tell me, why did they let you go free?"

"After our capture they took us to the blacksmith's forge.  There a hideous monster held our right paw on the anvil.  A huge hedgehog then removed our thumb with a pair of bolt cutters.  After binding our paw, they blindfolded us and pushed us into the passageway leading outside.  As the only officer, I thought you would want to hear my report personally."

"You're right, Lieutenant, and now I have a message you can deliver to every soldier under my command."

Wobbles heard a low grunt from the unknown officer.  Something fell next to her and she turned her head towards the sound.  The pine marten's face appeared no more than the span of her paw away from her nose.  Blood oozed from his mouth as death glazed over his eyes.  She recoiled with a startled squeal. 

A tin cup tumbled from the paw of Colonel Nateem and clattered on the wooden floor.  The stoat's wide eyes reflected shock as he stepped away from the body.  The wolf's wild expression and the blood dripping from the golden blade had both Wobbles and Nateem retreating, least the Brigadier turn his wrath on one of them. 

Shawarran approached her, his blade now lifting her muzzle.  She looked at the wolf and saw madness in his eyes.  Wobbles leaned away from the sharp point nicking her throat.  Such was her fear that she whimpered.  The wolf pressed the sword's point against the base of her throat, cutting the skin.  He sliced through her garment scoring her flesh until the sword rested above her heart.  A trickle of blood flowed between her breasts staining her ragged garment.  The cut burned as salt from her perspiration dripped into the wound. 

"When our messenger returned and told me you accompanied the convoy, I decided we needed to have a private conversation.  Everyone believes Delcara died as a deserter.  I killed her because I could no longer trust her, much like I cannot trust you, Wobbles.  Before she died, Delcara said you withheld information about our prophecies.  Information we needed.  That's something no slave may ever do.  Reveal everything or your life ends here and now."

Wobbles talked.  She reminded Colonel Nateem about the burning dog armed with a golden sword.  She again told the wolf about a treasure guarded by a demon.  Then she spoke of her vision and the three creatures she saw.  The only information she held back related to the prophecy given to her.  The wolf withdraw his blade as she concluded her recollection.

"One creature, a mouse, carried the sword you now hold," she said.  "Another face I recognized when you sent me to parley.  It was the Mother Abbot.  The third creature, a badger, terrified me, but I am yet to meet such a beast.  All of these prophecies will come to pass if we continue fighting here."

Colonel Nateem whispered into the wolf's ear and as he did, the madness Wobbles saw in the Brigadier's expression ebbed.  A nod from the wolf and the stoat released his grip on the wolf's sword arm.  Wobbles breathed a lot easier when Brigadier Shawarran sheathed his blade and returned to his chair.

"Fortunately, I have an alternative plan that should become operational in four or five weeks.  Until then, have half our forces hunting down that badger snipping along our northern flank.  Perhaps he is the badger from Wobble's vision.  If we eliminate him, we thwart the prophecy."

The Aide de Camp poked his head into the office.  The wolf accepted the piece of paper offered and read it.  The madness that had faded just a few moments ago roared back with a vengeance.  Brigadier Shawarran swept his desk clear of everything as he let loose an earsplitting roar.

"In spite of the heaviest armed escort we could afford, that pesky rebel squirrel still managed an assault on our latest supply convoy.  Half of our food carts captured or destroyed.  A full quarter of the slaves missing.  More than a dozen soldiers wounded.  Worse yet, not one rebel captured or killed."

After pacing behind his desk, Brigadier Shawarran ordered Colonel Nateem to form a sizable escort for the remaining supplies.  Once the stoat left, the wolf called his Aide into the room.  A quill rapidly scratched across a sheet of paper the Brigadier withdrew from his desk.

"I'm giving Captain Purrnella Slyclaw a chance to regain her former rank.  She tells me she can eliminate that tree rat if I give her free reign to do whatever she wants.  Very well, let's see if she can deliver on her promise."

Once the wolf reset his chair, his feral eyes fixated on Wobbles.  "And now its time I handle another annoying problem.  You need a reminder about the proper way to serve your betters."

The wolf approached her.  He reached out and snatched the golden disks she wore, dropping them at her feet.  "Delcara died because of these.  Their loss will be an object lesson to every slave about disloyalty."  He summoned a guard.  "Have this worthless slave given ten lashes and sent back to Ferretville with the next convoy.  Maybe she can be more useful as a grunt working with our engineers."

Hours later, her paws gripped the crossbar of a cart transporting injured soldiers back to Ferretville.  She ran at a steady pace fearing the guards as they flicked their switches at the feet of any slow slave.  Several times the sting of the willow rod against her legs competed for attention from the welts that crisscrossed her back.

Wobbles suffered an even greater pain than the public flogging.  Just before the convoy departed camp, Shawarran informed her that when this war ended, he had to decide if she would become the personal servant of Captain Purrnella or if she would finish her life pulling an oar on some merchant vessel.  One fate exposed her to the possibility of a long and painful death while the other meant a harsh existence that always ended in a watery grave.

Captain Serenity stood at the top of a steep hill surveying the surrounding countryside.  Her eyes noted every detail of the camp located in the valley.  Tents showed no order or design.  Their supply wagons remained parked a hundred yards away from the nearest tent, unguarded.  Not one sentry patrolled the perimeter.  With the exception of the hares, soldiers lounged on the grass by species.  If one of the hares approached, the woodlanders moved to another area. 

"Corporal Threadfoot, that has got to be the poorest excuse for a military unit I have ever seen.  Job well done."

The hare checked her clipboard.  "Our engineers have completed the gun emplacements on both flanks.  Everything else is in place and awaiting the Horde's arrival."

Captain Serenity withdrew a spyglass, examining a distant smudge of black against the azure western sky.  That fire pleased her since it represented the last food storage depot on this side of the river.  It also signaled the approach of their enemy. 

"You have been ... quiet, since I issued my orders.  I know you are a lot smarter than you let others think, which is why I brought you here.  With two parents in the military, I'm sure you have learned a few things about military tactics.  Tell me what you think, it might help me prepare for the upcoming battle.  I need an honest appraisal."

The hare stared at her before she spoke.  When Corporal Threadfoot spoke, she expressed her concerns with full honesty.  Captain Serenity valued that quality in her, which explained why she chose the hare as her Aide de Camp.

"You have us camping at the bottom of a hill, and we have only two observers up here.  When our enemy attacks, he'll have us at a great disadvantage since we have to charge uphill.  Not a wise tactic, ma'am."

The hare sounded worried, which pleased her.  "You're right, Corporal, but I have my reasons for putting us in such a precarious position.  Our strategy relies on depriving the Horde of all supplies, forcing them to fight where and when we choose.   The navy rules the waters around the lands they hold.  The captured port cities are under blockade.  Now we dangle the ultimate target, a warehouse full of food, about half a day's journey past us."

Captain Serenity never lowered the spyglass from her eye.  "We must show them a force of such size that they think we are serious about guarding that bridge.  If our unit does its job and can appear incompetent, they will take the bait and attack, which is what we want.  I need them to hold the high ground."

Seeing the confused look on the doe's face, Captain Serenity folded her spyglass and placed it in her pocket.  The two stood there while she appraised the camp at the bottom of the hill.

"Any commander can find the enemy's weakness and exploit it, but the skillful one discovers a way of using his enemy's greatest strength against him.  When the battle is done and we are victorious, ask me again if you still don't understand.  For now, I have something special for everyone down there."

Turning around, she retraced her path down to the bottom of the hill while the hare trailed a few paces behind.  The camp maintained a chaotic appearance and she encouraged this as it was part of her strategy.  As she moved through the camp, eager soldiers prepared their weapons.

Captain Serenity issued a command to Corporal Threadfoot and the hare raised a bugle to her lips.  The notes echoed across the valley and soldiers hustled to their assigned places.  In quick order, every creature stood in proper formation, at attention, awaiting her instructions.  She wondered how many would stand before her when the battle ended.  Such thoughts she suppressed as now was the time for inspirational words.

"Forget our unit's original designation.  We shall not fight as the Long Patrol Auxiliary, a name many here consider demeaning.  As of this moment, we stand as The United Division, a collection of the finest warriors ever assembled from every species living under King Brisson's banner.  The enemy rolls in and we shall be the wall that stems their tide."

Every soldier cheered.  One day passed and nothing happened.  Another full day dragged by without sighting the enemy and all grew edgy wondering if the Horde intended to bypass their position. 

On the third night, a loud knock woke Captain Serenity from a sound sleep.  A winded otter stood next to Corporal Threadfoot.  As soon as she returned their salute, the otter snapped to attention.  His voice betrayed his eager anticipation.

"Ma'am, we discovered a squad of Horde soldiers spying on our camp.  Per your orders, we remained under cover, none interfered.  They withdrew less than five minutes ago."

Every trace of sleep evaporated.  "Corporal, light the signal fire and alert all officers.  If the Horde commander has any intelligence, he'll hit us at dawn.  Let's prepare a proper greeting for our guests."

A thunderous blast of horns announced the dawn.  Horde soldiers marched along the ridge to the sound of pounding drums and blaring trumpets.  A long line of flags appeared with soldiers arrayed in unit formations.  From both flanks a line of war chariots rumbled before the soldiers.  These war machines held their position along the ridgeline while the rising sunlight reflected off the armored beasts.

Within the valley, the woodlanders scurried about as they formed and reformed lines.  As this display of disorder continued behind her, Captain Serenity surveyed the enemy force above her.  While several bugles sounded different notes all about her camp, her voice carried to the hare officers standing nearby.

"The Horde is engaging us in a war of nerves.  We must stand firm and execute our plan as it was designed.  Report to your units and watch for the appropriate signals."

Each hare went to his or her assigned area.  The soldiers continued their display of disorder as every squad drew closer to the hare officer leading them.  Some of the officers pointed in various directions, but the woodlanders did the opposite, creating even more disorder.

Atop the ridge, Horde soldiers shouted the words to some military song.  Its message told of their prowess in battle and the fearlessness of their warriors.  Voices were augmented by the pounding of weapons upon shields as they remained in disciplined order.  From the high ground, their voices echoed off the surrounding hills and to those in the valley, it sounded as if it came from every direction.

Captain Serenity continued her observations, by all outward appearances, oblivious to the Horde's display of military might.  A quick glance showed her all unit commanders had assembled and awaited her signal.  Each hare represented a confident soldier eager to avenge their fallen comrades.  They quivered in anticipation.

She unlimbered her mace and took a step forward.  A look to her right and Corporal Threadfoot reacted to the unspoken command.  The hare lifted a pole and unsheathed its banner.  With the flag freed, she planted it in a hole prepared earlier that morning.  The strong breeze coming down the hill unfurled the flag and the sound of it snapping taunt acted as a signal to every soldier.

Captain Serenity didn't have to look behind her.  The sudden silence from the force standing along the ridgeline told her everything.  She wondered what their commander must be thinking when what had been a disorganized collection of creatures fell into perfect military order before the enemy's eyes.

For the moment, silence reigned across the battlefield.  Weapons and armor rattled as soldiers shifted to their assigned stations.  Atop the hill, none moved.  The snapping flag behind her the only sound as each side measured the other's resolve.

A solitary trumpet sounded from the ridge.  Chariots moved to the left and right as they followed the hilltops.  A second trumpet sounded and half of the chariots charged down the hill.  They had gone no more than half a dozen paces when the remaining chariots fell in behind them.  Soldiers formed four walls of interlocking shields and spears as they marched down the hill to the rhythmic cadence of drums.

The woodlander army fell back leaving a ragged line of soldiers between them and the Horde.  The withdrawing soldiers stopped retreating and held their positions as the chariots thundered downhill towards them, gaining ever more speed as they closed the distance.  Along the ridges, two smaller enemy forces maneuvered to encircle the woodlanders. 

Captain Serenity raised her paw and held it high.  When she dropped it to her side, Corporal Threadfoot sounded a single long note on her bugle.  Every soldier in the forefront bent to the ground, lifted long metal poles, and pointed them toward the charging chariots.  The front line of racing chariots never saw the pikes.  The armor-piercing spearheads caught the ponies in the chest.  The solid metal shafts neither broke nor bent.  They went through the armor protecting the ponies.  Carts either flipped over the dead animals or came to a shuddering halt, spilling their cargo and creating a barrier to the second oncoming wave.

Those closest to the flanks attempted to go around while the ones in the middle tried holding back, but could not do so in time.  Any successfully skirting the outer edge encountered a series of razor-sharp bars.  Horses had their legs sliced off, sending more war machines tumbling.  They became a barrier to those following and many of the chariots flipped onto their sides as they flew over the obstructions.

The high pitched wailing of dying and injured horses overpowered the sound of the Horde drummers.  The din of chariots either crashing into the front line or cart wheeling behind frightened animals competed with the blaring trumpets atop the hill.  Strewed about the battlefield were the dead or dazed bodies of soldiers that seconds earlier must have anticipated a swift victory.

Threadfoot sounded a second note and the soldiers attacked the stalled and fallen war chariots.  Within the first moment of combat, the chariots sent downhill on a frontal assault had failed.  No Horde soldier escaped the vengeful force unleashed.

Captain Serenity unlimbered her mace and charged forward as she led her Division into battle for the first time.  She passed her vanguard, ignoring the cries of the injured and the bodies of the dead.  Her mace swung in a vicious arc crushing head, back or chest of any Horde soldier coming within range.  One wolf in a stalled chariot caught her in the side, giving her a deep gash.  Captain Serenity returned the favor by snapping the Horde soldier's spine with her spiked ball.

Beyond the shattered chariots, the first line of enemy soldiers marched.  Without the chariots guarding their flanks, she led her soldiers around the Horde formation.  The enemy tried pivoting, but lacked the speed or maneuverability of the woodlanders.  Once the formation shattered, Horde soldiers fell like cattle in a slaughterhouse. 

Two more opponents ceased being members of the living and she prepared to send a third to Dark Forest.  Paws dropped both shield and weapon as the ferret knelt before her.  His eyes took on the look of a frightened child as he raised his arms in supplication.  Even over the pervasive smell of blood and the screams of the injured and dying, she heard her next intended victim's words.

"I yield!  I yield!"

Captain Serenity hesitated.  From atop the hill, another series of trumpets blew and the remaining Horde warriors retreated. The battle had ended.  Taking a deep breath, she shouted above the fading din of the melee.

"Everyone, stand down.  Let those who wish to surrender do so and allow the others to go."


Corporal Sandythorn hated her assignment.  Her unit hid under tarps within the baggage area, far from the fighting.  When the battle started, she could do nothing more than watch the unfolding drama.  She hoped the enemy did as her commander expected.

The Horde answered her prayers.  Along both hilltops, chariots galloped by a large grove of bushes.  A bugle blared and camouflaged blinds built days earlier, swung open on hidden doors revealing two ballistae.  Three more blinds opened on their flank as the chariots thundered past.

The woodlanders standing behind the two giant crossbows within each blind pulled the lanyard releasing both bolts at once, decimating the enemy formation.  Several chariots tried maneuvering past the trap.  Wayward wheels went over the edge and sent more chariots tumbling down the hillside.

Once beyond the kill zone, the remaining Horde war machines charged down the hill.  As they approached the woodlander force's flank, five soldiers on foot rushed each chariot.  When the war machines drew near, the last soldier fell onto the butt end of a long shaft the other four held upward, killing the racing steed.  No Horde soldier survived the ensuing confrontation.

Enough of the fearsome war machines reached the woodlander's camp.  They raced through the space between the baggage carts and the camp, intending to hit the main force.  Instead of an unprotected rear, the Horde faced a virtual wall of pikes.  The chariots slowed as they sought a way to attack.  A nearby horn sounded and woodlanders hidden within the supply carts charged into the stalled chariots with their weapons drawn.

She would not be denied her chance.  With a running leap, Corporal Sandythorn landed behind a chariot's driver and faced the two enemy soldiers.  One thrust of her club's butt-end toppled a soldier onto the grass.  The other Horde warrior swung his javelin like a quarterstaff, delivering a hard blow to her head.  This close to the Horde soldier, the attack lacked sufficient power.  Sandythorn grabbed her opponent's uniform and rolled backward.  Both warriors fell off the chariot.

They fought, neither giving any quarters.  Sandythorn's punch sent her opponent reeling.  A quick kick to her enemy's knee put him on the ground.  She jumped on his chest, stunning him.  She knelt on his arm, pinning it to the ground while she held her opponent's other wrist.  With one paw free, she drew her dagger.  Corporal Sandythorn plunged it into her enemy's exposed throat, giving it a vicious twist as she pulled it free.  The stoat kicked with the strength of an enraged badger as he tried to take her to the afterlife with him.  His eyes glazed over and he stopped struggling. 

Their battle ended.  Nothing moved near her.  A squirrel from her unit stood next to a chariot driver trying to calm the frightened hedgehog slave.  She couldn't locate anyone else from her unit.  Bodies of both friend and foe littered the area.  Though suffering from many minor gashes, Sandythorn knew she now held the honorable title of blooded warrior.  Like the blood soaking her fur, the reality of her fight seeped into her mind.


Paperwork, the bane of every commander, littered Captain Serenity's cot.  The battle lasted no more than five or ten minutes.  After more than three hours, she hadn't progressed even halfway through the documents needing her attention.

A welcomed interruption came when a hare entered her tent.  Corporals Threadfoot had the haggard look of somebody that survived a disaster.  She remembered a vivacious youth she trained, an eager recruit who equated combat to a grand adventure.  Such youthful innocence destroyed by the reality of battle.  The doe aged beyond her years.  Serenity returned her salute, one that showed respect, but lacked the crispness of the parade ground.

"All Division personnel have been accounted for, Captain.  Our forces lost fewer than two hundred, including five officers.  The chariots destroyed in the initial charge cost the lives of all but seven drivers.  We captured twenty of their war machines intact.  Over a hundred Horde prisoners were taken and word has come by courier that the Long Patrol counterattacked along the Horde's northern flank.  We are yet to receive any further updates from the Long Patrol.  However, our scouts report the enemy's main force is now retreating south."

"What happened to the slaves driving those chariots?"

Corporal Threadfoot looked at her clipboard.  "Corporal Sandythorn captured five, alive and unharmed.  We found another dozen survived the battle.  They are under medical care and in critical condition.  Our healers expect less than half to survive."

Captain Serenity acknowledged her report with a simple nod.  Instead of leaving, Corporal Threadfoot remained at parade rest.  After placing her quill inside the writing box, Captain Serenity gave the Corporal permission to speak.

"You said you would explain why we camped at the bottom of a hill when military wisdom dictates such an act as," and here the doe hesitated as she searched for the right word, "ill-advised."

Captain Serenity resisted the urge to laugh or ridicule the hare.  Corporal Threadfoot fought alongside her and did so with distinction.  She considered not answering her question as no commander likes explaining their actions.  Then she remembered last night and her pledge.

"Do you recall the reports we read?  No paw held weapon, even a crossbow at pointblank range stopped those armored horses.  Even a warrior badger lacked the strength.  So I tricked our opponent into charging us downhill where his speed and momentum gave our weapons added power.  With the chariots smashed, the Horde soldiers walking in those armored walls couldn't react to our flanking maneuver."

"What if they had regrouped instead of retreating, Ma'am?"

"Just before sunrise, Long Patrol units stationed along the northern flank attacked.  I withheld information about King Brisson's plan in case the Horde didn't do as we hoped.  The hares attacked the flank while we faced the Horde's main assault.  Those chariots were the reason behind their earlier victories, without them, it will come down to which army has the better warriors.  I'm thinking the Horde is in for a rude awakening."

She closed her ink bottle, walked outside, and scanned their new camp's location atop the hill where earlier that day the Horde army stood.  This camp resembled one laid out in proper military fashion.  Sentries patrolled the perimeter.  All remained quiet.

Captain Serenity continued looking over her command.  "We await relief from the First Army of the Long Patrol.  Once they arrive, we return to our base camp for rest and replacements."

"They cannot do this to us.  If anyone earned the right to put a knot in the Horde's tail, it's us.  What fool would take us off the front lines?"

"Our orders come from the king.  They reflect political expediency, not military thinking.  While most of our forces tend to the Horde, we will relieve the siege at Redwall Abbey.  Once that is accomplished, we move against Ferretville."  She patted the hare's shoulder.  "This command will be seeing a lot more action before this war ends."

The rebel scout crawled along the grassy knoll watching a column of dust rise against the cloudless summer sky.  She ignored the many flies and biting insects that found her skin a delicacy and continued her movements north.  Her path took her below the next ridge, and she moved on all fours to a point just below the next crest.  Once there, she slithered over the summit.

Success.  Perhaps another four hundred meters ahead she spied the dark wood of the many wagons rolling across a green ocean of grass.  She scanned the terrain and charted the safest route to the approaching force.  She lost sight of the wagons when she moved behind the hill and that pleased her as she could now move faster without fear of being seen.

Another short run on all fours and she climbed another mound.  As she topped the green wave, she got a closer view of the Horde supply train.  A horn sounded and she almost bolted.  The carts drew into a circle, but left the side facing her open.  She remained unmoving, observing the activities of the convoy. 

Since she had no idea of numbers, she pulled out two strings with many small beads and one stone.  Her fingers moved one bead for every soldier while her other paw did the same on a second string for every cart.  Satisfied, she sank below the ridgeline.

For the first time in hours, she stood and slapped at the crawlies that now infested her fur.  She grimaced at the number of ticks she felt, but had neither the time nor the tools for their removal.  She ran within the gullies, taking a very serpentine course back to camp.  A familiar sentry stood atop one hill, which signaled the end of her race.

"Commander Chitter, I just spotted what has to be that huge convoy our agent said departed Ferretville five days ago.  My fingers passed the big stone," and here she held up three fingers, "this many times when I counted the wagons."

Everybody gathered about as she relayed the count for the soldiers and the slaves.  This supply train outnumbered anything leaving Ferretville.  Each wagon had to be carrying a lot of material since they almost touched the ground and required two slaves to pull them.


Chitter commended the scout and moved towards the Horde force along a meandering course.  When they reached a point he judged closest to the wagons, Chitter had his fighters prepare for battle.  Many traced the bony ridges of their faces with dye, while others scavenged the area for more stones.  The raiding party's two youngest members carried torches and a lantern.  They sat off to the side, gazing at the many warriors with envious expressions.

He knew they wanted to fight, but not today.  Chitter drew closer to them.  He kept his voice low enough that they heard, and no other raider.

"You both show promise as warriors, but you will not fight today, just observe.  Watch and learn.  If we do decide to attack, you'll be responsible for the torches."

Chitter addressed the others as they gathered closer.  "Same plan as we used against the other Horde convoys.  This first attack is a probe, just to see how they react.  Keep out of range, but be ready to strike if the opportunity presents itself.  Return here; we will decide if we can attack now or later." 

A wave of his paw and the raiders split into two groups as they approached the parked wagons.  Every warrior let loose a shrill cry as they drew near hoping to catch some eager sentry beyond the safety of the campsite.  Sling shooters launched their stones early, anticipating their errant missiles would cause chaos among the startled defenders.

As his rebels stormed the convoy, Chitter saw what had first appeared as the tops of heavily-laden carts slide to the side.  From within each of the false carts a contingent of armed soldiers poured forth.  The Horde infantry fired stones back at the raiders as they circled the parked wagons.  One Horde soldier remained exposed too long and a stone to his head had him joining his ancestors.

Another shock greeted him on the far side of the convoy.  A line of slaves wearing armor and balancing spears on their shoulders formed a barrier across the open space.  These barbed warheads created a virtual wall that threatened anyone considering a direct assault.  He could use sling stones to kill the slaves and get inside their defensive circle, but he found that idea repugnant.

Still one more surprise awaited him.  As Chitter scanned the faces of the living barrier, he spotted her.  Ever since his forces had missed liberating her last month, Chitter tried locating her within Ferretville.  Despite his best efforts, none of his informants reported seeing the stubby-tailed female.

For just a few seconds, Chitter stood rigid; his eyes locked onto the old female.  His mind replayed that moment when he pledged his word that Wobbles would be free one day.  He remembered how close he came to freeing her and cursed the Fates that intervened on her captor's behalf.  A speeding stone mussed the fur on his chest and snapped him back to the present.  He doubled his pace until the two groups converged.

"Retreat, everyone, retreat." 

While the raiders raced back to their initial staging area, the stoat, Yanno, paced him.  As they dropped below the hilltop, he placed his paw on Chitter's shoulder.  His furrowed brow and clicking tongue displayed his agitation.  Chitter wondered why his second in command seemed so agitated.

"Chitter, I saw her, but do you think it was wise calling out her name?  You may have just condemned that slave to death."

"Are you sure I spoke out loud?"  Chitter tried recalling the moment, but the details eluded him.

Yanno nodded and many of the other raiders mirrored his reaction.  Chitter couldn't believe his stupidity.  He gave a nearby rock a solid kick.  Chitter could feel his anger growing.

Chitter pointed to the gully that circled the hilltop.  They obeyed his implicit order and they walked eastward.  Every raider trailed him as he topped a rise.  They turned north and after circling a second grassy mound, rested. 

He had everyone circle him.  For the next few moments, Chitter spoke about the slave he pledged his life to helping and how he had recklessly endangered her life.  He then proposed a plan which offered them a chance at freeing the female, but he also explained the dangers.

Chitter called for volunteers willing to try a daring rescue.  His chest swelled with pride as, one by one, each raider stood.  After he outlined the plan, the volunteers arranged themselves in formation while drawing forward as close as they dared.  He peered over the gully examining the long run before them and groaned.  Chitter charged out of the ravine and raced towards the wall of spears.

This moment would define his quest.  Chitter waited until he knew Wobbles must hear him.  His eyes locked onto her face as he rushed across the grassy field.  He wondered if this slave remembered his pledge.  Would she respond?

"For the love of freedom, drop down Wobbles.  Let us through."

Wobbles dropped face first onto the ground, dislodging the spear resting on each shoulder, and creating a small hole within the living wall.  As soon as she fell, a tall wildcat officer struck her with a whip.  Each stroke of that lash drove him faster; her cries unleashed an unbridled vengeance rage within his heart.

He passed the outer edge of the spears just as she rose.  Chitter gave a mighty leap, his voice roaring out.  Tears almost blinded him as his anger focused on the one creature that dared hurt this slave.  Nothing else existed.

"It ends here, wildcat.  It ends here and now."

Chitter felt the slave's ear brush against his leg as he returned to earth.  He didn't know where he landed, but his next stride had his shoulder ramming into the wildcat.  Chitter tried pursuing the tumbling tabby but another soldier charged him.  He slashed to his right and a fountain of blood poured out as the injured weasel retreated.  A face painted in yellow charged between him and the next soldier giving him a chance to regain his composure.  What happened to Wobbles?


When Angry Squirrel jumped, Wobbles never expected it.  His foot landed on her, driving her back down onto the ground.  Her vision turned into a sudden white flash and through the pain, she watched as other rebels widened the gap she opened.

The raiders poured into the campsite like a flood.  Wobbles thought herself safely beyond the initial surge until a loud snarl caught her attention.   She dodged the murderous thrust from the wildcat, but her belly now bled from a deep gash.  Captain Purrnella prepared for another thrust when a loud voice intruded.

"I said this ends here and now, wildcat."

While Wobbles tried rolling away from the many feet rushing past her, Angry Squirrel issued his challenge.  He was a beast caught up in the throes of a warrior's rage.  He used his sword like an ax as he charged Purrnella.  The wildcat parried each of his powerful strokes, deflecting his blade with a minimum of effort.  Angry Squirrel's power faded fast.

Captain Purrnella counterattacked.  The rebel leader tried getting past the wildcat's scimitar, but found her blade always coming too close to some vital spot.  The wildcat pressed her attack and with a skillful twist, nicked Angry Squirrel's  paw and sent his sword tumbling behind him.  A quick thrust and the squirrel's maneuvers at avoiding disembowelment had him lying next to her.

Captain Purrnella sneered.  "You're right, tree rat.  This ends now."

Time slowed.  Wobbles had seen many such battles, both real and in the countless Horde drills back at camp.  Angry Squirrel went for his knife while Captain Purrnella prepared the final killing blow.  This turned into a race Wobbles knew Angry Squirrel would loose.

In that moment, Wobbles realized she had but two choices.  For the first time ever, her mind rebelled against a lifetime of conditioning and she lashed out with her leg.  Her foot connected with Captain Purrnella's leg, right behind her knee.  The wildcat staggered backward for a heartbeat.

One second, Angry Squirrel gained just one second.  His questing paw scrambled for the dagger on his belt.  The rebel squirrel drew back his arm and with a mighty snap, threw the blade with all the power he possessed. 

That second passed and when the next came to be, the blade had impaled Captain Purrnella Slyclaw's heart.  In slow motion the wildcat toppled backwards.  Her scimitar tumbled from fingers that no longer possessed the power and skill they had earlier.  Eyes that held a fiery hatred for the rebel leader turned cold as the life force drained from her body.  The voice that instilled such fear in everyone she met was forever muffled.

Angry Squirrel scrambled for his fallen sword and rejoined his fellow raiders.  Wobbles locked her eyes on the squirrel.  She wanted to say something, but he left her.  Two paws grabbed her shoulders.  A vicious yank pulled her along the grass until she got her feet under her.  A female vole dragged her clear of the battle.

When Wobbles regained her feet, the vole pushed her away from the parked convoy in a less than gentle manner.  As they passed another raider, he raised a horn to his lips and sounded a loud note.  A glance behind her showed the other attackers retreating and a fair number of wagons burning.  Ahead of her, a large contingent of slaves ran to the eastern horizon under the directives of rebel fighters.   

The woodlanders encircled some thirty slaves.  These slaves moaned.  Voices spoke about their expected dire fate.  Such words affected others and Wobbles sensed their  panic.  If one ran, they would all scatter.

Wobbles stood tall.  She remained halfway up the side of the rolling hill, while she gazed down upon her fellow slaves.  She took a deep breath to calm her own nerves before she descended to the cowering slaves.  Wobbles walked into the collection of terrified creatures as if she were their queen and expected the respect such royalty deserved.  Her voice did not shout, yet her words carried to all.

"Everything you have heard about these raiders from our Horde masters is nothing but lies.  We are not going to be placed in some woodlander stewpot." 

Wobbles pointed to a nearby terrified mole.  "They are not going to entertain themselves by slitting our throats or burning us alive."  She placed her paw on the shoulder of a quivering vole.  "Their tents are not decorated with the tanned fur of runaway slaves taken while they screamed for mercy."

A weasel wearing the uniform of a Horde slave stood.  She recognized Avbron as a former foot soldier.  When Redwall captured him, they removed his right thumb and released him.  He could no longer use any paw held weapon, which made him useless as a soldier.  Their commander killed the lone surviving officer and demoted the other survivors to grunt slave. 

All gave the powerfully built weasel their undivided attention.  Avbron strolled to the nearest guard and stood so all could see the blade resting by her side.  He turned his back on the guard.  He waited a moment before he addressed the others.

"Do you see these guards attacking me?  I was a soldier, and would not hesitate to kill them, but they see nothing more than another freed slave.  If they allow a weasel like me to live, what have you to fear?  I trusted Wobbles when I was a soldier, and as a slave.  She has never deceived me.  If she tells you we are safe, trust her."

"Well put, sir.  Well put indeed."

Everyone turned to the sound of this unknown speaker.  At the top of the ridge stood Angry Squirrel.  He emitted a shrill whistle and pointed to the northeast with his bloody sword.  In ones and twos, the other raiders followed the male squirrel as he led the way.  Wobbles jogged behind Angry Squirrel and the liberated slaves rose as one and trailed behind her.

Captain Purrnella Slyclaw isn't dead.  After serving the Horde for twenty years and seeing countless bodies, you don't know what dead is?  According to that vixen's prophecy, the wildcat could avoid death because of the fear of another beast, so what killed her?  You feared her more than the penalty for disloyalty, that's what killed the wildcat.  Her life was supposed to end because of a plaything lost long ago and that dagger wasn't a child's toy, so how could it kill her?  The witch knew our futures.  If you believe that, then Captain Purrnella Slyclaw isn't dead.

And so the endless debate within her mind continued without resolution.  All Wobbles knew was that she followed a group of insurgents towards the sanctuary of some forest located a distance to the northeast.  Her feet shifted without any conscious thought from her like leaves before a high wind, moving wherever the rebels directed her.  She tried reconciling the discrepancy between the words of a renowned fortune teller from long ago and her observations just hours old. 

Some rebel placed their paw on her shoulder and for the moment, the inner voices fell silent.  Her mind returned to the present.  She stared at the otter jogging beside her.  The otter paced her while the spear she carried bobbed with her every step.  Wobbles almost laughed at such a young creature's expression of deep concern.

"Those of us that have seen more years have a tendency of letting our mind wander.  I'm worried we might be running into a slaughter and not to a sanctuary."

"If you know something, speak to our Commander."  The otter used her spear like a pointer designating the grey squirrel leading them, the one she named Angry Squirrel.  "He risked everything for your freedom; I'm sure he'll heed your counsel."

Wobbles took the otter at her word.  In a short moment, she found herself at the forefront, running alongside the male.  She thought she remembered their first meeting, but that happened while she slipped into and out of a lucid state.  It brought back unpleasant memories of her questioning when she returned to camp.

She gave the male a hard look.  His fur could use some trimming, but other than a lack of proper grooming, he impressed her.  The male demonstrated his endurance as he led their group at a good pace without showing any signs of exhaustion.  His deep brown eyes held a fire she had seldom seen in anyone off the battlefield.  Such a powerful specimen of her species made Wobbles wish she were half her age.

"Commander, our forces have studied your tactics and have prepared a trap.  While you attacked us, another unit was cutting off your retreat.  Right now they move between you and whatever forest sanctuary you believe lies to the east."

Chitter's eyes displayed a cavalier attitude to her warning.  Even his words dismissed her worries as trivial. 

"Wobbles, I commend your loyalty to your former masters, but it's misplaced.  Like it or not, my indiscretion back at the caravan made you an enemy of the army you served."

This got Wobbles quite angry and she lashed out verbally.  Her tone no longer held any deference to this rebel leader.  He might be a great fighter when engaging in his usual hit and run tactics, but he hadn't adapted to the new Horde strategy.  Angry Squirrel still operated under the delusion that everything ended when he withdrew, that his enemy considered convoys too valuable to leave unprotected.  Now she wanted nothing more than to beat some military sense into this fellow before he killed everyone, including her.

"Don't you get it?  We carried no supplies; it was a ruse.  Those carts were portable fortresses and we wanted you to attack us.  Those horns tells everyone you took the bait.  If you continue east, soldiers will block your left flank.  Another force is even now spreading out on the right side.  When we reach that forest you call home, they will have us surrounded.  Your only chance of survival is to go north.  Try and outdistance them."

The male squirrel's expression changed.  His ears perked up as he heard the Horde's trumpets blowing to his rear.  Then came a new note a distance off to his right.  Giving a short spurt, he caught up to the two voles acting as guides.  At the next fork in the gully, the raiders turned northward.

For several moments, the collection of raiders and former slaves moved through the vale until their guides led them up a short hill.  Once everyone reached the summit, they came to a rest.  Canteens were distributed as weary runners sprawled across the grass.  Scouts searched for the Horde force they knew trailed them.

Wobbles saw a marvelous sight.  It stretched to the very horizon, a rolling green sea of grass that swayed with the gentle wind.  For an instant, Wobbles forgot about the dangers surrounding them.  Her mind wandered to the clouds floating across the late afternoon sky as she envisioned different things suggested by their various shapes. 

Without realizing it, Wobbles drifted off to sleep until she felt a paw giving her a hard shake.  Her eyes popped open as she gazed into the face standing above her.  Avbron offered her his uninjured paw, assisting her to her feet.  A sharp whistle to the fore and the group continued its march.

Perhaps an hour passed before their group topped another in a series of short ridges.  A cry went out from the scouts and in an instant, the warriors charged to the fore.  Just over the ridge came the sound of clanging metal and several screams.  Wobbles heard a trumpet cut off in mid-note.  Then came an even heavier silence.

Beyond the ridge, she identified a Horde squad sprawled in the now bloody depression.  Based on what Wobbles saw, the five weasels and fox officer must have been taking a rest when the scouts blundered into them.  Surprise worked for the rebels this time as the insurgents overwhelmed the soldiers.  The Horde succumbed to the raider's superior numbers, but their victory came at the loss of the two scouts.

Nobody spoke as food, water and weapons were stripped from the dead, both friend and foe.  Angry Squirrel offered a weapon to Avbron, but he moved on when the weasel showed his disabled paw. 

The sound of several distant trumpets sounded.  For a moment, raider and slave alike stood in place.  Avbron listened to a series of different notes resonating across the region and his ears swiveled as they tried catching every nuance of the blaring trumpets.  Each trumpet played a different series of notes.

"The officers are taking roll call," said Avbron.  "Since each squad is assigned a different cord, their commander can determine which unit doesn't reply.  Once they confirm which squad sounded their horn, they can determine our approximate location.  The next time you hear those trumpets, it will be to announce which unit failed to reply.  Every soldier will converge on that unit's assigned position." 

A heavy silence kept everyone alert as they waited.  Avbron shifted his new backpack as another series of notes sounded.  Other horns repeated the signal along a wide range behind them.  When they stopped, Angry Squirrel looked at the weasel.

"That does it.  They know which unit sounded the distress call.  I give them another hour, maybe two, before they converge on this spot.  They lost our trail once; this time they will employ trackers.  Once they find our trail, it becomes a race."

Wobbles nodded, confirming Avbron's commentary.  Angry Squirrel knew the truth; she could see it in his eyes.  Even after the long rest, most of the rebels and liberated slaves following him were spent and pushing themselves beyond their personal limits.  He glanced at the setting summer sun.  Holding his arm up, he waited until everyone drew closer.

"Drop all your gear.  Carry nothing more than whatever weapon you have.  If you have an extra, even if it's just a knife, offer it to one of our freed slaves."

One rebel otter, who looked as if he could run no further, wheezed.  "So what's the plan, Commander?  How do we outrun these Horde demons?"

"To the north, perhaps another hour's run is a wide stream where I hoped we could lose our scent.  Now I intend making a run into the setting sun.  Put as much distance between us as possible and lose them in the night.  If you prefer the stream, I'll not stop you."

Most of the otters and a third of the slaves jogged towards the water.  No words of recrimination passed; those remaining wished everyone a safe journey.  Angry Squirrel pointed into the setting sun.  Within the space of a few moments, the group heading north disappeared from sight as the remaining raiders and slaves moved westward.

She concentrated on doing no more than placing one paw before the other.  Avbron looked over at her and tried reassuring her that things would work out just fine with nothing more than his smile.  Too bad his lolling tongue belied his abortive attempt at a positive sentiment.  Wobbles worried about their speed as the pack moved at the pace of their slowest member, yet nobody thought of deserting a comrade.

Wobbles shaded her eyes with an outstretched paw, they had another half hour of running before the region turned too dark for the trackers.  She considered their options based on what she knew of Horde tactics.  Angry Squirrel could pick off each squad during the night by hitting whatever unit held the nearest torch.  He could slip out of the closing trap, or double back and lose them in the darkness.  Any of these plans held an excellent chance of success once the sun went down.

Such optimistic thoughts came to an abrupt end with the sound of several blaring trumpets.  Wobbles located some fifty Horde warriors no more than another fifteen minute run behind them.  In front, another dozen charged towards them.  Those soldiers would reach them in less than five minutes. 

Though that made this battle one between two numerically equal forces, Wobbles knew numbers didn't matter.  In a quick raid, skill often failed, but in a sustained combat situation, she knew the better trained fighter prevailed.  She saw how Angry Squirrel handled his weapon against an experienced warrior and knew this would be a short and bloody fight ending in defeat.

Angry Squirrel came to a sudden standstill.  They had run the good race and it ended in the Horde's favor.  He withdrew his sword and flexed his grip.  His eyes did not have a defeated look, but one intending on selling his life at the highest possible price.  One by one, each raider arranged themselves behind their leader.  Even those slaves holding weapons joined the line as they watched the now visible Horde force move ever closer.

That first squad of Horde soldiers should have been overwhelmed by the insurgents, but a dozen trained soldiers proved more than a match.  The two sides converged and the battle was joined.  A Horde stoat circled behind Angry Squirrel and Avbron darted forward.  His uninjured paw locked onto the wrist of the soldier as he bared his teeth.  Both continued their struggle until the Horde soldier pinned the weasel's arms to the ground.  Wobbles reached the fighting pair and stopped the soldier's killing blow when she brained the stoat from behind with a rock.

A moment of peace came to the field as survivors scurried for the discarded weapons of the fallen.  In this first skirmish the rebels were victorious, but it came at too heavy a cost.  The remaining Horde force had numerical superiority, yet they had gained a healthy respect for their enemy.  No longer did they charge forward as if they thought the battle would proffer an easy victory.  Now the officers bellowed out orders and the Horde marshaled their forces and made a methodical approach. 

None thought of asking quarters or retreating.  The eyes of every rebel and freed slave blazed with determination as they awaited the final confrontation.  A few chanted prayers to the Eternals for everlasting happiness in the next life.  Some muttered insults about their opponents as they psyched themselves into a killing frenzy.  The rest remained stoic as they each targeted the advancing soldier they would send to Dark Forest.

Everything changed.  From a gully running along the Horde's right flank, a large contingent of creatures darted forward led by a tall badger.  When his force crashed into the soldiers, his broadsword cleaved a wide swath in the enemy's ranks.  The tide of battle had turned.  Angry Squirrel's voice carried to all.

"Don't just stand there, those Horde soldiers will regroup if given a chance.  We have to strike now while we have the advantage."  He pointed his sword at the crumbling Horde front as he sprinted forward.  "Attack!  Attack!"

Trumpets blared as the Horde units scrambled to disengage.  Once the Horde retreated, the rebels and their rescuers stood down.  Many survivors displayed wide grins while the rest dropped to the ground, too weary for any reaction. 

A series of familiar faces emerged from the rescuing force.  Friends called out to those that had raced towards the stream.  In their desperate attempt to flee from the Horde, these raiders found allies.  Thanks to this second insurgent unit, the battle was won.

Emotionally and physically drained, Wobbles almost collapsed onto the ground but was saved from that indignity when Avbron helped her down.  His expression said it all, he too could not believe their good fortune.  A ferret with a white-painted face passed nearby.

"Talk about good fortune."  Avbron reached out and snagged the belt of the ferret, holding him in place.  "Tell me friend, who saved our furry butts?   What warrior badger kept us out of the spirit world of Dark Forest?"

"The badger is named Bruno.  Until last month, he fought the Horde along the northern border, but patrols forced him further south to escape their sweeps.  When we informed him Chitter was facing our common enemy and trying to protect a contingent of freed slaves, Bruno diverted course and here we are."

Whatever exhaustion Wobbles felt disappeared.  Her lunge at the ferret caught the fellow off balance and the two fell to the ground with her kneeling over him.  She held him by the lapels of his vest and pulled him so close to her face their whiskers brushed.  Wobbles demanded he repeat their Commander's name, which he did.

No, it's not possible.  There couldn't be two creatures, both of them squirrels, with that same name.  Wobbles locked her eyes on the beast she had called Angry Squirrel and now knew as Chitter.  She struggled without success to recall the face of a toddler of four years that she hid in a high tree some twenty years back. 

Avbron's voice called to her, she heard the sound, but not the words.  The universe consisted of just two things, her and the male squirrel.  The intrusive sound held no meaning to her; it was a distraction. 

She moved without realizing it.  Wobbles took one step towards the male squirrel who didn't react to her approach.  Another step followed and her pace quickened.  The male squirrel's outline blurred as tears threatened to blind her.  Angry Squirrel turned.

He never had a chance. Chitter.  She slammed into the male squirrel with far more power than Wobbles thought she had left, yet he just staggered backwards a step.  Chitter.  Her arms entwined about his massive chest.  Chitter.  She buried her muzzle into his fur.  Chitter.  She drank in his musky male odor, a scent that intoxicated her.

Wobbles's whole body shook as she laughed and cried.  She spoke aloud the name of a child she lost so long ago.   Rebels and former slaves watched as the two squirrels seemed to merge into one.  Wobbles didn't care what others thought.  She kept repeating his name as if she never wanted to utter anything else ever again.

Sleep did not come easy.  Wobbles watched the sky darken and the stars brighten, but did not rest.  She must have slept at some point.  The deep black of night displayed more of an ashy grey and most of the constellations had faded.  The sun remained below the horizon, but a noticeable glow marked the east.  Dawn approached.

A twig snapped.  She turned towards the noise.  A mouse with a spear passed near her, unaware her eyes followed him.  Wobbles had enough rest, she needed to move.  Her paws acted without any thought as she folded the blanket given her.  She had a moment of panic when she couldn't find the bedroll's bindings in their usual place, but relaxed when she realized she no longer slept in a Horde camp.

She rose.  A quick scan confirmed that initial impression.  The stakes marking the slave camp were missing.  None of the sentries wore uniforms.  When she moved, nobody challenged her.  Wobbles wandered among the sleepers, not sure yet where her feet took her.  It did not take her long finding what she sought.

The rebel leader slept, unaware she now sat so close to him.  Wobbles still could not reconcile the mature squirrel with the frightened kit from so long ago.  She reached out, stroking his fur.  Such a soft feel.  It brought back memories, both good and bad.

Chitter awoke when she again touched his arm.  He rolled away from her, his face reflecting relief as he put more distance between them.  Perhaps he remembered how it took three others to separate them.  His voice remained friendly, but firm as he took another step back.

"I do hope you don't intend sharing my skin, Wobbles.  That little dance we did last night felt like you wanted to crush every bone and rib I have." 

Chitter made a fist and thumped his chest demonstrating his fitness.  He pointed at the sleeping rebels creatures.

"No harm was done and there's no need for such a display of appreciation.  Every fighter risked much for you and these other slaves.  Your freedom is our reward."

Wobbles emotions rose and fell like a swooping eagle.  One moment she reached the apex of happiness knowing she had found something she believed forever lost so many years ago.  The next breath brought her to the nadir point as she sensed no real connection between them and feared that shortcoming defied correction.

Her tongue slid around her muzzle as Wobbles considered how best to broach the subject of their mutual past.  Should I be direct or should I lead him down a path so he can discover my identity for himself?  Wobbles rose to her full height and squared her shoulders.  She stood at parade rest, as she had been trained, while composing her thoughts.

A huge paw settled on her shoulder and she pivoted on her foot wondering who interrupted her moment of truth.  The massive form of the male badger stood next to her.  Words so carefully considered now escaped her and she stood there in silence looking upon the warrior that once again moved between her and Chitter.

"Sorry to interrupt, missy, but I need to talk with Chitter about something important.  You'll excuse us?"

Every fiber of her being wanted to scream.  Tears threatened to fall as the badger lead her son several paces away from her.  Wobbles shuddered in frustration as she debated the wisdom of challenging this intruder until she heard Avbron speak.

"Those two command the rebels and we command the slaves, Wobbles.  Let them do what they must while we attend to our new duties."

"Duties?  We follow these warriors.  What else can we do?"

Avbron spoke as if her mind had regressed to that of a child.  "Some mistrust these rebels.  Others have a weapon in their paw for the first time and cannot decide if they can use it or if these rebels will demand we return them.  Both prospects are frightening.  A few consider returning to our masters.  We need to keep them calm."

The tension from last night's battle had dissipated, but not the fear.  Now she understood why sailors fretted more during the calm time before a storm.  The unknown frightened them.  These former slaves were hungry, armed, and without guidance.  A dangerous mixture when combined with fear.  She spoke with all, assuring them of their safety.

Chitter returned.  He led two more of the caravan's slaves to them.  As the two mice walked towards them, their expressions worried her.  She expected exhaustion, maybe worry, but their eyes reflected something far worse.  It kept the others quiet as the two mice approached.  They sat by the dying embers of the fire, unresponsive to any inquiry.

She knew these two mice.  One of the few sanctioned mated pairs that traveled from their old homeland.  Instead of the wide smiles she expected, they reminded her of a soldier returning to camp after their first battle.  She coaxed them into telling their story while the other liberated slaves drew nearer.  The lady spoke as if she were some seer revealing a vision.  Never did her eyes meet any who sat around her.

"The guards herded us into a corner of the parked wagons.  We sensed something was wrong, so we crawled under one and kept quiet.  The wagons sat so close to the ground none noticed us.  We heard the guards blame us for the rebel's attack and the death of their friends.  One guard drew his sword.  It happened so fast."  She sobbed.

Her mate faced the other slaves.  "They killed everyone.  Those that ran, they pursued.  When they finished butchering every slave, they marched for Ferretville as if nothing happened.  When the sun set, we crawled out and ran in the other direction.  Two ferrets found us and I thought we were dead beasts for sure.  Next thing we know, we're here with you."

Wobbles didn't move for several moments.  The enormity of the massacre boggled her mind.  The Horde didn't waste valuable assets, but evidence to the contrary sat before them in the shape of two exhausted and scared friends.  If any thought about returning, they knew what awaited them.

"We don't go back," Wobbles said.  "Like it or not, we must stand with the rebels."

Some of the raiding warriors relayed the command and everyone broke camp.  They moved south, following the stream.  As they did, the rebels kept telling them what to expect.  Every mention of food had her drooling in anticipation and her stomach growling.  After several such vivid descriptions, she thought them either exaggerations or outright lies. 

The sun traveled across the sky and Wobbles never noticed.  She missed the forest trail they followed until somebody called a halt to their march.  Then, it appeared.  Beasts of every species and sex surrounded cooking fires scattered along the edge of a forest clearing.  She recognized some of the slaves missing from other raided convoys.  They were safe, not dead like the Horde officers claimed.

A wandering mind has a way of finding its own path.  Like a lightning bolt, it hit Wobbles.  The prophecy, my son fulfilled Purrnella's prophecy.  She tried suppressing the giggles that bubbled to the surface as she approached Chitter from behind.  In another half dozen paces, Wobbles seized Chitter's shoulder.

"We must talk, son.  There is so much I must explain."

"You may have the years, Wobbles, but my mother died long ago freeing me."  He gave her his widest grin.  "I appreciate the thought that you think me worthy of such an honor."

Chitter gave the stubby-tailed female a gentle push as he rejoined the badger on a tour of the forest campsite.  Wobbles moved before Chitter, blocking his passage.  She placed her arms across her chest, scowling at him.

"I never intended setting you free back then, son.  All I wanted was to get you away from the clutches of that wildcat child.  Don't you remember how sadistic Purrnella was to you?  I hoped whatever master found you, would treat you like the valuable servant I knew you could be."

Chitter's eyes widened when she said the wildcat's name.  It lasted but a second, then his face became unreadable. 

"Purrnella is a common name for wildcats, or so I am told, Wobbles.  You have said nothing that proves your claim on me."

Wobbles stamped her foot in exasperation.  "Listen here, son.  You were the fulfillment of her prophecy.  The witch said fate has your life ending because of a plaything lost long ago.  Captain Purrnella Slyclaw died back at that caravan just like the witch predicted.  Don't you remember how she called you her favorite toy?  A favorite toy is a plaything.  Nobody on our ship knew about this land so when I left you hidden in that tree, you were lost to her."

"I told nobody that wildcat's full name," Chitter said.  "Just thinking of her brought such vivid nightmares, even after all these years.  But my mother's name wasn't Wobbles."

She licked her lips and stared into her son's eyes as she dredged up a memory of another life.  She worried that if she said the wrong name, all was lost.  But speaking that former name also had its risks and Wobbles drew her paw across her muzzle as she formulated her answer. 

"You called me Duzzalls, because you had so much trouble saying my old name, Dusty Paws.  I never corrected you, figured you would outgrow the wrong pronunciation."

Chitter's reaction caught her off guard.  Wobbles found herself in a crushing embrace as he drew her against his chest.  The powerful male's voice cracked with emotion.  She struggled for control of her emotions as she realized the fulfillment of a dream discarded so long ago.

"It makes sense now.  Ever since I had you drink of my scent, something has been tickling the back of my mind.  Maybe I got enough of your odor that it brought back memories I thought long buried." 

Wobbles now had her paws rubbing Chitter's back as she giggled.  Her tears spent, her eyes kept glistening.  As for Chitter, he had his muzzle pressed to her back, his snorting quite audible.  The badger moved to a point where both could gaze at him.

"My mate believed your mother dead, Chitter.  If we knew she lived, Redwall would have done everything possible reuniting you two."

Wobbles felt her legs giving way and with the help of the badger, the three moved to a nearby log.  Chitter ran off to a nearby thatch hut and when he came out, he carried a fire damaged box.  When he lifted the lid, she gasped in amazement.

"That shirt, you kept it?  I remember making it for your third birthday because you asked me for something colorful.  You wore it every day and cried whenever I washed it.  It was getting too tight last time I saw you wearing it and I feared the day when you must discard it."

Chitter looked up at the badger.  "It is her, Bruno.  I never considered it a possibility since she doesn't resemble me, but it is her.  Who else would know such things?"

Wobble experienced a moment of panic.  Her one paw snagged the badger's belt while the other grasped her son's arm in a crushing vise.  Such a stark change had both males rooted in place.

"Chitter, Bruno, when the witch gave her prophecies, she showed me the place where they would be fulfilled.  According to the witch, everything will happen at that Abbey before the new moon, which is in six days."

Her son jumped to his feet, clapping his paws and whistling a shrill note.  At every fire and from every hut, curious faces turned in his direction.  When all gave their leader their undivided attention, Chitter made his proclamation.

"Get a good night's sleep, for tomorrow we begin a six-day quick-march for the liberation of Redwall."

Sunlight filtered through the stretched canvas of the tent, but the evening's waning light did nothing to illuminate the interior for its inhabitant.  Moving with a methodical motion, he lit three lanterns before hanging them about his workstation.  Climbing up onto a nearby stool, he grabbed a wet rag and washed the large piece of slate propped before him. 

Having cleaned the surface, he snatched a nearby piece of chalk and drew.  His fingers moved across the surface as he continued his work.  He kept referring to several sheets of paper sitting on another stool while he persisted at his labors.  Sometimes he retrieved his sodden washcloth and removed a section, then redid the segment after confirming something by using a nearby measuring stick.

Satisfied that the sketch was accurate, he reached under his stool for the abacas he needed.  For several moments he alternated between refining his picture and the numerous calculations that surrounded his central representation.  Beads kept clacking back and forth as his nimble fingers flew across the calculator.  Each time he changed a number, referenced his notes or measured his drawing, he muttered under his breath something that sounded more like a sorcerer's incantation.

"You're my best engineer, Mernock, but I'm getting tired of waiting."

The unexpected voice had Mernock falling off his stool as he tried snapping to attention.  After a lackadaisical return salute from Brigadier Shawarran, the fellow clambered back onto his seat.  In mere seconds he became oblivious to the presence of his commanding officer as he rattled the beads, rechecking his numbers.  He emitted a startled yelp when the wolf's huge paw slammed onto the slate.  There was no mistaking either the tone of voice or the expression displayed; Brigadier Shawarran had lost whatever patience he possessed.

"You have been working on that tunnel for over two months.  In that time I have lost as many to the Abbey's defenders as I hung for desertion.  Now a runner comes from General Zavallin telling me the Horde Army will be regrouping here."

"It isn't my fault you announced your victory before the battle even started, Brigadier."

He never saw the paw that sent him sprawling across the dirt floor of the tent.  A heavy foot pinned Mernock on his back.  Then he spotted the prized blade the Brigadier always carried with him had been drawn from its sheath.  Seeing it in the wolf's paw and feeling the tip pricking his chest deep enough that it drew a bloody spot on his uniform did have a way of tightening one's throat and loosening the bladder.

"The runner said the Army was less than ten days out.  I expect those arrogant woodlanders exterminated and our forces camped within the Abbey walls before that pompous ermine arrives.  So tell me how the plan progresses or I will find another ambitious engineer as your replacement."  The wolf's grin contained nothing that could be mistaken as cordial.  "Don't worry; your widow will be notified of your glorious fall in battle by me, personally."

Mernock tried licking his lips, but his tongue felt like sandpaper as it flicked over his nose.  "What time of day do you intend attacking, Brigadier?"  The bloody spot expanded; it had him whimper a quick explanation.  "This plan will not have the wall collapse immediately.  It will take several hours.  So I need the time of our attack if you expect me to calculate when I can execute my part."

Brigadier Shawarran withdrew his blade, which had the Chief Engineer sigh in relief.  The wolf didn't hide his disgust at his fearful display, but he wasn't a warrior.  He built things, whatever the Horde needed.  His commander's sword paw fondled the red gemstone in the weapon's pommel.  Based on the wolf's expression, he needed more assurances regarding the success of his project.  Perhaps a summation might restore his commander's confidence.

"Thanks to our initial surveys of the Abbey's outer wall, we located a weak spot in the foundation.  My staff supervised the construction of a tunnel from the forest to the wall and have removed all the loose rock under that section.  The Abbey's outer fortification is now resting on the thick logs and supports we built while excavating a chamber that runs between the two towers.  Our chemist said the mineral coating the wood will make it burn much hotter than normal, which is what we need if this plan is to succeed.  When we flood the tunnel with the water from that tank we built last week, it will create far more steam than a normal fire."

"And you claim this steam will be sufficient to bring the wall down?"

Mernock continued his explanation.  "Not immediately, Brigadier.  The steam will create enormous pressure, which will have nowhere to go thanks to the doors I had installed outside the chamber.  If things go as designed, the bedrock will fracture and the wall itself will rise.  After that, we need only wait fourteen to sixteen hours before the wall shatters itself."

Shawarran stared at the slate and shrugged his shoulders.  The Brigadier took a step towards the exit before he called back to him.  Mernock shuddered at the harsh glare of his commanding officer.

"You told me yesterday that if this attempt doesn't work, we cannot retry for another thirty days.  Why so long?"

"We will need to dry the hole, replace the flammables and obtain more of the chemicals we used.  Also, the defenders are unaware of our presence.  That will change after we release the water.  They could take countermeasures, given sufficient time."

"Tell me the earliest date you will be ready."

The wolf's blade slide halfway out of its sheath.  He updated his estimated date to one within five days of General Zavallin's expected arrival.  Shawarran slammed the golden blade back in place.  He knew meeting the deadline would necessitate working nonstop, but one look told him a wrong word might cost him his life. 

"I have waited almost five months to breach those walls, I can accept another five days."  After pushing aside the tent flap, he called back to Mernock.  "If this plan of yours doesn't bring that wall crashing down, I strongly suggest you run very, very fast.  You don't want to know what will happen if you fail."


When the wolf stepped beyond the tent's door, he bumped into a passing slave.  The reddish fur of the hedgehog identified him as the wheelwright.  Although located between the wheelwright's work station and the slave's holding area, a direct line would have had him pass several rows behind the Chief Engineer's tent.  The wolf ordered him to stay where he stood.

"You seem to have gotten yourself lost."  Pointing off to the left, Brigadier Shawarran continued admonishing the hedgehog.  "The slave compound is in that direction."

"You're right, Brigadier, but my mate's workstation," and here the hedgehog pointed in a different direction, "is down this path."

"Mate?  I haven't authorized any union."  Shawarran snapped his fingers.  "So the rumor's true?  You're the one fawning over Tergello?"  He laughed.

"Tergello might be lazier than most of the other slaves," he said, "but she wouldn't act against the Horde; I'm not so sure about you.  Too many of our supply wagons have broken down, despite your repair efforts.  There's a convoy transporting our wounded scheduled for departure tonight.  Tell the convoy's commanding officer I want you back in Ferretville.  You can continue fixing our wagons there.  However, if our transportation experiences any more problems, I'll transfer you to the port dredging detail, or Tergello might have a tragic accident."

Brigadier Shawarran followed the wayward hedgehog, keeping his paw on the hilt of his sword.  The hedgehog did as he ordered and reported to the stoat officer commanding the convoy.  Less than five minutes later; he watched the harnessed hedgehog depart.

"If only all my problems were this easy to solve," he muttered as the convoy departed.


Firelog knew the Brigadier had valid reasons for mistrusting him.  As the most qualified beast able to keep the supply carts serviced, he had an excellent opportunity at foiling their war effort and did just that.  A less than rounded hub or an axle with insufficient grease kept it functional, but inefficient.  He considered leaving the wheels improperly attached, but such an obvious defect might get him or his intended mate killed.  Better the carts become disabled while en route where fingers couldn't point his way.

When he first arrived at the Horde campsite three months ago, he learned about a tunnel under construction.  The mental picture of slaves trying to dig under bedrock provided him many hours of amusement.  Two months later, his stomach turned sour when Tergello described a chamber the slaves excavated underneath a section of the Abbey's outer wall.  It took him a few more days investigating past Horde siege campaigns before he discovered their intentions.

He risked much sabotaging the Horde's efforts.  Firelog's only satisfaction came when the candle he placed in the chemical storage shed started a huge fireball that killed over a dozen soldiers, including all the Horde engineers housed in the adjoining tent.  That delayed their efforts several weeks as Brigadier Shawarran transferred the Chief Engineer from the Ferretville port expansion project.

If the wolf hadn't been outside Mernock's hut, he planned on murdering the weasel.  Since every soldier knew the Chief Engineer worked late into the night, nobody would investigate the lights within his tent and he would not be missed until the following morning at reveille.  By then, every slave would swear Firelog spent the night within the slave compound.  No doubt the soldiers would believe Mernock's death related to his rumored gambling debts.

At least that had been his plan.  Too bad the wolf interfered by sending him back to Ferretville.  Now Firelog found himself doing a quick-step behind another cart as he moved even further from Redwall.  His mind kept churning as he tried finding some option that thwarted the Horde's plan without him risking his own life.  He knew every step he took increased the chances of the Brigadier's plan working.

Firelog's mind hadn't shaken his morose thoughts by the third night of travel.  Just as the convoy made a turn on the forest trail, the Horde soldier trotting to his left collapsed with two feathered shafts protruding from his back.  Several bugles sounded from different directions causing confusion among slaves and soldiers alike.  Just as the blaring horns stopped, Firelog detected the distinctive notes of clanging metal all around him.  Soldiers rushed about the area with weapons drawn.  The screams of those around him added to his befuddlement.

He jerked to his right as the cart in front came to a sudden stop.  He didn't notice and tried passing the stalled cart.  His harness snapped him backwards when he sideswiped the other one.  The blow to his head caused his vision to swirl like flavoring added to a cake batter.  A paw patting the spot came back wet; he needed a place to sit.  Firelog shucked his harness off just as four creatures appeared beside him.

While the first one wedged his flaming torch under the wagon, two others grabbed Firelog.  The fourth member led their group around the stalled carts and retreated into the nearby forest.  At no time did his feet touch the ground as his abductors carried him.

Everything happened too fast.  The back of his head hurt, and now, leafy branches pushed aside by those in front lashed his face.  If the curses he heard meant anything, others suffered his fate.  With no point of reference, he lost all perspective.

The two otters carrying him released his arms without any prior warning.  He collapsed.  His head struck the side of a rock and once again he had the sensation of the forest spinning.  In such a world full of oddities, a familiar voice.

"How many did we get?  Were there any casualties?  What about the Horde soldiers, are they pursuing us?"

Another very familiar voice responded.  "One question at a time, Chitter, one at a time.  However, to answer your questions in the order given, five, we lost one, and the Horde are in full retreat.  It seems our raid didn't stop the convoy, just those carts nearest the point of attack."

"Pa Badger, is that really you?"  Firelog's vision remained hazy.  He tried focusing on the moving shapes without success.  A powerful arm pulled him upright and a moment later, his paws held a canteen filled with something a lot more potent than water.  For several moments he doubled over and gagged while those around him laughed.  Once his coughing fit ended, he glanced over at the one holding him.  Bruno knelt next to him, supporting him.

"It seems like my ears were telling me the truth.  You have no idea how grateful I am hearing your voice.  And where is that worthless tree-thumping ball of fluff?"

"I'm right in front of you, you rusty pincushion.  If I knew they caught you, I'd throw you back."  Chitter laughed so hard, he had to repeat his friendly barb. 

Firelog felt a paw shaking his knee while he leaned into Bruno's chest as he did years ago whenever he needed some safe refuge.  His eyes tried to focus on the gray squirrel that hunkered down a short distance away while he recalled their shared youth.  Then another familiar face invaded his line of sight.  Wobbles stood behind Chitter, her paw resting on his friend's shoulder.  He opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but the liquor stole his voice for the moment.

"We heard those carts squealing quite a distance away," said Chitter.  "It gave us a great opportunity for ambushing that convoy before they reached open country."  Chitter gave his friend a gentle pat on the leg.  "Unless your ears are still stuffed with wool, you can hear the Horde survivors moving away from us at a very fast pace.  Just wish we had the time for stalking that wagon train all the way back to Ferretville."

"So it was just good fortune that had you save me?" 

"All depends on if you side with us or the Horde as to which of us were the luckier in this last exchange."  Chitter's laughter had the other raiders listen to their banter.

"You have got to listen to me, Chitter.  Redwall is in grave danger.  I'm not joking."

Over the next half hour, Firelog told Bruno and Chitter about the tunnel.  He explained how such a scheme succeeded in other wars for the Horde.  He hoped they believed him as he had nothing to confirm his story.

"According to the Chief Engineer, they will make their attack on the new moon, which is in five days."

Firelog couldn't understand the smirk on Chitter's face or the twinkle in his eyes as he spoke with Wobbles. 

"If nothing else, my friend has just proven the validity of that old adage about mothers knowing everything."

Sunlight filtered through the windows of the hut, but the evening's waning light did nothing to illuminate the interior for its inhabitant.  Moving with a methodical motion, she lit three lanterns before hanging them about her workstation.  She dragged a nearby stool closer to her desk, grabbed a wet rag and washed the large piece of slate propped before her. 

Having cleaned the surface, she snatched a nearby piece of chalk and wrote.  Her fingers moved across the surface as she continued her work.  She kept referring to several sheets of paper sitting on her desk.  Sometimes she retrieved a sodden washcloth and removed a section, then redid the segment after confirming the information.

A knock interrupted her.  She recognized the voices and ordered both inside.  She grabbed the papers strewed across her desk, jogging them into order.  By the time her guest arrived, she replaced the chaos from earlier with her usual pristine military order.

Two doe hares stood at attention within her room.  A sharp salute and both relaxed, sliding into a parade rest stance.  She tried reconciling these two veterans with the raw recruits she trained less than six months ago.  She had no time for such idle thoughts, so she did not keep them wondering why she summoned them.

"My meeting with the High Command did not go as anticipated.  I have good news and bad news that will affect both of you."

"Is it about the preparations for the big event tomorrow," asked one hare.  "Everyone is excited to have both our king and Grand Marshal Eytomin presiding over the ceremony.  About time we get the recognition we deserve, captain."

"Than I was right to call you both here for this private chat," said Captain Serenity.  "If not for our king, we would have received nothing more than a form letter informing us which soldier received a medal and which received a promotion.  Nothing becomes official until tomorrow's ceremony, but you deserve hearing the news from me."

If she had her way, she would reveal everything that happened at today's meeting.  When she submitted her list of promotional candidates, the High Command rejected anyone not a hare.  The whole argument entered round two when it came to medals since Grand Marshal Entomin expressed the opinion that all woodlanders were cowards, unless forced to fight.  Thank goodness King Brisson made his opinion known; the High Command confirmed every promotion and award that met the King's approval, with three exceptions.

"Corporal Sandythorn," said Captain Serenity, "you'll be promoted to Sergeant and given the title of Chariot Commander.  Since all our ponies are stallions, the High Command refuses to make you an officer or your position permanent until we can get breeding stock."

Sandythorn nodded.  "Understandable, and that might not happen until this war ends."  The hare gave a quick snort before she faced her commander.  "Any orders, Captain?"

"Your squad is now part of your new command, as well as any of the liberated slaves who wish to stay in our army.  Select one liberated slave you trust as your second, I'll promote him or her to corporal.  We need those former slaves and promoting one of them should secure their loyalty.  Let me know your staffing requirements and I'll do what I can.  Have that name by sunset tomorrow; you're dismissed."

She returned the snappy salute and waited until the hare exited the office.  Serenity pointed to the other chair in her office.  Once Threadfoot sat, she gave her the news.

"You will be promoted to Staff Sergeant and given the title of Aide de Camp.  High Command will not assign an officer to a mere captain, even if that captain commands a division.  Since they denied my promotion, you cannot become an officer."

Corporal Threadfoot's eyes doubled in size.  "How could they deny the heroine of the Northern Alliance a promotion?  You defeated the Horde, something no other commander has done."

She hoped she masked her disappointment.  "Our role in the battle has officially been reclassified from lynchpin to diversionary.  Credit for our victory now goes to the two Long Patrol units that initiated the counteroffensive.  Supporting units from the regular army and the local militia have received honorable mention.  Military records will footnote our actions as a minor skirmish, nothing more."

"So our action is to be forgotten?  We lost many good warriors in that battle, they deserve more."

"I agree, Corporal.  Since each division keeps an historical account from their perspective, we will not be overlooked.  It might be many years after this war before some historian corrects the error, but our brave comrades will be remembered.  That's why I have all these papers here, I want to leave an accurate record."

Corporal Threadfoot stood.  "Commendable, Captain.  Before I came in, I noticed you had a visitor waiting outside.  Should I send the badger away, or let him enter?"

The word badger caught Serenity's attention.  She knew it couldn't be the king, anyone in the army, or with a coin in their purse, knew what he looked like.  The only other badger her aide knew now commanded the High Kickin' Sixth, but they left camp several days ago. 

"We have a great deal of work to do, but it will have to wait a little while longer.  Let's see who wants to waste my time."

As Threadfoot left the cabin, a male badger entered.  Though he lacked the imposing physic of a warrior, he did not lack their sense of confidence.  When the door closed, Captain Serenity lost all her military bearing and embraced her guest.  They rubbed muzzles for several seconds before she directed him to the chair vacated by the hare.

"I would think my big brother too busy playing nursemaid to all those dibbuns to visit me out here.  What's so important that you had to see me, Thorn?"

"Rumors have you marching on Redwall," he said.  "I've tried everything I can, but our elders grow tired of accepting the king's hospitality.  They want to go home.  When you leave, they will be joining you.  I'll not be able to keep them from fighting these invaders.  Everyone sees this as some grand adventure and none want to miss it."

"And a bloody one it will be if they do follow us.  The western front is the focus of the war, not the liberation of an outsider's fortress."  She held up her paw, forestalling her brother's reply.  "We do intend sending help to Redwall, either us or the Long Patrol's Sixth Army.  Depends on which of us is ready first."

Thorn didn't look happy.  It sounded so callous when she told her brother how little importance the Alliance placed on their home.  He mentioned the Long Patrol's base appeared deserted.  He asked if the hares had already departed.  Serenity laughed.

"Both of us need another two or three weeks before we can mount an effective offense against the forces surrounding Redwall Abbey.  As for the Long Patrol, they went on a five-day ... forced ... march ... yesterday."  She hesitated.  "I do hate throwing you out big brother, but a matter of military importance requires my immediate attention."

Not since her time as a dibbun had she treated her twin brother with such ill manners.  She didn't care.  Serenity almost pushed Thorn out the door in her haste.  Instead of a sentimental good-bye, Captain Serenity made a brisk farewell.  She ordered Threadfoot inside and slammed the door in her brother's face.  She must act fast if she intended to save her home or those residents living at Fiery Mountain.

"We have been stuck here at our former training facility for five weeks."  Captain Serenity's voice dropped, and chilled the very air.  "Can you tell me why we stand around like flies stuck in amber instead of marching into battle as our King has commanded?"  Her paws became fists and she pounded her footlocker so hard it bounced. "And how is it everyone expects us to be leaving soon when you keep telling me about additional delays?"

Corporal Threadfoot reminded Captain Serenity what caused the delays.  At first, the integration of the newest soldiers with the unit's veterans kept them at their base.  Then politics reared its ugly head as a debate broke out in the High Counsel about which unit should relieve the Abbey.  Only the personal intervention of the First Noble, Countess Dorsattin Sharpae, resolved that issue.  The High Command didn't accept the decision with much grace.  With each additional delay, pressure increased as the military insisted the Long Patrol relieve the siege if the Unity Division remained unprepared.

"Captain, we have a logistics problem.  It seems our Quartermaster cannot accommodate the dietary needs of any soldier other than hares at this time.  I just cannot get an appointment with the Commander.  His aide, some bucktoothed Major, keeps running interference and she claims we never filed the requisition form for the supplies we need.  Since she outranks both of us, all I can spout is 'yes ma'am' whenever she tells me to go away."

That got Captain Serenity thinking.  "Is she the one-armed doe I've seen visiting the Long Patrol commander?"  Threadfoot answered in the affirmative.  "I know her.  She's a personal friend of Grand Marshall Eytomin and a former member of the High Kickin' Sixth.  I'm betting she's cashing in a number of favors.  With her running interference, there's an excellent chance our Quartermaster might not even know what she's doing.  Unless the King's ire focuses on the Quartermaster, she can keep us here until the Sixth Division is rebuilt."

Just the thought of those hares stealing her assignment made her pace her office.  The long claws of her bare feet ticked across the hardwood flooring as she circled the inside perimeter of her quarters.  Captain Serenity knew her soldiers stood ready; they just needed the food supplies for the ten-day march.

"Tell me Corporal, if I ordered everyone on a ten-day forced march, would our Quartermaster have to give us sufficient supplies?  They seem willing to give the hares supplies for their forced march."

Threadfoot moistened her lips, no doubt anticipating her reaction.  "Try that and they will bury us in enough paperwork that by the time authorization comes, the Long Patrol will be drunk on fresh October Ale."

Captain Serenity swore far worse than any sailor denied shore leave.  Once her growls subsided, she experienced a sense of calmness that surprised even her.  Such a simple idea; it might even work.

"Those hares will be returning in a few days from a five-day hike.  What say we have everyone go on the same hike, with full backpacks?  Our Quartermaster would give us enough food for that excursion."

"You're not going to try stretching those supplies over ten days?  Half our force would never make the border."

She stared at her Aide with a look she knew terrified raw recruits.  "When I was promoted, one of my instructors kept telling me the art of war is based on deception.  So I'm going to put that theory into practice.  Call all officers to the main mess tent for a meeting at the top of the hour."

At the appointed time, she entered the tent.  The din of officers discussing rumors and guessing the purpose of the meeting ended.  Total silence prevailed as she marched down the central aisle.  Everyone stood at attention until she gave them permission to sit.

"What I am about to propose is illegal, and if it doesn't work, we are going to end our days in a military prison.  Anyone wishing to leave, do so now."  Every officer remained.  "In two days, our paymaster will arrive.  I intend telling everyone he is late due to our scheduled departure for a five-day forced march.  When we reach the South Crossroad, we will divert for Redwall Abbey.  I will send our chariots to the nearest town to purchase additional supplies with the army's money.  By the time those hares in the Sixth Division realize what happened; we'll be two day's out from our objective and the honor that is rightfully ours."

Every officer shouted their support.  The assembled officers celebrated the end of their prolonged inactivity.  Captain Serenity raised her paws, shouting for silence.

"By my calculations, we should be at Redwall Abbey the morning of the new moon.  Let's show those Horde soldiers who deserves credit for making them tuck tail."

Spin to the left, shuffle back two paces, parry, duck and thrust.  The high pitched squeal of the large rat told him his rapier had found its target.  General Markus didn't have time to revel in his victory.  Another rat tried using the opportunity at splitting a hare with his broadsword.  Markus jumped forward three steps; a slashing motion with the blade and a fountain of blood sprayed from the upper arm that now had two parts.

The crimson rain doused his head, changing his white fur to red.  Markus used his forearm as a squeegee, removing much of the red discharge over his eye as he surveyed the battlefield.  The injured Horde soldier tried to staunch the flow of blood with his paw, the sword and severed arm laid at the rat's feet.  General Markus fought in enough skirmishes to know the rat would bleed out over the next five minutes if no medical help arrived.  Since the enemy soldier seemed content to remain there, he posed no further danger and he had too many other enemies intent on dealing him a fatal blow.

A quick scan showed no additional hares.  For a moment, he wondered if his whole command had been decimated, but a shrill cry of victory told him at least one other hare stood within the breach.  Some distance in front of him, another familiar voice sound the Long Patrol's battle cry and his heart swelled with pride.  A second later, that same bellow ended with a suddenness that chilled him to his inner core.

The Horde soldiers swarmed over the rubble that had been the Abbey's wall like a spring flood over a low valley.  Markus feared the inevitable; he wondered if his death would come before or after his command expired.  No time for such musings though, as several Horde soldiers had their eyes fixated on him, and he never refused a challenge issued in battle.

"And I called life at Redwall too boring for a true warrior."  General Markus snorted.  "Seems these fellows found something exciting about this place."

Twenty-four hours earlier, things had been a lot different.  Every hare was whole and healthy.  The moral of the Abbey residents remained high.  The expectation that some expeditionary force would soon arrive from the badger king's fortress gave everyone a feeling of eventual success.

As was the custom, following the afternoon meal, Abbess Robertasin inspected the defenses.  The black squirrel circled the inner walls in a counterclockwise direction while on the ground and clockwise atop the battlements.  Such a rigid adherence was a necessity since her right eye was a milky green and her vision poor.

"You have been quiet today, Markus.  Is there something that needs discussing?"

Since the siege began, he took personal command of the Abbey's defenses.  His military skills and knowledge had proven invaluable even before the Horde appeared at their gate.  Sometimes he wondered if he should seize control of the Abbey, but he deferred all decisions to Abbess Robertasin.  To date, that partnership kept the inhabitants safe.

"Yes, Mother Abbot.  Our food supplies are growing a bit thin in some areas.  Between the gardens, the orchard, and the remaining livestock, we have stretched our provisions further than expected, but we are using what we have faster than we should."

"None anticipated a siege lasting almost six months.  We thought it would end in six days with them retreating, especially after that one defeat killed so many of their soldiers.  Then we expected a relief force would arrive within the first month."

He kept his voice low so none of the passing residents caught any of their conversation as they followed the inner wall.  "It seems all must not be going any better for the Alliance.  I'm sure an army will arrive once they can afford sending it to us.  We just don't know when."

Robertasin's paw stroked her chin.  Her fingers traced the thin line of grey fur that ran along her jaw line.  She came to a halt and stared at him.  Her one deep emerald green eye and her milky green one pinned him to the spot.  They reviewed the many reports about the Abbey together and she must know she might soon need to make some hard choices.  Apparently, soon was now.

"We reduced rations by a third when we entered the second month of this siege.  A month later, we cut it again.  If I ordered another reduction to the minimum level needed to sustain us, how much time will that give us, General?"

"Starvation rations will take us through even the harshest summer, Abbess.  As to the Horde, my observers believe their situation is even worse.  An examination of the dead soldiers from their last assault indicated the grunts are wasting away and their officers are no better off.  They must find a reliable food source nearby, and soon.  Otherwise, desertion and starvation will force them to retreat."

"I'm not so optimistic.  This wolf commander seems set on taking this Abbey, regardless of your evaluation of our military value"  Abbess Robertasin resumed her tour of the inner wall while he followed her.  "One prisoner we took two days ago talked about raiders, hoping we wouldn't remove her thumb.  She claimed these attacks reduced their supplies to the point where foraging is no longer sustaining them.  Too bad we cannot confirm her information."

"I must say, that lady ferret sure sang a nice song when she found her paw pinned to an anvil.  We learned a lot before we released her," Markus chuckled so hard tears came to his eyes, "minus her thumbs, of course."

The Abbess came to a halt and growled so loud that several passing residents gave them an inquiring stare before rushing somewhere else.  If Markus thought his casual remark would go without comment, he was mistaken.  The lady squirrel's tail snap forward four times like a whip striking a prisoner, her hackles up, and her teeth bared.  He must have hit a raw nerve with his comment.

"Don't ever take joy from inflicting pain on another, General.  We might justify such actions today, but I don't want us thinking such measures appropriate after this war.  I'll not taint the reputation of our peaceful Abbey by sponsoring such vindictive actions in the future."

The two resumed their inspection as Markus steered the discussion back to the supply situation.  Abbess Robertasin decided the goat herd would be reduced by half over the next week and the remaining animals would be butchered when they exhausted the fodder.  General Markus comments about the bountiful crops within the gardens had the Abbess boasting about the skills of several residents.

"Mother Abbot, we are using far too much water.  Without some heavy rains within the next week, there is every possibility water will become a valuable commodity.  We should conserve as much as possible; save it for the gardens.  Let's restrict bathing to once every ten days."

Robertasin laughed, the first genuine sign of humor she showed since the Horde's first attack.  "Too bad the dibbuns are safe with your badger king; they would raise such a loud cheer at that news."

Four beasts patrolled the battlements between each tower.  As the Mother Abbot continued her casual stroll, she noted how two guards kept their eyes on the fields while the other two rested.  The sentries switched places whenever the tower clock chimed so nobody became complacent.  Markus argued that giving the enemy some measure of time helped them, but the Abbess insisted that maintaining as much normalcy as possible kept the residents calmer.

They stood on a section of the Abbey's outer defenses many residents had renamed the firewall after that first battle.  Abbess Robertasin clapped her paws together, attracting the attention of all four sentries.  She pointed to one tower and the four guards withdrew.  Robertasin leaned on one of the merlons and stared across the scorched forest outside.  Markus remained quiet while the Abbey's leader eyed the devastation.

"We have been sitting here too long, General.  It's time we took some direct action at helping ourselves."

His ears drooped before he snapped them upright.  "You're not serious?  We don't have the numbers to force a confrontation, not with untrained civilians.  You might think my unit in prime condition, but even sixty of us cannot prevail in any battle against so many."

Without turning, the black squirrel addressed him with a voice he had not heard too often.  When she did use that tone, he knew her mind remained inflexible.  Such a strong will might be admirable, but only when tempered with sound judgment.  Markus had a good idea what the Abbess had decided, but waited until she made her pronouncement.

"In two nights, we will have a new moon.  Total darkness will give us the best opportunity at slipping somebody beyond their lines.  If we can get a message to King Brisson about how bad things really are, he might be more receptive at sending a relief force."

General Markus rolled his eyes.  "What you're proposing is tantamount to suicide.  The chances of sneaking through their lines and making it to the Fiery Mountain without becoming disoriented during the night are all but impossible."

"If none of your hares will volunteer, I'm sure there's at least one resident who will."

"And have you considered what happens if that runner is captured?  Bad enough the mission failed; eventually they would make that that one talk.  Like it or not, Mother Abbot, we cannot take that risk.  We are committed to standing, so you better accept that fact."

Robertasin's expression told him he had failed.  He accepted his defeat and gave the Abbess the answer she wanted.  "I know the best runner in my unit.  He also has an infallible sense of direction, or so he always bragged."

The two continued their march around the walls and now approached the opposite side of the main gate.  They were crossing the section that stretched halfway between the main gate and the orchard when it hit.  Markus tried to decipher the clues to what just happened.

"That canna be thunder, there's na a cloud in the sky."  One sentry declared.

"Well my ears are a lot better than yours an' I tell you, that were thunder, and it's real close too."  His partner declared.

One of the resting sentries sat upright, his eyes wide and his whiskers twitching like a seesaw in full motion.  "Something just shook this wall hard enough that I felt it."

Whatever just happened, it didn't bode well for them.  Some inner sense told him their survival depended on him solving this riddle, and fast.  Markus muttered, hoping that speaking the clues might trigger an explanation.  It hit him with the force of a battering ram.

Markus darted past the group, pushing aside the Mother Abbot.  At the tower, he flew down the stairs, sometimes skipping as many as three steps at a time.  He detected the labored breathing of the Abbess as she followed him.  She shouted down the tower, asking him to wait for her.  He couldn't delay. 

"Summon Foremole and his crew, get them here right now."

Markus tromped back and forth, his impatience growing with every passing second.  His ears kept alternating from lying flat to sticking straight out behind his head.  He kept repeating the word, idiot with every other breath he took.

The first resident who overheard the General's command rushed off in search of Tenoch, the mole that now held the title of Foremole.  It took the fellow and several of his coworkers a few moments assembling near the tower.  Just as everyone gathered, something hissed.  A plume of white smoke rose from the ground near the central portion of the wall.

Foremole needed no orders.  In seconds the moles had expanded the hole.  Dirt flew upward as they dug downward.  They disappeared from view as they continued digging.  Several of the moles dashed out of the pit and returned with timbers as they shored up the sides.  Complete silence enveloped the onlookers.

A sudden scream echoed up from the deep pit.  Next came a billowing column of thick white smoke.  One mole exited shouting for help and in moments, several injured moles were dragged out and carried off to the Infirmary.  When Foremole appeared, he called for several blueprints and a full work crew.

His patience had limits and seeing the mole sitting on a nearby bench as if he had nothing better to do, was more than he could tolerate.  Markus advanced on the mole as if he were some objective worth storming while the Mother Abbot trailed him.  He didn't exchange any friendly banter or pleasantries with the fellow.  Markus stood nose to nose with the mole, his voice betraying his frustration.

"Like some idiot, I trusted your assessment that these walls were sitting atop bedrock.  You even said granite if memory serves me right.  So, you want to tell me just what happened?"

"Listen here you bucktoothed bunny, every historical account we have shows the walls on bedrock.  The only weak spot we knew about was on the northeast side, the section where an underground stream feeds the pond.  Nobody knew about a weak section of bedrock under the west wall."

"Even a moronic mole should know better than to trust ancient writings he hasn't verified."

"Enough you two."  Robertasin grabbed them by the scruff of their necks and yanked then apart so violently that both fell onto their rumps.  She pointed at him, not holding back any of her anger.

"What is it you taught me, Markus?  Victory goes to whichever side can execute the best plan?  Well that Horde Brigadier just caught us with our britches hanging down about our ankles.  If we expect countering his move, you had better listen to good advice from those that know better than you."

The Abbess verbally ripped him apart.  Foremole stood tall and almost strutted towards him.  Just as Foremole drew near the black-furred squirrel, she spun in place.  Her fisted paw aimed at the mole like a hammer to a nail and her words pulverized whatever ego he still had.

"You were advised about our situation several days before the Horde arrived.  I even sent you outside for a visual inspection, which took you two full days.  You had more than enough time to spot any potential breaches in the bedrock.  You should have found whatever clues pointed to this situation and taken the necessary countermeasures.  Now I need a full report that lets me know what just happened."

Another mole rushed up to Foremole, passing over several large paper tubes.  Foremole took them to a nearby table and extracted blueprints.  A party of some thirty workers soon surrounded the mole while he and the Abbess awaited their verdict.  Helpful paws held the corners of one sheet while Foremole worked on several calculations on a slate. 

He rubbed the slate clean and did several more calculations before he turned to the Abbess.  His foreboding grimace told them how bad the situation must be.  Tenoch had the reputation of bluntness and he proved it here.

"Those Horde soldiers built a pressure cooker under our wall where the granite was at its weakest.  What we felt was all that steam escaping, after it ruptured the bedrock.  Without exact measurements, I can only guess, but that section of our wall will collapse within the next ten to fifteen hours."

Markus's voice cut across the silence that followed that announcement.  "Isn't there any way we can fill in that space, brick it up?"

A shake of the head said it better than words.  "The wall is too heavy.  We have no way of building sufficient supports under a hundred meters of wall.  Best I can do is try pulling off a little bit of magic."

Foremole called for another roll of blueprints and stared at them for some time.  His eyes possessed a hard glaze and his voice took on a most solemn note.  His manner turned cold and calculating as he made his pronouncement.

"Listen up, everyone.  I need ten volunteers.  We are going to sever the longitudinal stress load points along the lower level and the upper ones in the central segment of the wall.  We will try gutting the insides and dropping it into the hole.  That will seal off their tunnel and buy us maybe another month before the wall finally collapses from its own weight."

Tenoch walked up to his mate who stood among many of the gathered residents.  He gave her a fierce hug.  She cried as her mate grabbed a bag of tools and marched to the nearest doorway.  Those joining him did so after going through a similar scene with their loved ones.  Markus wondered about the open display of emotions from those known for their logical minds.  As the last mole entered the wall, Tenoch's mate tapped the Mother Abbot's arm.  All she could do was point in the direction her mate and those who followed him took.

"Each engineer must coordinate their assignment with that of the others.  They must all complete the final cut at the same time.  When they sever those stress points, the inner constructs will collapse.  The cave-in will be total and the hallways within the wall will become rubble.  There will be no chance whatsoever of anyone escaping.  What you have just witnessed is a desperate move that may not even succeed.  But either way, it will cost the life of every worker that just entered those corridors."

An army will change the landscape.  When the Horde arrived, this hill appeared the same as the neighboring ones.  Lush grass carpeted a gentile slope.  Wildflowers added a dazzling array of color.  Tall trees acted as a natural fence between field and forest.  Such pastoral beauty lasted no longer than the raising of the first tent.

Grass no longer grew where so many feet marched.  The nearby forest consisted of stumps.  The Horde camp had expanded to cover a hillside of hard-packed dirt.  Foot soldiers slept on the ground that coated their uniforms.  Infections and insect infestations left many far too ill for duty.  Slaves suffered more since they lacked even the simplest of necessities, such as tents.

Officers lived in canvas huts on raised wooden platforms.  Those structures not used for housing or essential services, became supply depots.  A major fire destroyed one depot and the adjacent sleeping areas, killing several officers.  Soldiers moved the remaining officer quarters to the opposite side of the camp, far from the buildings rebel raiders must have targeted.

Puscha smoothed out a uniform that felt two sizes too big.  She tightened her belt one more notch as she left her hut and walked across the camp.  Enlisted personnel did not salute, but gave a slight head bob as protocol required in hostile territory.  Slaves crossing her path came to attention as they did for any soldier, their eyes looking downward until she passed.  She acknowledged the foot soldiers by returning their head bob, but ignored the slaves.

However, she remained observant.  The enlisted personnel and slaves working without shirts displayed signs of malnutrition.  Everyone suffered from mange.  Puscha wanted to use the last of the dipping solution she carried here three months ago, but reconsidered that option.  She might come out of the water clean, but the first time she sat next to another soldier or slept on her cot, more of the creepy-crawlers would infest her fur.

She approached the only solid building within the camp.  When she first arrived, Chief Engineer Murnock gave her the task of building the Brigadier's quarters.  The elevated wooden building replaced the canvas hut, making the commander's quarters immune to the heavy storms that passed the area two weeks earlier.

Outside the building waited five senior officers she knew.  They too came here with the Chief Engineer, and assisted him with the siege.  Everyone expected a short stay and a victorious return to Ferretville.  Reality didn't match their perceptions.  She considered her three months here the low point of this military campaign.

"I see the rumors are true.  A supply convoy arrived late last night and the Brigadier had the goats slaughtered."  The male stoat pointed to several slaves tanning two hides.  "Must have been scrawny animals if those skins are any indication of their size."

"Don't care about their size, just the quality of their meat.  Let's hope the meeting doesn't take us past mess call.  I haven't seen meat since the Brigadier transferred us here," said a male ferret.  "I wonder what's delaying Captain Murnock, I've never known him to be late for anything."

The second speaker, and the senior officer present, led them up the three steps and through the door.  As the most junior officer, Puscha came last.  She closed the door, came to attention, and waited until Brigadier Shawarran ordered them to take a seat.  In past meetings, their commander remained behind his desk.  Today, the wolf sat on the forward edge holding a large urn in his paw.

"Despite my expression of confidence," said the wolf, "our Chief Engineer went missing the same night his efforts failed to destroy the outer wall.  I have declared him a deserter and if he is apprehended, he will be executed.  Within this urn are six marbles, five yellow and one green.  Whoever draws the green one receives a promotion to captain and the title of Chief Engineer."

Each of them approached their commander, reached into the urn, and drew out a marble.  They held it in their fist until the wolf ordered them to reveal.  Puscha stared at the green orb sitting in her palm.  She glanced at the others, confirming they held a yellow one.  Brigadier Shawarran dismissed the others and waited until the last one closed the door.

"There is something you need to know.  A runner arrived with disturbing news late last night.  Our forces suffered a major defeat about a month ago.  The army retreated south, and turned east towards us once they left Alliance territory.  General Zavallin intends to use this Abbey as a forward staging area for a second offensive."

"We don't have the Abbey, Sir.  What will General Zavallin do when he learns we are yet to secure this place," Puscha asked.

"Good fortunate smiles on us.  The General remains ignorant of our situation.  The runner died of injuries he received while fighting a rebel patrol, though he did deliver his message.  We have a few days since the General is expected to arrive after the new moon.  I intend meeting him inside that Abbey, or your lifetime appointment as Chief Engineer will end the moment he arrives."

Brigadier Shawarran pointed to the door, his message clear.  Puscha hustled to the former Chief Engineer's office, hoping something within his notes might help her.  She continued pushing the papers about, searching for inspiration, when she sensed the presence of another soldier.  She recognized the old sergeant who leaned against the open door as a trusted confidant, and a good friend.

"I thought I would give you a little info you might need.  Last night's convoy lost a quarter of their cargo to rebel raiders and half of what remained spoiled on the way here.  What little food we got, didn't include meat."

Puscha ceased her search.  "I have no time for riddles.  I'm quite busy, so if you have something to say, say it."

"Fine, no riddles.  I'll tell you plain, but I'll deny it if any ask.  Nobody deserted and no rebel raider came within a day's march of this camp last night.  Those hides aren't goats, but what's left of Captain Murdock and that runner.  The only way you'll see either is at the bottom of a soup bowl."

The old warrior left her quarters.  When the door slammed, it had the finality of a coffin lid nailed shut.  She knew her fate if she failed.  She grabbed what gear she could and rushed to an observation point close to the Abbey.  Her paw slashed across the chalkboard as she compared the old numbers to her current readings.  An hour later, she had a plan.

By evening, she had all preparations completed.  Now she awaited the arrival of the Brigadier.  Puscha paced the area as she mentally reviewed her plan.  It had to work; her life depended on it.  She expected Brigadier Shawarran, and still his voice made her jump.

"Well, Puscha, has my new Chief Engineer devised a way of breaching those walls?"

The wolf's voice didn't fool her.  It sounded like a friend asking a simple question, but a wrong answer might turn as deadly as an adder's bite.  She gave another involuntary shudder as she recalled the source of the two hides outside his quarters.

"After examining the debris within the pit and taking some exhaustive measurements, I believe that wall has exceeded its stress factor."

"Spare me the engineering blather.  When can I invade?"

Puscha pointed to the right and requested the Brigadier accompany her.  Five catapults stood almost twice his height and the length of each extended back more than ten paces.  The arm of every catapult had been cranked all the way down and a heavy rock sat in the bucket awaiting its release.  The wolf conducted a silent inspection of the weapons.  His paw ran along the logs as he checked each machine.  Brigadier Shawarran fingered the lanyard, but did not tug it.  He scratched his muzzle.

"Your predecessor believed such machines impractical.  He called the walls too solid for catapults of this size.  What makes you think this will succeed?"

"As I tried to tell you earlier, the longitudinal stress bearing points have been compromised after the steam escaped, leaving the lateral points in an unstable condition.  If we apply sufficient force, there is no possibility of the wall surviving continual abuse."

A loud snarl silenced her and the Horde soldiers who stood a short distance away.  "I will not tell you again, cease your prattle.  Will those machines destroy that wall?"

"Yes, Brigadier."  She sensed his doubt.  Puscha gestured towards the nearest one.  "Would you do the honor of initiating the bombardment?"

The wolf seized the first lanyard and gave a hard yank.  His eyes followed the stone's trajectory.  A loud crash sounded.  He moved to each machine, released the stone, and watched it sail into the wall.  After the last stone hit its target, the wall remained standing.

The Brigadier snatched his golden sword.  In one fluid motion, he unsheathed the blade and advanced on her.  Puscha backpedaled, but an unseen rock tripped her.  The blade hovered above her muzzle; its point dancing within inches of her eyes.  Sunlight glistened off the red pommel stone like a malevolent eye, which had her thinking the weapon a living creature waiting to feed on her life's blood.

"That wall still stands, fox," the wolf snarled.

"Our bombardment has just begun, Brigadier."  A furious wave of her paw got the catapult crews moving forward.  "We will commence a non-stop barrage throughout the night.  I'm sure that section cannot withstand such abuse for long.  It must topple before morning."

Like some demonic hummingbird, the blade moved.  She never had a chance to react.  The blade's point nicked her, cutting her muzzle.  The deep incision ran from the center of her muzzle to the tip of her nose.  Blood dropped onto her blouse, but she kept her paws away from the injury.

The wolf gave the sword a rapid twirl before he sheathed it.  "A dozen gold coins to the crew that fires the shot that brings that cursed wall down."

After he left, she sought out the camp's healer.  The old sea rat medic removed all the fur on that side of her muzzle, stitched up the injury, and pronounced her fit for duty.  The medic assured her that once her fur grew back, none would notice the scar.  Puscha refused any bandage since it would just give the insects in her fur a secure hiding place.

As expected, the Brigadier showed up just as the sun rose.  This time, he did not catch her unawares.  She didn't like the wolf's expression, it portended ill news.  Her initial suspicion proved accurate.

"Scouts observed campfires to the west of us, perhaps half a day's march.  I fear your time as our Chief Engineer might come to a tragic end."

A thunderous roar came from the Abbey.  The solid wall morphed into a pile of rubble no higher than a third of the neighboring wall sections.  The tower on the left imploded, leaving a half-moon shaped wall atop the outer battlement.  The other tower remained intact, but leaned over the rubble at a forty-five degree angle.  A second later, another rumble preceded the collapse of that tower.  The debris might offer a challenge to scale, but it couldn't prevent their entry.  She succeeded.  They had a way into Redwall Abbey.


Brigadier Shawarran reached into his pocket, removing a heavy bag of coins.  He tossed it short of one gun crew.  When the silver coins fell out, every enlisted soldiers scrambled for the money.  Some drew knives, determined to claim as much silver as possible.  He didn't care if they killed each other, he had his way into that accursed fortress.

The defenders couldn't come out, not without exposing themselves to his army.  Even a thousand builders with a full season to work could not repair the damage.  He took his time returning since he wanted to savor his victory.  Halfway back to the camp, his second-in-command raced towards him.  Colonel Nateem did not stop until he stood next to him. 

"Brigadier, when I heard that loud rumble, I ordered every officer into formation by your hut.  They should be assembled there within the next ten minutes.  I had our slaves and wounded withdrawn to our rally point awaiting the final outcome of the pending battle.  We can have all the camp gear moved inside that fortress as soon as it's secured.  So tell me, Brigadier, do we now have a clear path over that bloody wall?"

"Let me put it this way, my friend.  Come tonight, we shall feast on the larders of that Abbey and can await the arrival of General Zavallin."

Colonel Nateem rubbed his paws together.  "After all this time, we have the advantage.  Do you have any special orders I should relay to our troops?"

Brigadier Shawarran continued walking at a casual pace back to the camp while Colonel Nateem followed a step behind him.  "I intend announcing that the black flag has been raised over that Abbey."

"You intend exterminating every resident?  What justifies such an extreme measure?" 

"We cannot allow any survivors since I intend rewriting the history of this prolonged siege.  The official account will have this place falling within a single day and its gallant inhabitants fighting to the very last brave beast.  Our forces shall suffer nominal losses during the battle.  If anyone escapes, so will the truth.  Any future insurgents will use this resistance as a rallying point and others will attempt the same thing.  Best we crush the hopes of our enemies by highlighting the folly of those who opposed us."

When Brigadier Shawarran reached the camp, he climbed up the steps to his hut.  From there, every officer could see and hear him.  It did not take him long to issue his orders.  No sooner had he dismissed them than a series of trumpets sounded assembly.  Within the hour, he assumed his place at the forefront.

Nateem followed him as they moved to their final assault assembly point.  Brigadier Shawarran drew the golden sword he took when this battle first started some five months earlier.  Sunlight reflected off the red gemstone within the pommel, as if it expected the upcoming battle.  He anticipated the sweet taste of victory and looked forward to the inevitable slaughter of his enemy. 

Best of all, instead of a supporting role in the conquest of the Northern Alliance, he now held the key to eventual victory.  The general dare not deny him a rich share of the spoils.  Henceforth, he would be known as the Prince of Rewall, absolute ruler of Mossflower Forest.  With luck, or an assassin's gentle touch, he might even secure a more prominent leadership role once the war ended.

He held the Sword of Martin high.  A single trumpet note sounded and he ordered the first unit forward.  Those soldiers charged across the open field and scrambled up the pile of rubble.  They were about to cross the point that separated the inside and outside when Shawarran ordered the next two units forward.

"Unleash the demons of war and let a river of blood flow across the land.  Victory will be ours and the vanquished shall become fodder for the worms." 

"We shall wait here a moment," said Brigadier Shawarran.  "There are Long Patrol hares stationed within that fortress; I'm sure they number no more than thirty or forty.  Two hundred hardy warriors should handle them with ease.  Once our vanguard commander reports they have secured the breach, we can move in and eradicate this blight to our honor."

His command remained in formation, just inside the surrounding forest.  A quick check revealed a sea of eager faces.  Everyone knew this battle would be to the finish, no quarters asked and none given.  Once his soldiers eliminated the Long Patrol, even a gaggle of raw recruits could take this place.

A voice called out to him by name and rank.  Such a breach in military discipline bothered him and he searched for the offending soldier.  Movement to the right identified the shouter.  It wasn't one of his, but a messenger wearing the insignia of General Zavallin's command.  The ferret rushed up to him and without prompting, delivered his message.

"Sir, two Alliance divisions are moving towards us from the northeast.  Our scouts confirmed one division wears the uniform of the Long Patrol.  They should arrive here within five or six hours.  General Zavallin intends to intercept this force in a frontal assault.

"The closer division numbers between twenty-five hundred and three thousand woodlanders wearing the uniform of the Northern Alliance's regular army.  They should arrive here within the next hour.  Your orders are to use all available forces against this unit and then hit the Long Patrol's southern flank."

All of my units?  Such an order would leave the fortress unwatched.  Somebody might escape, or attempt a counterattack.  Worse, it would give General Zavallin a chance to claim credit for capturing Redwall.  He knew the General's egotistical mind would steal the glory of the conquest if he didn't have absolute control when he arrived.

Five months of fighting would be ignored.  His ambitions would die with these defenders if General Zavallin declared the victory as his.  Shawarran couldn't allow such an outcome.  He lunged.  The Sword of Martin caught the messenger unawares. 

As the messenger's body crumbled, another soldier approached him.  Like the unfortunate messenger, he too showed signs of exhaustion.  Brigadier Shawarran recognized the winded runner's unit patch as one of his and relaxed.  He should be with a squad assigned to perform a sweep of their western flank.  He feared this soldier's presence signaled more troubles.

"Brigadier," said the winded soldier, "the insurgents have united.  They ambushed us and are moving on the Abbey."

"Troubles do seem to come in threes," Shawarran said.  He stood in place, considering his options.  "Sound recall.  I'll decide what to do once I know what forces remain in that Abbey."

A trumpet played retreat.  Soldiers climbed over the rubble between them and the Abbey as they withdrew.  Two hundred veteran soldiers entered the fortress.  By his count, less than twelve crossed the field and most needed the support of their comrades.  Every soldier sat when they reached the forest edge, too tired to remain standing.  An armored rat displaying the rank insignia of a corporal approached him.

"Sir, we secured the breach just as recall sounded.  Our losses were heavy, but not one hare stands.  We can enter the place unopposed."

Success.  Brigadier Shawarran knew his victory assured over these defenders.  The intervention of two divisions from the Northern Alliance and the rebels might delay his celebration, but did not stop it.  Still, he couldn't ignore such a powerful enemy force, and the body of the general's messenger posed an additional problem.  He considered his options.

"Who's the highest ranking officer below Colonel Nateem," he shouted.  A stoat halfway back raised his paw.  "Congratulations, your new rank is colonel.  Leave two units behind and do as General Zavallin ordered.  I want one unit to intercept those rebels and the other with me."  He pointed at the injured soldiers.  "Carry the body of the messenger and dump it inside the Abbey.  We will eliminate these defenders and join you before you hit the Long Patrol's flank."

A hundred soldiers joined the remnants of the vanguard as they advanced on the Abbey.  Brigadier Shawarran kept a dignified pace as he led his soldiers on the final assault.  No defender stood on the neighboring walls, and no organized resistance met his soldiers as they advanced on the Abbey.  The debris offered no hindrance to his force.

At the top of the mound, he surveyed the battlefield.  He counted thirty bodies wearing the uniform of the Long Patrol.  It didn't seem possible.  Outnumbered better than six to one and they almost prevailed.  His victory came at a high price, but the ultimate prize awaited him.  The sight of the messenger's body rolling to the bottom of the hill broke his moment of reflection.

Something moved near the bushes.  An otter stood there for a second too long.  In that time, Shawarran grabbed a discarded spear and hurled it.  Years of training paid off as the weapon found its target.  It hit the otter with such power that it drove him backwards until he met a tree.  The otter slid down, sat there for a second and tumbled onto his side.  He dismissed the dead otter from his mind.

He drew his sword and used it as a pointer.  "Colonel Nateem, take ten soldiers and secure that tower.  I'll take the rest and sweep the area from here to you.  Once we unite, our backs will be secured.  We can move on the main building without fearing any counterattack from our rear."  He pointed to the armored rat and two members of the original assault force.  "Let nobody out of this Abbey."

Brigadier Shawarran had his soldiers form a staggered line along the inner Abbey wall.  Everything remained quiet for the first hundred meters until a stone pinged off the steel helm of one soldier.  Everyone searched for the unseen defender. 

Atop the battlement stood three moles armed with slings.  He dispatched half his force to dispose of them.  One soldier never made it to the wall.  The others overpowered the three moles and held them.  They lifted the first one and tossed him over the side to the stone walkway.  The remaining two moles struggled to no avail.  The soldiers repeated the process with the second mole.  The soldiers lifted the last mole and toyed with her for a few moments.  When they tired of their sport, they hurled the last defender off the wall.  Her frightened scream ended when she hit the ground.

The soldiers returned to him, laughing about those just killed.  The last soldier hesitated, checked the bodies, and stabbed each before joining his companions.  The infantry formed a skirmish line and proceeded along the inner wall until he saw a doorway. 

"I want ten soldiers checking the wall's interior for any residents," he said.  "Everyone else, advance on that tower by squads.  Leave nothing behind us alive."

Shawarran's mind experienced an unexpected blackness.  When it cleared, he sat at an unoccupied table made of rough-hewed timbers within an empty room.  The walls felt too close, making the place claustrophobic.  An old vixen materialized out of nothingness; she sat at the table opposite him.  Though her eyes stared in his direction, they remained unfocused.  His nose detected the pungent aroma of some powerful burning incense.

He recognized the vixen.  He knew her as Melody the Miserable, a witch with the power of prophecy he visited seven years ago.  His mind rebelled at this vision, but he could not stop it.  Her voice commanded his attention.  It held the same melodious sound that made even the most reluctant listen.

"You shall hold the key to your own survival.  One day you shall face a demon guarding a small treasure that is beyond worth and cannot be carried within your purse.  Challenge the demon and your life shall end because of trash.  Retreat and you shall view waters never-ending once more."

His mind cleared and the vision faded.  The return to reality disoriented him as he went from a darkened room to an airy orchard.  Where were the other soldiers?  Brigadier Shawarran detected sounds of combat.  No doubt another squad found a few residents willing to fight.  The thought of his unit massacring the hapless inhabitants while he stood idle spurred him forward.  He didn't want to miss the fun.

Just as he passed the last tree, somebody screamed.  His happy mood vanished like smoke on a windy day as he approached the battlefield.  The lifeless body of a wildcat flew past him.  A tall creature rushed a fallen ermine.  The female defender grabbed the soldier's head and gave a mighty twist, snapping the neck with an audible crack he detected from ten paces.  No other soldier stood.

The defender turned and advanced towards him.  In coloration, the female matched his grey pelt, but there the similarity ended.  The Brigadier stared at the face of his opponent and cringed.  Four long horrific scars coursed down the side of her head giving her the appearance of a monster that escaped from one of his most hideous nightmares.

Her reddish eyes pinned him to the spot. He did nothing as the defender moved between him and a root cellar door.  She crouched low, keeping her head up and glared at him through a pair of goggles that covered her eyes and highlighted the slant of her deformed muzzle.  As she rose to her full height, he noticed her two short swords.  The demon slashed the air before her in an intricate pattern that almost mesmerized him.  Then her gravelly voice growled out its warning.

"Retreat, wolf.  I guard a treasure none may have.  My name is Tassel, and though it may sound inoffensive and weak, seven of your soldiers have journeyed to Hellsgate because of me.  Care to make it eight?"

"What manner of devil are you and why guard something we will have once you're gone?  Since you wish to trade names, then know you face Brigadier Shawarran, commander of the army that has battered down your walls and will this day, become the very embodiment of death.  Before the next moment passes, you will be counted among those souls entering eternity while your body rots as feed for buzzards and maggots." 

He took a defensive stand while he held the Sword of Martin.  Shawarran went through some training exercises of his own.  The demon hesitated in her display of swordsmanship, which did not escape his sharp eyes.  Her expression turned into a grimace that almost sickened him.  He detected the scent of fear despite the confidence she portrayed. 

"Your threats mean nothing to me, wolf.  My fate is already sealed and the dead can be far more formidable than the living.  Don't believe me?  Challenge me if you dare."

The Brigadier made a tentative approach.  He crossed blades with the unknown defender.  Metal clanged off metal and for a few seconds, he became lost in a ballet of flashing blades.  He dodged a high sweep aimed at his eyes while he deftly parried a low slash directed at his groin.  He returned the favor with his own adroit counterattack, which almost severed the demon's kneecap.

He stepped back three paces to assess the situation and size up his opponent.  His first impression had the demon whole and hardy, but no fighter escapes injury while engaging seven seasoned warriors.  The female retreated to the root cellar door.  This lull gave him time for a closer visual examination.

The female stood as tall as him.  When it came to strength, she had the advantage.  She demonstrated her power when she pushed him several paces back the one time they came into physical contact.  Each time he blocked her blade, he felt the blow travel up his arm.  His adversary also proved quite agile as she dodged his many thrusts between her double-bladed defensive stances. 

However, this demon suffered injuries.  Her brown dress had a spray of red spots.  He remembered how his blade ripped her garment in several places.  Her fingerless gloves smelled of blood, both hers and that of her earlier challengers.  Those prior battles had taken a toll of her energy.  She might be strong, but he knew her endurance had its limits. 

Shawarran approached her, ready for their duel.  Though aware the fight might be a long one, he felt certain of the outcome.  That realization had him give a joyful bark just as he made his next move.  The demon answered with a fearsome snarl and once again, the sound of metal meeting metal resounded.  Shawarran raised the Sword of Martin high over his head with both paws and using the momentum of his swing, attempted to split his opponent in half.  She jumped backwards.  Her spine slammed into the wooden door.  With crossed blades held high, she deflected his sword.

Brigadier Shawarran retreated, shaking the dirt from his weapon.  When he gazed at the demon, he knew the fight had ended in his favor.  She held two shattered blades, which left her defenseless.  The female's startled expression when she gazed down at her weapons had him give a maniacal laugh as he lunged forward.

The Sword of Martin pierced the demon's breast and bit deep into the wood behind her.  She screamed in pain, overwhelming his laughter.  Her blood-red eyes took on an intensity he mistook as the agony of defeat and he remained muzzle to muzzle with the hideous looking beast, savoring his victory.

A second later, Shawarran experienced a lancing pain as he felt himself lifted by some unknown force.  One mighty shove sent him flying backward, landing on his rump several paces from the defender.  How could this apparition survive?  She leaned forward, freeing the blade stuck in the door.  She staggered a step forward before she too landed on her backside, the sword's hilt protruding from her chest.

Shawarran coughed and blood flowed out of his mouth, staining his muzzle a bright crimson color.  He found the source of the searing pain he felt.  While his body had been pressed against the demon, she rammed the metal shards into his chest. 

He didn't need a healer.  He knew one of those broken blades punctured his diaphragm.  He tasted the blood filling his lungs each time he coughed.  Just when he defeated his adversary, she survived long enough to kill him first.  The full realization hit him with the force of a mighty hammer.  He forgot the prophecy and doomed himself.

"Female, I must know what treasure you guard so vigorously before death claims me."

"I told you before," panted the female.  "I guard a treasure beyond measure.  Ever since I was given the title of Badgermom, my sole duty has been the protection of those dibbuns placed in my care.  Within that cellar are a dozen toddlers and babes belonging to our defenders.  I swore they would see another day if I guarded them from harm.  I will keep that promise."

Brigadier Shawarran laughed between racking coughs.  He held up one of the shards that pierced his chest.  His voice no longer had the power it did, but he hoped it loud enough for her.  He did not care if his last words sounded cryptic.

"The witch was right.  Such a treasure cannot be placed into a purse."  With a supreme effort, he stood.  His legs buckled when he took his first step.  He fell to his knees.  The broken swords fell from his paw.  "And it seems this trash shall be . . . the death . . . of me."

He crawled towards the demon.  Each breath tortured his lungs as he struggled for the next.  His body shuddered and a pool of blood darkened the grass.  When Shawarran collapsed, darkness settled over him for the final time.

"Be reasonable, Chitter.  The only time I held a weapon in one paw was when I had a whetstone in the other.  My ineptness would make me no more useful than Avbron with his crippled paw."

Chitter's expression showed disappointment that she would not stand and fight by his side in the upcoming battle.  Wobbles believed that sense of disappointment warred with a strong desire that she remain safe.  A lifetime of separation didn't help since his mind envisioned her as an ideal mother. 

She wondered if her refusal might shatter the image he constructed.  They talked long into the night while they traveled, but sometimes the connection felt forced.  Wobbles wanted to be part of his life, but not if that included the role of warrior. 

"I can respect that, mother.  As much as I would like having you at my side, I will feel a lot better knowing you're safe back here.  Wish me good hunting and I'll see you later."

The rebel leader walked off while Wobbles tried reconciling her warring emotions.  For twenty years she thought her son safe, serving some unknown master as an honorable slave in a distant land.  Less than a week earlier, Wobbles discovered the rebel she knew as Angry Squirrel was her son.  She tried being both mother and friend, but did not know if she succeeded at either role.

Clustered in the glade, over a hundred rebels of every species still slept.  They included the old and those with injuries that kept them from joining their fighting comrades.  Nobody questioned their loyalty or their dedication.  So why did Chitter question hers?

A few paces beyond the sleepers more than four hundred fighters discussed the upcoming battle.  Some appeared new to the battlefield, like the hedgehog, Firelog.  The rest possessed the confident swagger of a seasoned warrior.  The more vocal recounted the battle waged against a supply convoy late last night.  Wobbles found it comforting that these rebels acted just like Horde soldiers; they exaggerated their exploits.  Each retelling had the enemy's losses increase geometrically. 

Wobbles found this as incredulous here as she did with the Horde.  How did they equate a war with a grand adventure?  She knew better than most the horrors of personal combat at close quarters.  The aftermath of such encounters caused nightmares since both victor and vanquished suffered grievous injuries.  That realization had her seeking the one whose counsel she believed Chitter would honor.

"My lord Bruno, may I speak with you in private?"

The badger patted the log where he sat, inviting her closer to him and the fire that pushed back the early morning's darkness.  The badger's paws work of their own volition, cleaning the broadsword lying across his knees.  Its polished surface reflected the reddish flames, reminding her of the blood that would be spilled this day.  Wobbles kept her muzzle down while her mind considered several ways of broaching the topic, but none seemed quite right.

"I take it Chitter asked you to join our merry band of freedom fighters," asked Bruno.  Her nod spurred him to speak.  "His mind is at war with itself, Wobbles.  He cannot comprehend any slave refusing a chance at avenging their captivity, so he expected you to grab the nearest weapon and charge into the fray.  I told him you were not ready to fight soldiers you served less than a week ago and that you needed more time.  Chitter's having trouble accepting that fact."

"He said he understood, Bruno."  She risked a peek at the old badger, wondering if he too disapproved of her decision.  "Does my son want me because I am his mother or just another liberated slave he can parade about this camp like some prize he caught?  I'm so confused."

Bruno reached around and drew her against his chest in a strong, fatherly embrace.  His genial smile and twinkling eyes showed how much he enjoyed sharing this confidence.  Wobbles feared the boar might resent her usurping his place as one of Chitter's adoptive parents.  She discovered he supported her efforts to fulfill her role as mother.

"Promise me something, Bruno.  Keep my son safe.  I gave him up twenty years ago for his own good.  Now that I have him back, I cannot imagine life without him, or the two elders that took such good care of him."

The badger leaned over and kissed Wobbles on her head.  "It seems the Eternals have blessed those who stand by me in battle.  None has ever come to harm while I am there.  I promise you, Chitter will never be more than a single pace from my side."

A sharp whistle from the sentry brought an abrupt end to their conversation.  It also alerted the resting fighters that the scout had returned.  Each rebel warrior drew closer to the approaching runner.  Bruno stood and joined the growing crowd, leaving her still sitting on the log, staring into the flames.  Curiosity drew Wobbles into their mists.

The scout's eyewitness observation that the walls of the Abbey still stood raised the spirits of those gathered in the glade.  It gave even the most pessimistic fighter hope their efforts might provide the margin of victory.  It seemed providential that the Horde had not prepared any defenses along their southern flank, which further renewed their confidence.

Once the scout fell silent, Chitter issued his orders.  In a matter of moments, the ragged collection of individuals formed cohesive units around their trusted squad leaders.  Each grabbed weapons and backpacks from their former resting places as they awaited their final instructions.  Bruno strolled through the throng, giving a friend a word of greeting or some unknown fighter a confident pat on the back.  By the time he reached Chitter's side, all stood eager for the upcoming battle.

Those who had been sleeping less than ten minutes ago, gathered along the edge of camp.  Wobbles joined the other noncombatants as they watched friends going off to war.  She too cheered the woodlanders onward, wishing them a speedy victory.  At the same time, she cried for all who were going into danger.  Wobbles studied the faces that passed.  She too wondered how many of the warriors departing before the sun rose would watch it set.  How many friends would never return?  All she could do was stay in the glen, beseeching the Eternals for a successful mission and the return of a loved one.


Chitter crawled through the grass as he led two dozen woodlanders up the side of a low hill.  His tail shot straight up and all drew their weapons.  Tension mounted as Chitter continued to slither forward until he could peek over the crest.  The scout's report about the approach of an enemy unit proved accurate in every detail.

A contingent of some thirty Horde soldiers approached their position.  Instead of having weapons at the ready, they remained sheathed.  These soldiers strolled up the hill as if they anticipated nothing more than a pleasant hike through the countryside.  The two on point conversed rather than observe their surroundings. 

He waited until they drew nearer.  When he figured even an incompetent scout would notice him, he dropped his tail.  Chitter rose just as the vanguard of his unit crested the hill.  A quick glance behind him confirmed his order that a squad circle the hill.  His focus returned to the battle before him.  Most of the soldiers died before they unsheathed their weapons.  The battle ended before he needed to commit his reserves.

"Did we get them all," Chitter shouted from the bottom of the hill.  He cleaned his sword on the uniform of some hapless Horde soldier as he did a fast count of his force.  None died in this skirmish.

"Looks like we missed three of 'em," shouted a shrew.  "They're retreating at a full gallop an' I don't think we can catch 'em." 

Weapons and armor were stripped from the dead Horde soldiers and distributed to anyone wanting it.  It might not be proper, but burial had to be left for later.  Time was as much an enemy as these soldiers.  They had to stop the Horde from breaching the Abbey's walls.

Chitter considered this battle a double-edged sword.  They won without suffering any casualties, but they lost the element of surprise.  The soldiers that escaped would alert the enemy camp.  He anticipated a counterattack, and in force.  They abandoned the twisting lowland route they followed.  They advanced, double-time, in a straight line.  No sense hiding when your enemy knows where you are and your intended destination.

It sounded like the deep rumbling of a thunderstorm, but the sun shone through a cloudy sky.  Chitter scanned the horizon, wondering from whence the storm approached.  Then several rebels pointed off to the north.  A huge column of brownish smoke rose above the trees.  Nobody had to ask; all knew the Abbey wall had collapsed. 

An hour passed before the woodlanders came within sight of their destination.  Just as the outer walls took on detail, the sound of a trumpet blared.  Chitter recognized the tune.  The Horde were about to commence their attack.  Every woodlander increased their pace, knowing the next notes they heard might herald the Horde's victory and the destruction of Redwall Abbey. 

The insurgents closed the distance by half when the Horde trumpet played another series of notes.  Once again Chitter knew the tune.  However, the newest signal didn't make sense to him.  Those rebel fighters who knew the different signals the enemy used hesitated.  One unknown fighter voiced his confusion.

"That's the order to withdraw.  Is it possible the defenders forced them to retreat?"

They didn't have the time to ponder the question.  Chitter pointed to a stand of trees from which a squad of Horde soldiers emerged.  Though his force outnumbered the charging enemy better than five to one, the Horde never hesitated in their attack.  Both sides met and the numerically superior woodlanders swept their opposition away after a brief, but bloody, exchange.

With the outer wall of Redwall Abbey on their right, the woodlanders made for the breach, hoping they could plug it.  They rounded a corner, alert for any counterattack.  Despite his vigilance, Chitter's force collided head-on with an enemy squad.

Both sides charged and those carrying spears launched them.  Shafts filled the air like angry bees, their stingers aimed at those who dared challenge them in combat.  Chittter raised his shield against this deadly onslaught. 

Three shafts thundered into the shield held by Bruno.  A fourth shaft slipped past the badger's defense, piercing his chest.  Chitter had no time to mourn the death of Pa Badger.  The enemy approached.

Soldiers dropped broken shields as the two sides clashed.  Screams from the injured and dying vied with the sound of several drums and a lone trumpet.  The smell of blood and the stench of death hung heavy on the air as the combatants hacked at each other.  Chitter wanted the soldier that killed the one he called father, but the battlefield turned into a melee.  Anyone wearing the uniform of a Horde soldier attracted the attention of every woodlander while those without such markings became targets for the Horde fighters.

A trumpet sounded and the Horde army disengaged.  They retreated a short distance, than formed a line anchored halfway between the rubble and the woodlanders.  None of the soldiers advanced.  Chitter wondered why such a well trained and disciplined force allowed them such a respite. 

He didn't hesitate.  Chitter led his force into the enemy's formation.  This time the Horde unit refused to yield.  He ordered the rebels back for a short rest as he assessed the situation.  He unleashed a string of vile curses directed at his own stupidity.  While all his fighters concentrated on breaking the living wall standing before them, he overlooked the soldiers moving in behind him.  A second living wall stood at his rear and even as he considered his next move, the two Horde forces moved to join ranks.

The armored Horde soldiers remained in line, pikes pointing inward.  More soldiers joined the long picket adding their spears and shields to the surrounding maneuver.  Behind the armored line, three soldiers played a long drum roll.  Each time the drums stopped with a sudden loud crash, one Horde soldier standing at either end of the line withdrew and the circle tightened.

"If we don't break out of this pocket, eventually we will be skewered on their spears."

Chitter tried timing his attacks with each ending drum roll, but the wall of pikes remained impenetrable.  Several fighters unlimbered slings and loosened a barrage of stones on one section.  More than a hundred rounds struck the helmeted infantry, only one died, and the wall remained unbroken. 

One agile otter tried dodging the shafts and came close enough that her dagger sent several of the Horde rats to their ancestors.  Around her, the line buckled and the otter found herself behind the constricting formation.  Whatever victory she achieved ended when a dozen seasoned warriors descended on her.  A high pitched squeal announced the death of the otter as the drum cadence continued.  As the drums quieted once more, the weasel commanding the line heaved the severed head of the slain otter into the center of the trapped woodlanders.

Without warning a line of chariots rumbled forward from the forest, their ponies at full gallop.  The weasel commander didn't react to this new threat fast enough.  The ponies charged into the armored line.  Hooves, wheels and spinning blades tore into the Horde force, killing many.  As the war chariots turned around, they came to a brief halt and thirty fighters wearing the uniform of the Northern Alliance's regular army leaped to the ground.  A doe hare raised her war club and pointed at the decimated line.  All heard her one-word war cry, "Unity," and it was echoed by those following her.

A trumpet blared as the weasel attempted to reorganize his unit.  Already the side closest to the breach had fallen.  Chitter ordered the rebels to the base of the debris.  While there was a short lull in the fighting, the hare leader asked who commanded the woodlander force.  Several pointed to Chitter and the doe made her way to his side.

"The name's Sergeant Sandythorn, Commander of the First Charioteers, and attached to the Northern Alliance's Unity Division.  What say we show these vermin what real warriors can do?"

"If this is everyone," Chitter shouted, "we're not going to be much help to Redwall."

"Don't know if our timing was good or bad.  The Unity Division faces a numerically superior enemy force as we advance on the Abbey.  And that's just the vanguard to another that is attacking the High Kickin' Sixth, a Long Patrol Division about three hours north of us.  My orders were to do whatever is necessary to safeguard the Abbey until the others relieve us.  Trouble is, this is every soldier I could spare.  The rest are needed to man our chariots."

"What about those chariots?  Any chance we can have them stick around," asked Chitter

Sandythorn's silence provided his answer even as the aforementioned chariots retreated.  "Once my unit arrived here, they have to withdraw.  The drivers are following my direct orders to protect Captain Serenity's southern flank.  We're on our own until that fight is finished."

Neither side seemed willing to further engage the other, so everyone fell back to the pile of rubble.  Another fifteen minutes passed while both forces stood their ground.  A distant trumpet blew, signaling an advance.  On the other side of the broken Abbey wall, five hundred Horde soldiers appeared. 

Before Sergeant Sandythorn could react, a wall of spears again surrounded them.  She ordered three archers up the rubble, hoping to snipe at their enemy from high ground.  If she could use their cover fire for an orderly retreat, she might gain the time her forces needed to regroup.  A flight of arrows darkened the sky and both that plan and those climbing the rocks came to a sudden and disastrous end.

"That's just great."  Sandythorn shouted.  "Unless I'm mistaken, those soldiers are carrying battle standards belonging to some ermine General named Zavallin.  What the bloody blazes are they doing here?  Our intelligence had them halfway to Ferretville."

Once again, the circle of Horde warriors constricted.  The drums boomed and the wall grew thicker as those pulled off the ends reinforced those in the middle.  Three times they tried breaking out, but each attempt ended in failure.  Sergeant Sandythorn's last effort managed to kill over a dozen of the Horde infantry, but their formation remained intact.  The line was getting so close that the trapped rebels and their allies had a choice of dying on the pikes or chancing the feathered shafts if they tried climbing.

A series of trumpets sounded a furious chorus, drowning out the sound of the drums.  The notes continued at a rapid pace and then the unimaginable happened.  The line of Horde soldiers fell back in an orderly manner.  Sandythorn stared in wide-eyed disbelief.  Survivors stood agape at the base of the broken wall.  The Horde retreated across the open field and faded into the forest south of the Abbey.  They could have exterminated all of them in one charge, but didn't.

The rebel force milled about in stunned silence.  Chitter tried to comprehend what just happened.  A series of bugles played a stirring song that every woodlander recognized, the Battle Hymn of the Long Patrol.  The Northern Alliance soldiers let out a loud cheer, turned to each other, and celebrated.  A few turned to whichever woodlander stood next to them and either embraced or started a happy jig.  Sandythorn slumped down onto the nearest rock cradling her broken arm as she let out a lusty cheer.

Behind the celebrating woodlanders, came the distinctive sound of paws scrambling over loose stones.  The unexpected noise drew the defender's attention.  Atop the rubble emerged Horde soldiers, their faces etched with fear.  Some hesitated at the top, fingering their weapons while inspecting the armed woodlander contingent standing at the base.  Then one by one, they tossed down their weapons and placed their paws upon their heads. 

Sandythorn pointed at several members of her squad and then at the Horde soldiers.  The designated warriors climbed the rubble and escorted the dejected soldiers down the broken wall where their paws were secured behind their backs.  Chitter assigned rebel fighters as guards and judging by their hard expressions, each of them hoped the surrendering fighters offered some resistance.

The chariots returned, their steeds' exhaustion evident by their frothing mouths and lathered sides.  A squad of uniformed woodlanders assumed a defensive posture ahead of the chariots, watching the woods where the Horde had retreated but a few moments earlier. 

The last chariot drew close to the rubble and all noted the haggard expression of the driver.  As it drew even with them, a female hedgehog pulled hard on the reins.  She leaned over the edge, calling out to the beleaguered defenders.

"The battle's over and we won.  Once we routed the forces facing us, we moved to the north.  No doubt General Zavallin decided it was prudent not to challenge two armies at one time."

Horde soldiers flowed over the rubble of the Abbey's wall like a spring flood.  Though Markus feared the inevitable outcome, he wondered if his death would come before or after his command expired.  There was no time for such musings, several Horde soldiers had their eyes fixated on him and Markus never refused a challenge issued in battle.

"And I called life at Redwall too boring for a true warrior."  General Markus snorted.  "Seems these fellows found something exciting about this place."

The lead rat tried skewering him on his cutlass without success.  Markus knocked his opponent down with a well-placed knee to the soldier's stomach.  A weasel to his left brought down his broadsword and missed him by inches.  Such was the weasel's power that his follow-through cleaved the rat's head in two.  Before the weasel could react, a thrust of Markus's rapier sent him to join his rat companion in eternity.

In one fluid motion Markus withdrew the blade and lunged at his next challenger, whose lifeless eyes clouded over even as the body fell off his blade.  An ermine swung her mace, just missing his paw.  Markus gave a sigh of relief, but cursed the fortunes of battle.  The ermine's mace trapped his rapier against a tree.  When the enemy soldier stepped back, he found his rapier's thin blade resembled a misshapen piece of bent metal.  He discarded the weapon and reached for the dagger he kept sheathed on his belt.

As he dodged a swing at his gut, Markus fell to the ground with a butt-wrenching thud.  The ermine's follow through connected with his right leg.  General Markus rammed the dagger he held into the female's exposed throat.  Blood gushed from the Horde soldier's wound as her lifeless body crumbled to the grass.

Then a glorious sound came to his ears.  A Horde trumpet played the recall order.  By his count, a dozen scrambled across the wall in less than perfect health.  Markus considered a loud cheer or shouting some witty retort at his retreating enemy, but his mind resembled a blank page. 

I commanded forty warriors when they first crossed that rubble.  Am I the lone survivor?

Two paws hooked him under his arms and dragged him behind the thick roses that grew along this section of the wall.  When his unknown rescuer stepped around front, Markus recognized the apprentice healer.

"Niltan, you don't know how bloody-well happy I am seeing you.  Be a good chap and splint this leg as I'm sure our uninvited guests may well want to have another go at joining us for dinner."

The otter youth glared at him before he returned to his duty.  Markus asked a few questions, but the otter ignored him.  Niltan worked hard pushing the protruding bones back into place before he applied a tight bandage.  The otter worked fast, fastening a tourniquet just above the knee that staunched the blood flow.  The healer reached into his satchel and applied a tag around his ankle.  Niltan's voice aged as he delivered his diagnosis.

"Your leg is shattered in several places and since you're not in any apparent pain, there's nerve damage.  That tag puts you at second priority when they get you back to the Infirmary.  It means your injuries are severe, but not life threatening.  For the moment, you're out of the war, General.  Now be a good little bunny and stay quiet while I check the others."

Markus wanted to ream this insolent youth a good one, but that required movement and a clear head.  Since he was in no condition to move, he grumbled his displeasure while Niltan backed out of the bushes.  The otter went from one body to the next, confirming each had died. 

Movement atop the rubble caught his attention.  Another wave of invaders entered the Abbey.  A wolf hefted a spear and threw it at the otter.  He muttered a prayer that Niltan might outrun or dodge the missile, but the otter never moved. 

The shaft flew true and pierced Niltan's body.  The force of the blow drove the otter backwards just in front of the rosebush concealing him.  When Niltan's body struck a tree, he slid down until he sat on an exposed root.  The otter's eyes focused on him and Markus knew the young healer was a dead beast on his last breath.  The otter fingered the shaft of the spear.

"Funny, you'd think a spear through one's heart would hurt.  I don't feel a thing." 

Without any weapon, Markus had to remain hidden.  The wolf lead several soldiers in one direction while a larger contingent crossed the fields for some unknown objective.  He gave a sigh of relief that none found him until the last squad drew near.  One ferret pointed and every beast raced in his direction.  He awaited the death blow, but the Horde infantry passed him.

"Wonder who those blokes are chasing," Markus muttered, "may your luck be a lot better than mine."  With those words, darkness settled over him.


When the trumpet blew retreat, Abbess Robertasin rushed over to the collapsed wall.  She knew the defenders needed help, but they also deserved a personal word of appreciation for their excellent effort at repelling the attackers. 

Her timing couldn't be worse.  A squad of Horde soldiers climbed down the stony rubble as she cleared a grove of trees.  One soldier pointed in her direction; she didn't hesitate.  Without a weapon, her one chance at survival depended on speed.  Robertasin knew every Horde soldier raced after her.

"Alright you bushytailed buffoon, what are you going to do?  Thanks to such a recognizable outfit, I have who knows how many of those fellows screaming for my head."

Never had the Abbess moved so fast.  She jumped up the three entry steps in a single bound.  Her shoulder slammed into the unyielding wood and she lost precious seconds as she fumbled for the handle.  Her sweaty paws yanked the door open. 

Robertasin pushed the doors closed and set the lock in place.  A wooden barrier between her and the Horde protected her.  The Abbess leaned back and panted as she considered her next move.  One blow from a war axe aimed between the double doors shattered the lock.  Even as the flimsy bolt clattered across the stone floor, Robertasin raced up the marble stairs.  She must outdistance her enemy.


Healer Shortspike closed the door to the supply room.  Dysentery had twenty residents bedridden, than the wall collapsed and the Horde attacked.  She anticipated more patients once Niltan returned from the battlefield.  An unexpected noise had her checking the corridor.  A female stoat approached, her axe held at the ready.

"Take that weapon out of here," Shortspike commanded.  "This is an Infirmary and I will not have you disturbing my patients.  Now move your bloody rump before I give it a good, swift kick."

The Horde warrior hesitated.  The moment passed.  With a malevolent grin, the stoat swung her weapon at Shortspike's head.  "I might have missed that Abbess, but I'll enjoy slaughtering everyone else in here."

Shortspike pulled back enough that the axe missed.  The next swing cut her across her chest, which proved more painful than deadly.  The war axe blade embedded itself in the wall.  Without any forethought, Shortspike lunged at her armed opponent, locking her paws around the stoat's wrists. 

The soldier demonstrated her strength by freeing her weapon.  Shortspike maintained her grip.  She grappled with the soldier as they fought for dominance.  A slight twist of the wrist and the soldier dropped the weapon.  Tooth and claw came into play as the stoat tried battering her into submission.  Both toppled into an adjoining room, shattering crockery and upsetting a cart filled with surgical instruments.

The stoat gained the leverage she needed and rammed her armored knee into Shortspike's gut.  The Horde soldier wrenched her wrists free and scrambled for the axe lying just outside the doorway.  She hefted the weapon and aimed the spiked end at the healer, ready to finish their battle. 

Shortspike found a familiar handle and her fingers latched onto the instrument.  She lunged up from the floor and slashed out with the keen blade of a fur shaver as the stoat grabbed her weapon.  A fountain of blood gushed from the stoat's severed throat, her lifeless fingers releasing the axe.  As the blade clattered to the floor, two mice rushed into the room.

"Healer Shortspike, what's going on out here," the first mouse inquired.

Now that the danger had passed, Shortspike searched the floor.  She grabbed several towels and applied them to the stoat's throat.  In seconds, the white cotton turned a rusty red before dripping onto the hardwood flooring.  Shortspike's eyes fixated on the two mice, her mind wondering why they remained rooted to the spot.

"Don't just stand there.  Help me save this patient.  I'll not let this creature's death ruin my oath to do no harm."

One mouse turned to the other while Shortspike worked furiously over the dead stoat.  Together, the two mice grabbed Healer Shortspike and pried her away from the body.  As they dragged her from the room, one mouse whispered into her ear.

"You're the only one with the advanced medical knowledge we need, Shortspike.  Didn't you once tell us to concentrate on those we can save, not the dead?  Its time you took your own advice."

Shortspike stood.  She took a deep calming breath and dislodged the restraining paws of her two assistants.  A quick glance down the corridor showed no other intruder. 

"If an enemy soldier made it this far, we can anticipate heavy casualties.  Let's get the operating rooms ready for surgery."  She took a few steps and halted.  "Put that one's body where we intended to keep the dead, then clean up this mess."


Robertasin didn't have the luxury of time.  She didn't know if one or a hundred pursued her.  She raced down the central corridor and turned towards her office.  As she entered the room, she spotted one soldier running towards her.  Robertasin slammed the door, regretting the fact she never installed a lock.  She retreated behind her desk just as the door crashed open.

"Your head is worth fifty pieces of silver and I intend collecting.  Make it easy on yourself and I'll do it in one clean thrust."   The soldier gave a wicked swing with her blade that cleared much of the material on the desk and at the same time threatened to gut her.  "Then again, slicing you apart piece by piece will be so much more fun.  I lost a lot of friends because of you and this Abbey."

Each time the soldier would thrust or slash at her, she used the width of the intervening desk to dodge the sword's edge.  Frustrated by her evasive maneuvers, the stoat decided to leap over the wooden barrier.  Robertasin removed her habit in one smooth motion and threw it at her attacker. 

It worked.  The habit covered the soldier's head, giving her a chance to circle the desk.  Two options presented themselves.  She could run down an empty corridor and hope to outdistance her armed enemy, or she could fight.  It sat where it hung all these years, her shepherd's crook.  She grabbed the familiar staff and took a defensive stance.

"That flimsy piece of wood won't save you, squirrel.  I've cut through thicker pieces with one blow."

The soldier brought her sword down with all the might she possessed as Robertasin raised her crook in a blocking maneuver.  When the blade struck the shaft, a mighty clang resonated.  A twist of the wrist and the straight end of the shaft shattered the Horde soldier's head.

Robertasin leaned back on her desk panting.  Her tail flopped down, lying across the blotter, scattering the few papers that still remained undisturbed.  She rubbed her left side, which suffered an unpleasant tingling sensation.   The Abbess took several deep breaths as she tried calming herself, hoping none would disturb her while her blurry vision cleared.  She spoke to the corpse as if it were an attentive student.

"I should have warned you, a shepherd's crook has a metal bar hidden inside the shaft, just in case we meet a bandit while watching our flock.  Good to know my father taught me well how to use it.  Never thought I'd use such lessons." 

Confident she would not fall while exiting the room, she hefted her old weapon.  She dragged herself towards the nearest stairway, which led to the Tapestry Room.  On the main level, Lady Sydamo slumped against the far wall.  A male ferret wearing the uniform of a Horde officer held a torch to their greatest treasure, the tapestry of their warrior-founder. 

Rage filled her before a crazy plan came to her.  Abbess Robertasin took three steps back and ran forward.  With a quick leap, she landed on the staircase's wooden banister.  Her cotton britches and the polished wood sped her downward.  Robertasin shot off the lower end and hit the floor halfway to the soldier.   In one fluid motion she tumbled forward, regained her footing, and stood next to the shocked invader.  A simple flick of her wrist and the crook knocked him out cold.

"Last time I did something like that, I was a dibbun too young to know better."  She chuckled at the mental image of such a dignified elder acting like an irresponsible child.  "It's nice knowing I can still do such foolish things, even at my age."

Lady Sydamo must have regained her senses while she relived a childhood indiscretion.  The mouse rushed past her, almost knocking her on her furry fanny.  The mouse's paws beat at the flaming tapestry, her distressful sobs quite audible.  Lady Sydamo did not stop until the last flame flickered out.

"He just ruined the face of Martin the Warrior.  Wherever are we going to find the right color yarn?  It's almost impossible matching skeins made so many years apart.  I know we can repair the suit of armor and his cape, but the facial fur is another matter."

Robertasin gave the blubbering mouse a hard shake.  When she stopped, Lady Sydamo stood in place like a living statue with eyes that wanted to pop out of her head.  Not a word was spoken as the two stood face to face.  Lady Sydamo regained her composure.

"My dear, if you intend saving that tapestry, it's time we fight these Horde invaders," said Robertasin.  "Grab that ferret's spear and find anyone willing to defend our home.  I'll meet you at the front door."

One by one, other residents hiding within the Abbey came forward.  Some held nothing more than a piece of crockery or a broken piece of furniture.  Others found weapons gleaned from the Abbey's depleted armory, or stole those belonging to patients in the infirmary.  Lady Sydamo led the dozen residents down the stairs where Robertasin stood.

"Mother Abbot, this building is secure.  The back entrance is sealed and the windows are locked.  What are your orders?"

She felt an overwhelming sense of pride in this collection of residents.  Not a warrior among them, yet all willing to fight.  Robertasin almost said something about how a locked glass window didn't provide much security against an invading army.  These residents needed a leader, not a critic.

"We go outside and fight as a team.  We have to believe others will join us once the battle starts."

She pulled the door open and marched outside where she gazed upon the devastation that surrounded her.  Smoke and fire rose from the blacksmith's shop as flames roared through the structure.  Outlying buildings burned so hot that some of her motley crew panted from the hot winds.  Many of the other buildings showed signs of fire damage, though a few remained intact.

At least she understood why she encountered just two Horde soldiers within the Abbey.  Strewed about the inner courtyard were the bodies of a dozen invaders, each of them killed by the mighty hammer wielded by their blacksmith, Egress.  She didn't express her appreciation as the dead care nothing for such praise.  She would do that at his funeral  if they prevailed.

Everywhere she looked, Robertasin saw mangled bodies.  Most belonged to the residents of Redwall.  Everyone remained silent, stunned by the carnage.  Robertasin brought the butt end of her muck-covered crook down on the stone.  The thunderous boom caught the attention of every Abbey resident. 

She led the way across the courtyard, preparing to battle an advancing contingent of Horde soldiers.  Each resident hefted their weapon as the two opposing forces closed.  Just as they drew near, the Abbess detected a new sound.  From outside the walls, bugles blared in a cacophony of notes.  As the sound continued growing in intensity, the multitude of cords merged.  One song resonated with perfect clarity, the Battle Hymn of the Long Patrol.  It seemed divine intervention brought their rescuers at their hour of greatest need. 

A battle she feared never happened.  The invaders backed up a dozen paces while they scanned the surrounding area.  The residents formed a line next to her, standing ready, but unwilling to advance.  The bugles confused their enemy while it emboldened those residents hiding in the outer buildings.

Several Horde soldiers dropped to their bellies and placed their paws on their head.  Most discarded their weapons, took a four-paw stance, and raced back the way they came.  One or two reversed their weapons and committed suicide despite her plead for their surrender. 

Robertasin approached the cringing creatures, unsure what she should do.  Each soldier glanced at her, than pressed their foreheads to the ground.  She scanned the uniforms until she found an officer.  The vixen had a stitched scar that ran the length of her shaved muzzle.  When she stopped in front of the officer, the vixen grabbed her ankle.

"Have mercy on us, Mother Abbot.  Please don't take our thumbs."

Robertasin's battle rage faded.  Once again, she resumed her position as Redwall's leader.  She instructed the residents following her to bind the prisoners and waited until all had been secured.  Kneeling down, Robertasin grabbed the muzzle of her helpless adversary.  She stared into her enemy's eyes until certain she had the vixen's undivided attention.

"The battle for Redwall is over.  Whatever fate awaits you shall be decided by the Long Patrol.  May they show more mercy than you intended for us."

Doubt plagued Firelog's mind.  Perhaps that explained why he came along.  He needed to prove something, if not to others, to himself.  The Horde took him without a fight while he slept.  His efforts to form a rebellion never materialized.  When it came to taking an active role against his enemy, he backed down, fearing the consequences.

It took him almost three days to muster the courage to burn down a storage shed and another two days to devise a plan that kept him safe.  It succeeded beyond his expectations by killing all the engineers sleeping next to the shed.  When he learned about the arrival of the Chief Engineer, it took him several days steeling himself for the kill.  He failed when Brigadier Shawarran intercepted him before he acted, and didn't know if that made him happy or sad.

Friendship or fear did not motivate him.  Love drove Firelog to risk all.  He met a hedgehog that made his heart race anytime she gazed his way.  The other slaves whispered about Tergello, calling her lazy and unworthy of him.  He disagreed.  Though he tried keeping it quiet, he failed.  Such love interest became the fodder of gossip among the other slaves.  When he learned Chitter intended to rescue the slaves camped with the Horde, the idea of appearing as her hero, a champion that risked all for her, overwhelmed his common sense.

As the insurgents neared the Abbey, everyone heard the rumble.  Redwall's outer defenses no longer stood.  Chitter revised the battle plan.  The rebels discarded the planned daylight raid designed as a means of denying the Horde its workforce by liberating the slaves.  Their new mission, reinforce the beleaguered Abby defenders.  Firelog's heart turned heavy at the failure of his personal quest.  He hoped this just delayed Tergello's freedom.

He missed the first fight when his unit failed to prevent the escape of several soldiers.  At least now he held a shield as well as the hammer he used as a wheelwright.  The second battle started out on a sour note.  The air filled with spears hurled by both sides.  As the lethal rain came down, Firelog raised the shield he took off a dead warrior earlier that day.  One spear destroyed his shield and the barbed warhead of another nicked his arm.

Firelog discarded the useless shield.  He gripped his heavy hammer and wielded it like a war axe.  The world he knew went from an orderly place to one filled with insanity.  Wherever Firelog turned, he discovered more Horde opponents determined to end his life.  His hammer lashed out, striking arm, chest or armored helm while dodging spear, lance and club.  He didn't know if he killed any or if the soldiers evaded his attack.

Throughout the melee, Firelog kept pushing forward.  Since he couldn't rescue his love, his mind focused on one overwhelming objective.  Join the defenders within the Abbey and protect the place he once knew as home.  Consumed by relentless fury, he charged into the fray.  Somehow he managed to forge a path through the Horde invaders.  Firelog scrambled up the rubble pile, crossed over the crest, and entered the Abbey.

"Hey, you're not supposed to be here.  You should be helping the other slaves packing our gear."

Firelog stood alone before a trained soldier, but his enemy didn't attack him.  No doubt the uniform of a Horde slave saved his life.  Perhaps this rat believed he got separated from the other slaves.  He kept his muzzle pointed down as he approached the armored rat.  When he got as close as he dared, he questioned him using the subservient tone all slaves used when addressing their betters.

"The Taskmaster had me working on another detail when rebels attacked our base.  Can you tell me where I should go?  My sense of direction is quite poor."

The rat placed his paws on his hip and rolled his eyes upward.  "Idiot, don't you ever listen to orders?  All slaves are withdrawing to Rally Point One until the battle is finished.  Get out of hear before I put you on report."

This close to the Horde fighter, Firelog's fur ruffled each time the rat breathed on him.  Without warning, he swung his hammer and caught the fellow just below his pointed ear.  The rat flew off his feet and landed with a thud on the collapsed stones before bouncing down to the grass inside the Abbey.  Firelog rushed down the rubble until he stood next to the soldier.  He raised his hammer for the killing blow.  He couldn't do it.

"No sense killing a soldier who can do no harm.  Be glad I'm not a real warrior, if you're still here after the battle, I'll find a healer."  Firelog scanned the area, unsure what to do next.  He scratched his muzzle for several seconds as he regained his footing.  "The others should be here.  Wonder where they went?  No time to wait; I have to do something.  Most of the defenders must be up by the main building, maybe somebody got separated from the others and needs a helping paw."

Firelog turned left and made for the orchard and root cellars.  It didn't take long locating the carnage of battle.  A glance at the inner wall showed the twisted bodies of three moles, one of whom still held her sling.  Buildings along the wall showed signs of pillaging and everywhere he beheld the brutalized bodies of Redwall's residents.

He passed the outer edge of the orchard, coming upon another battlefield littered with bodies.  This time the dead wore uniforms.  After taking another few steps, Firelog gasped in surprise.  He recognized one of the Horde warriors lying sprawled on the grass as none other than Brigadier Shawarran, leader of the Horde Division besieging Redwall.  Firelog dropped his hammer and knelt by the body.  A gravelly voice startled him.

"That wolf is dead, as are all those other beasties.  I made sure of that."

A glance at the nearest root cellar showed Firelog the speaker sitting on the ground, her back against the door, hidden in the shadows.  Even in a shadow, he did not miss the dried blood that stained her light tan dress.  The female badger's agonized expression might have repulsed those unfamiliar with Tassel's disfigurement, but Firelog saw only the lady he called mother and drew nearer. 

"I don't think I've ever seen you outside the Dormitory without your mask, Mother T."

"Healer Shortspike wanted any spare cloth for bandages.  I turned in my masks last night.  First time without it, and look what happens."  Her laugh turned into a deep cough.

Firelog discovered the source of her pain.  From her breast protruded the hilt of the Sword of Martin.  Like water to someone lost in the desert, he felt himself drawn to the weapon.  That spell broke when he touched the pommel and heard Tassel issue an agonized groan.  He jumped back, but not fast enough.  Tassel snagged his wrist and peered deeply into his eyes.

"I see it in your eyes.  The Sword calls you."  Tassel weakly pressed his paw as he leaned closer to hear her words.  "Prophecy has me dying by the Sword of Martin, but I never told anyone a warrior would appear at our darkest hour, destined to become our Abbey's champion."

He shook his head so hard tears sprayed left and right.  "I'm no warrior, and I'll not kill the one I called mother.  Let some other beast be the one.  Chitter is a warrior and he's just outside these walls.  When he gets here, he can be the one legends remember, not me."

Tassel used both her paws and guided his to the hilt protruding from her breast.  "The Eternals have their reasons, son.  My life is ending, I know that.  But I have one more duty to perform."  For just an instant, Firelog saw the sow's eyes burn with a fierce determination.  "Now, withdraw that blade and rally our forces.  Mark me well, without you, Redwall will cease to exist."

As in a trance, he placed his foot on Tassel's chest and grasped the hilt.  He yanked.  Two tortured screams rend the air and when Firelog's teary eyes cleared, the bloody sword rested in his paw as though it had been forged for him alone.

Firelog moved beyond the root cellar.  He sought out those still fighting the Horde as a brilliant light surrounded him.  Just to his right, another warrior in full armor rushed at him.  That one held the same sword he did.  As the apparition neared, its helm faded, the armor vanished, and Firelog gasped.  He knew that face, it dominated the Great Tapestry.  This was Martin the Warrior.  A strange sensation coursed through his body as the spirit of the legendary mouse warrior merged with him. 

We are one, friend. 



Colonel Nateem found the slaughter to his liking.  He had dispatched a mother and child who begged for mercy with a single swing of his war axe while crossing the field.  An ancient vole tried opposing him with a frying pan and lost both the skillet and his arm with one blow and his head with the next.

Over a dozen residents armed with a collection of diverse weapons challenged five well-armed rats that toyed with their prey.  Though the incompetent residents tried showing a solid front, he detected the heavy scent of fear emanating from many of them.  He recognized the woebegone expressions of a defeated foe and reveled in their despair. 

The only real opposition came from two Long Patrol hares standing before him.  So far, the two bucks managed avoiding his war axe by working as a team.  First one, then the other, lunged at him, but he deflected the spears with his shield.  Nateem grudgingly admired these brave warriors.  Were it not for the nearby Abbey residents, they might have outflanked him.  But the hares challenging him also harassed the rats, hoping to keep the civilians out of harm's way.

Colonel Nateem found the opening he sought.  One hare lunged at a rat, the other hare stepped forward, thrusting his spear at his groin.  His shield blocked the lance, and without his partner's protection, the hare remained exposed.  A quick step forward and a powerful follow-through cleaved the hare's right side as the blade drove through his chest and severed the hare's spine.  He yanked the axe out and aimed it at the second hare's throat.

Time stood still.  No longer did he stand inside Redwall.  He sat at a table made of rough-hewed timbers with walls shrouded in darkness.  An old vixen with eyes that stared not at him, but at something she alone saw sat at the same table.  His nose detected the pungent aroma of some powerful incense burning in an unseen fire.

Even as she spoke, he recognized her as Melody the Miserable.  The vixen witch appeared a lot older than when they first met seven years earlier, yet her voice still held a melodious sound that made even the most reluctant listen.  She had somehow crossed the physical barrier of time and distance.

"Death shall seek you out within a circle of blood.  If you enter such a place, beware the dog burning both inside and out, for his golden blade shall bring defeat when victory is within your grasp."

Time resumed.  For just a second, he felt a bit disoriented, which affected his aim.  The second hare dodged his blade's killing blow, but not fast enough.  Nateem's backswing caught the second hare on his head, severing part of his scalp and one of his long ears.  The hare retreated, trying to clear his eye of the blood running down his face.  A rock tripped him and he dropped his weapon.  For the first time since this duel began, Colonel Nateem detected fear in the hare fighter.  Once the hare died, they could kill the residents without any worries.

A voice screamed a battle cry that chilled his blood.  When Colonel Nateem turned, he saw a russet-colored hedgehog charging down on him.  His reaction came from years of training and that saved him when sword met shield.  Their bodies came together and for the short time that they stood eye to eye, Colonel Nateem recognized the fanatical fire of a battle-crazed warrior.

"The Sword of Martin," shouted one of the residents.  "He holds the Sword of Martin.  An Abbey warrior has reclaimed our sword."

Colonel Nateem recognized the golden weapon as the one taken by Brigadier Shawarran on the first day of the siege.  He identified his opponent as a hedgehog, a species he often insulted with the term spikedog.  Within his mind, he saw this fortress as an eagle does while floating across the skies.  Instead of walls, the blood-red stones defined a circle.  He stood before an enemy that burned with hatred and with fur the color of fire.  He found the fulfillment of his prophecy.  For the first time since he joined the Horde, Colonel Nateem knew the meaning of fear.

In desperation he swung his war axe with both paws, driving the hedgehog backwards.  He sounded a maddening cackle each time his blade moved near his opponent.  Colonel Nateem ignored the battle behind him.  That no longer mattered.  If he defeated this foe, he avoided the fate the witch foresaw.  Victory remained within his grasp.

As the fight continued, he gained confidence.  His opponent had no training with his weapon, and seemed to lack the killer instinct every warrior needs.  He raised his axe for a vertical slash.  At the apex of his backswing, the hedgehog lunged forward, driving his sword deep into his chest.  Colonel Nateem felt the blade's bite.  His paws turned numb and the axe fell to the ground.  He staggered back two steps, and dropped to his knees.  Colonel Nateem refused to surrender to the inevitable, but he could not stop the eternal darkness that closed around him.


Firelog fell to his knees, leaned over and vomited.  He recalled the stories he heard about the gallant hero.  Reality didn't match such memories.  Where were the heroic words?  How could the death of another be called valiant?  Terror dominated his memory.  So did a sense of gratitude for surviving such an ordeal.  He wanted nothing more than a place to rest in solitude.

Get up; we have more work to do. 

"I'm not cut out to be a warrior." 

Every resident here is looking to you for inspiration, stand up and lead them. 

"I'm not a leader." 

You are now.

Firelog stood, though he swayed like a drunken otter.  The other residents gathered about him.  One female mole had torn her dress as a bandage for the injured hare.  Several others relieved the dead rats of their weapons and now stared at him, confusion evident by their expressions.  After an awkward silence, a lady otter stepped forward. 

"You hold the Sword of Martin, tell us what we must do.  We are yours to command."

He didn't seek this role.  All he wanted to do was help, not lead.  How did he get into this position?  Firelog took a calming breath and used the sword as a pointer.  Whichever resident he selected, changed.  Instead of a frightened beast, Firelog saw confidence replace the woebegone expression that one had but a few seconds earlier.

"You three, climb to the battlement and hold at this tower until help arrives.  You two, find others that will stand firm and send them here.  Everybody else, follow me to the Abbey." 

Now you're acting like a leader.

As he crossed the interior fields and circled the pond, he heard others shouting the joyous news.  Word that he held the Sword of Martin echoed within Redwall.  Horde soldiers who first found the Abbey filled with cringing creatures discovered a determined enemy capable of fighting back.  Many a Horde soldier fell as Firelog and his ever growing band of residents approached the Abbey's courtyard.

Bugles blared in a cacophony of notes creating a great din. Raiders and residents alike stood in stunned silence as the sound continued growing in intensity.  The multitude of cords merged and soon one song resonated with perfect clarity.  Something within him stirred and Firelog felt the spirit of Martin the Warrior fade.

Firelog no longer possessed the strength to move.  He sat on a bench, the sword resting on his legs.  Around him, residents celebrated their victory.  The Mother Abbot approached him, her smile threatening to rip her face in two.   

The Horde soldiers hesitated, and then raced off in the direction of the breach.  Firelog watched them retreat and did not follow.  He knew the war continued outside the walls and that the Horde still held many slaves needing freedom, but that was for another time. He was sick of the battle's carnage.  For now, Redwall was safe, and that was enough. 

The bugles stopped.  Soon after, Captain Serenity's unit crossed the breach.  The main gates opened an hour later and the command staff of the High Kickin' Sixth escorted King Brisson to Abbess Robertasin.  Captain Serenity returned to her division while the rest enjoyed a typical Redwall feast.  Some of the residents followed Firelog as he joined the Unity Division, determined to free those still enslaved.

As the only one with medical training, Healer Shortspike had no time for such things.  She raced from one emergency to another as her helpers transferred the injured to the Infirmary.  Relief came as still another unit from Fiery Mountain appeared.  The Fifth Medical arrived with a staff of five surgeons, ten healers, and twenty medics, as well as a contingent of military personnel.

Three days passed before the Long Patrol and King Brisson departed.  The military staff attached to the Fifth Medical provided security for the Abbey as survivors repaired the damage done.  Residents who fled the approaching siege returned, missing the departure of the Northern Alliance forces by several hours. 

Major Tanar stood at parade rest discussing ongoing medical matters.  Healer Shortspike kept their talks professional while she kept watch.  Her patient moaned, as he shifted.  His eyes blinked and he made a sound more befitting a frog than a hare. 

"Welcome back to the world of the living," said Healer Shortspike.  "You gave us quite a scare these last few days, General Markus.  So how are you feeling?"

"Terrible, like I hit every bar, brothel, and dance hall in Salamanderstron, drained every barrel of hard liquor, and had none of the usual fun.  My one leg feels like it's getting some vengeance for all those long hikes.  It hurts so much it must be getting better."

"That pain is nothing more than your vivid imagination, Markus.  I'm sorry, but I had to amputate the leg.  There was just too much bone and nerve damage."

The hare's smile melted.  He laughed while she kept silent.  Markus lifted the sheet with shaking paws.  The hare howled in fury, cursing her in the vilest terms possible.  Anyone wearing the emblem of a medic or healer became a target.  He continued snarling at her as she made her way from the private room.

She closed the door and leaned against the wall.  She had seen too much death over the last three days.  The living gave her no comfort when they discovered the extent of their injuries.  Shortspike shut her eyes and expelled a deep, weary breath as she listened to the hare's tirade beyond the wall.

"I guess General Markus didn't take well to his medical discharge?"

"Countess Sharpae, telling him he no longer served in the Long Patrol would be too severe a blow to his pride just now.  Such news can wait until he is calmer."  From the room came the sound of crashing furniture.  "As a healer, I expect such a reaction from those suffering amputations.  It is heartrending, but I know denial and anger are the first two steps to recovery.  Once he accepts his handicap, then I can help him."

Shortspike gazed at the Countess Dorsattin Sharpae who sat on the bench opposite the door.  She couldn't get over the contrast between them.  Shortspike wore a white smock with the distinctive blue triangle of a healer, rumpled and smudged from three day's of continual wear.  The Countess appeared in a stylish outfit her maid had just finished pressing.  She had bags under her eyes and stooped shoulders from too little rest while Lady Sharpae acted quite chipper and refreshed.

"King Brisson could not remain," the Countess said, "as he must still deal with the Horde menace.  My liege did ask that I learn all that I can of the battle here before returning to Salamanderstron."

The fan the lady hedgehog carried popped open.  Lady Sharpae took one step forward, than backed up as several medics rushed down the hall.  Once they passed, Shortspike moved towards a nearby corridor.  Her regal counterpart blocked her.

"I understand our lady badger is taking visitors.  I've tried several times to see her, but guards tell me only family members are allowed without your approval.  Last time I tried, I caught quite a menagerie of guests leaving her private quarters.  My business with her is important, so why am I barred?"

"Don't get miffed with me," said Shortspike.  "Even now, our Mother Abbot awaits my arrival as she too needs my permission.  Shall we go?"


Robertasin paced outside Tassel's room.  Shortspike said she would be there before the hour struck.  She wondered what delayed the healer.  At least her companions showed more patience than her.  Chitter and Wobbles sat on a bench, holding paws.  Tassel's son leaned back in his seat, his head resting on the wall with closed eyes.

They all reacted to the footsteps.  Two hedgehogs came down the passageway, one with a heavy footfall while the other walked with haughty dignity.  Even without her medical uniform, none could mistaken which of the two was the Healer.  The haggard look of somebody at the edge of their endurance identified her.

Everyone stood to the side as Healer Shortspike opened the door.  Robertasin anticipated she would be allowed in first.  Instead, Shortspike ushered in Lady Sharpae first.  Thorn almost collided with Robertasin, such was his speed.  Like twins, the two squirrels entered last, still holding onto each other.  She could have pulled rank, but decided she would gain nothing.  She entered last, remembering to close the door.

Tassel reclined on a large bed within the whitewashed room.  When the door open, Tassel turned her head so her disfigured face remained against the pillow.  The noble continued her march into the room until she had her back to the far wall.  Thorn patted his mother's bed, then sat on the lone stool.

Wobbles rested one paw on Chitter's shoulder as she reached down and cupped Tassel's muzzle in her other paw.  Though the badger tried hiding her face, Wobbles did not allow it.  They stared into each other's eyes.  Wobbles showed no negative reaction to the badger's disfigurement. 

"Your face has plagued my dreams for seven years so I am not frightened anymore.  I know what you and your mate did for my son and words fail me.  I can never thank you enough."  Wobbles grasped Tassel's paw and remained close to her.

Before Tassel could reply, Lady Sharpae coughed loud enough to capture everyone's attention.  She performed a slight curtsy as she unscrewed the messenger tube she carried.  It took some effort, but eventually she extracted a large piece of parchment.  She drew the document up close to one of the lamps and cleared her throat a second time as she read it.

"By order of his majesty, King Brisson of the Northern Alliance, the First Noble of the Ruling Counsel, and all members of said Counsel, let it be known that all past crimes committed by the badger known as Tassel, Badgermom of Redwall, are purged from all records.  That as of this date, she shall have the rights and privileges accorded all good citizens, and that she be given the title of honored elder for her faithful services."

Lady Sharpae placed the document on Tassel's bed.  The noble lady made her way to the exit, but hesitated.  "As the First Noble, I am honored to read this proclamation and say that my signature is upon it.  Before I leave today, I will make the same announcement before the assembled residents of this Abbey ... Honored Elder."

The door closed.  They crowded around the prostrated badger as they examined the document.  Abbess Robertasin rubbed one corner of the proclamation.  Her touch confirmed it as parchment, something scribes reserved for things of historical importance.  Chitter moved a lamp nearer while the Abbess held it.  Everyone marveled at all the fancy seals affixed to it.  Tassel mouthed the words read to her earlier.

"It's finally over, mother.  Whatever crimes held you to this place are forgiven and your good name has been restored.  Your little ones will celebrate your freedom."

Tassel reached out and took hold of her son's paw.  For a moment, Robertasin detected pain, but then the sow badger's eyes cleared.  Tassel's voice turned husky.

"My young charges will need a new guardian before morning.  I had hoped your sister, Serenity, would become Redwall's next Badgermom, but that is not to be.  She is too much a warrior.  Now I know that it is you who must protect and guide them, son.  Or should I say, Pa Badger Thorn?"

Thorn grasped his mother's paw and squeezed.  He leaned down and the two nuzzled muzzles for several seconds.  When Thorn stood, his brown eyes displayed a reddish hue from the long hours of his vigil.  He knew his responsibilities and with a final hug, the boar left the room.

Shortspike ordered everyone to leave.  Robertasin waited for the two squirrels.  Chitter fondled the badger's exposed arm before he too turned to the door. Wobbles still held onto Tassel's paw, their fingers interlocked.  In the silence of the room, her words seemed overpowering.

"May I stay?  Bruno told me a few stories, but Tassel's been my son's mother.  I want to learn more about him."  Wobbles voice cracked and she ran her tongue across her lips.  "That wildcat kitten turned my son into a broken beast, scared of his own shadow.  I want to know what makes Chitter hold his tail with such pride."

Healer Shortspike nodded.  Chitter stepped halfway through the doorway when Tassel offered Wobbles the honey tree story.  Chitter demanded her silence while holding his paws over Wobble's ears.  His efforts failed and he plopped himself onto the vacated stool.  His tail covered his face as he alternately groaned and chuckled.

"Why must elders tell such embarrassing stories about you when you were a dumb dibbun?"

Tassel laughed.  "It's a mother's vengeance for all the things our children do to us."

Robertasin enjoyed that story and lingered in the doorway.  A gentile push from the healer and she left.  The door closed and no other resident stood in the hallway.  The Mother Abbot leaned closer to the healer.  She kept her voice low lest she disturb those within the room.

"Well, what's your prognosis, Healer?"

"My prognosis is that if you don't take care of yourself, Robertasin, that heart of yours will not make it through the week.  You cannot ignore the warnings.  I'm ordering you to get at least one full night's sleep, for the sake of all of us."  The muffled sound of three laughing voices had her admonishment end as the Healer allowed her own weariness to show. 

"I'm glad her final hours are happy ones.  She'll make it to nightfall.  She's that stubborn.  But Tassel will not see the morning sun."  The hedgehog stifled a yawn.  "Tassel said she wanted this time for farewells, and she spoke with every dibbun under her care.  I don't know why she endures the pain.  She will not let me end her suffering."

Robertasin rubbed her chest and Shortspike scowled at her.  She didn't want to admit how much pain she felt.  The distant sound of Chitter pleading for mercy distracted the healer and made her smile.  When the voices subsided into muffled chuckling, she adjusted her robes and turned back towards her office.

"Countess Sharpae and I have important matters to discuss.  I have already agreed to reimburse the funds Captain Serenity misappropriated.  However, she wants other concessions.  I will be doing nothing more strenuous than civil conversation."

Healer Shortspike nodded.  "You need rest.  Must I sedate you?"

"If it is possible, I wish to be present when Tassel passes on to Dark Forest.  I think she would appreciate knowing how much I'll miss her.  Afterwards, I promise."

Several hours passed before a young hare knocked on the Abbess's office door.  Robertasin dashed back to the Infirmary.  The papers on her desk could wait until tomorrow.  The Mother Abbot halted at the door and smoothed the fur over her eyes and flicked her ears upright.  Satisfied with her appearance, she entered the room.

"Tassel's been asking for you for several moments now," whispered Shortspike.  "I wish Thorn could come, but the children need him more."

Abbess Robertasin accepted the stool from Chitter and gazed at the once powerful beast that had become so old and frail.  The patient's eyes remained closed and the Mother Abbot hoped she would remain sleeping until the very end.  Tassel shuddered.  She listened to the labored breathing and noticed the blood dribbling from the corner of Tassel's muzzle. 

An infirmary medic poked his head into the room.  "Chitter, your wife is in labor and she is calling for you.  I suggest you hurry or you'll miss the birth of your first child."

"I can't leave Mother Tassel, not now."  Chitter's eyes pleaded for somebody to tell him what he should do.  Tassel's soft voice broke the silence.

"Attend to the living, boy.  Your mate needs you more than me.  Go to her."

After the door closed, Tassel's eyes focused on her.  A deep coughing fit hit the badger and Robertasin went to her bedside.  She held onto the badger's paw.  When the convulsion passed, Tassel faced her.

"I hear the demons of Hellsgate coming and I fear this final trial."

"How can I help you, Tassel?  Tell me and I'll do whatever I can."

Tassel stared at her for several moments before a painful spasm had the badger pressing her eyes closed and hacking up blood that Healer Shortspike cleaned.  The badger's chest rose and fell several times and her eyes rolled back before they once again focused on her.  The badger stared at her as if she saw into her very soul.

"Though I fear your response, I must ask that you answer truthfully.  Have I served this Abbey well?"

"You have served Redwall with honor and distinction."  Robertasin looked into the frightened eyes of the badger and wondered what worried her.  "There is nothing to fear."

The mantle clock chimed the hour.  Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong . . .

Abbess Robertasin turned towards the far wall.  A black hole marred the pristine white surface and it grow in size.  The sounds of battle and a maniacal laughter overpowered a low and constant keening wail that emanated from the blackness.  She gagged as the putrid odor of death and decay filled the room.  Her heart raced as dark shadowy shapes moved through the void, drawing closer.

Her mind latched onto the prayer said at the closing of every funeral service.  She had spoken those words uncounted times these last few days.  "Guardians of Dark Forest, escort this one to eternal rest.  Grant her peace."

Evil laughter answered her benediction and she repeated the blessing a second time.  When she spoke the words a third time, a blinding flash of light filled the room.  The wailing rose to a crescendo and ended with an abrupt suddenness.  Robertasin blinked several times before her eyes focused on the one standing before her.  The tall male squirrel had fur as black as night and golden eyes like the sun.  The unknown squirrel wore a light blue tunic.  She questioned her sanity when she noticed white clouds dance across it.

He held out his paw and Robertasin wondered what he wanted of her.  A young badger in the prime of life walked past her in shackles.  She knew this badger was Tassel as she remembered her back on that first day.  Though she feared speaking, she challenged the unknown squirrel.

"Why such mistreatment for an honorable servant?  Must she go into eternity this way?"

The fellow smiled.  "She must stand in judgment for her many misdeeds in life, as do all who pass from your world to mine.  This is how she sees her passage and so you too are experiencing her perception.  Be at peace.  I give you my word; she will find happiness within Dark Forest before the sun's next rising."

The badger's form faded until Tassel disappeared.  The male apparition once again turned her way.  His warm smile brought a sense of calm peace to her. 

Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong.  The mantle clock concluded its chiming of the hour. 

Robertasin blinked.  She lowered the lifeless paw as Shortspike placed a sheet over the body of Tassel.  Looking first at the Healer and then at Wobbles, she was held by their strange expressions.  They appeared stunned.

"I never knew the Eternals were squirrels or that they would speak to mere mortals."  Robertasin whispered with a sense of awe.

"Squirrels?  That had to be the biggest boar badger I ever saw."  Shortspike quipped.

"You're both wrong," Wobbles blurted, "it was a huge female spider."

Abbess Robertasin considered what the others said.  "We have each seen and heard something different, something that was for us alone.  Yet we also saw Tassel pass over to Dark Forest where she will find eternal peace." 

The door burst open, startling everyone.  A jubilant Chitter darted into the room.  His words burst out of him like a fledgling celebrating its first flight.

"Mother Tassel, you're a grandmother," Chitter shouted.

Then his eyes focused on the sheet and his expression froze.  Wobbles wrapped her arm about her son and led him outside.  The same young hare medic that had summoned him earlier waited.  Neither the Abbess nor the Healer moved until the door swung shut.  Healer Shortspike sat on the stool by the foot of the bed while she remained standing next to the badger's body.

"One life ends, another begins.  So it has been, so it shall forever be."

"Getting philosophical in your old age, Healer?"

"I'm exhausted by too much of one and not enough of the other.  Before I turn in, I'll congratulate the new parents."

The Abbess approached the hedgehog and placed her paw on Shortspike's shoulder.  "I need a favor and you must tell no one.  Before her coffin is sealed, shear every bit of fur off that badger's body and deliver it to me."

"It will be done, Abbess."

Robertasin reached for the door latch.  "I'm confused.  Why not protest such a desecration?  I know how much you loved Tassel and cannot understand why you're so willing."

"The Eternal spoke to me.  He said I was to do whatever you asked of me this night, without question."

Abbess Robertasin closed the door.  She too would extend her congratulations to the new parents before crawling into her bed.  Never had she felt so weary as she did this night.

Thunder rumbled off in the distance and the sudden noise had Wobbles jumping off the bench.  Her stubby tail slashed the air behind her as she fidgeted in the empty room.  She tried distracting herself by gazing out the transom window where the black clouds rolled towards the Abbey, blotting out the summer sky.  Another clap of thunder sounded and the windows rattled in their frames echoing the sound.

Wobbles kept kneading the fur on one arm with the paw of the other as she tried to relax.  Her guide had informed her that the restored Grand Tapestry depicting Martin the Warrior provided a sense of peace to those who contemplated his features.  It did not calm her.  As she paced the distance of her bench, she chewed her lip, wondering when somebody would come.  The longer she waited, the more she questioned her decision. 

The idea of fleeing this place came to her worried mind.  She turned to the distant door but froze when a strange clomping sound came from above her.  She glanced up the staircase where a hare dressed in a green habit hopped down each step.  It wasn't until he reached the bottom that she noticed his missing leg.  The hare placed the crutch he carried under his arm, moved before her, and gave her a slight bow of his head.

"Welcome again to Redwall Abbey, Wobbles.  I'm Abbot Markus."

"My invitation is from Abbess Robertasin.  Where is she?"

The hare's expression changed.  His face turned sad as he lowered himself to the bench, patting the cushion next to him.  As Wobbles joined him, another loud clap of thunder drew her eyes to the rattling windows high overhead.  When her attention returned to the hare, he took both her paws in his.  Such a firm, yet gentle grip acted as a balm to her jangled nerves.

"It's my sad duty to inform you that Abbess Robertasin traveled to Dark Forest two weeks ago.  Her passage from this life came peacefully while she slept, which I consider a true blessing from the Eternals.  Perhaps the strain of restoring the Abbey proved too much for her weak heart.  Three days ago, the Council of Elders selected me as her replacement.  I'm still learning my new responsibilities."

When Wobbles focused on the hare, that friendly face emerge once more.  It renewed her confidence as she withdrew the letter she carried next to her heart.  Since they were alone, she passed it to Markus.  While the hare opened the letter, Wobbles spoke of her life since the war ended.

"Chitter and his wife, Highclimber, have treated me like some long-lost hero.  They cannot do enough for me and I enjoyed such adulation, for a while.  Now Highclimber is tending to another newborn and I felt it was time to make a life of my own."

"And is there something special you want to do here, Wobbles?"

Wobbles kept her muzzle down fearing this unknown creature might consider her unworthy.  She remembered back to that day three years ago when a vision told her that she would find acceptance and peace at Redwall once she felt ready to rest.  Now she faced somebody with the power to deny her, somebody who knew nothing about her.  Her confidence waned and her voice came out sounding like a pleading whisper.

"I understand the Recorder has a library of stories that would take several lifetimes reading.  I want to see how many tales I can read in what remains of mine, if I am still welcomed here."

Markus gave her leg a light pat.  "Indeed you are.  When you join me for dinner, you will notice many familiar faces here at Redwall.  All of them want to meet the mother that sacrificed her freedom to save her child and the grand dame who inspired a mighty warrior."

Wobbles felt the blood rush to her face and hoped the hare didn't notice her blush.  For many seasons, Chitter thought his mother dead and he had her declared a fallen hero.  Finding her alive made her an icon for freedom.  A title she considered misplaced, and one she never wanted.

"Do forgive the sudden change of topic, sir.  Nobody ever told me what happened after the siege at Redwall ended.  I knew so many that severed with the Horde, yet nobody speaks of them."

Abbot Markus leaned his back against the wall.  Wobbles tried copying his casual demeanor, but she remained attentive.  For a time, the hare's eyes lingered on the tapestry.  When his eyes refocused on her, he related what had occurred some three years past.

General Zavallin retreated south, thinking none would follow.  He was wrong.  The Unity Division dogged them every step, picking off their stragglers and raiding their camp each night.  On the sixth day, the Horde leader devised a plan he thought would dissuade any further attrition.  The Horde tried executing two slave youths by burning them alive at a spot considered too well guarded for any successful rescue effort.  The remaining slaves were threatened with a similar fate if the Unity Division continued its harassment.

It worked, but not as intended.  It fired a righteous wrath that allowed no quarter.  Captain Serenity led her force on an attack aimed at saving the two victims.  The battle cry of the woodlanders matched the intensity of the two wailing slaves as they burned.  Though the Horde outnumbered them, the Unity Division soldiers refused to retreat and each fought like a dozen seasoned warriors. 

Thanks to the captured chariots, the two injured slaves were rescued and rushed to their medical staff.  Their actions made it quite clear that harming any slave guaranteed dire consequences.  Over the following days, many slaves walked away from the Horde's camp while the guards watched.

"Those two slaves the Horde tried roasting know you by name, Wobbles.  They're the daughters of Wiana, Redwall's resident cook.  The two girls prefer keeping their legs and tails hidden under their petticoats since the burns disfigured them, but they always have a ready smile for every visitor."

"Wiana lives?"  Wobbles felt terrified.  "Last time we met, I flogged her daughters until they both passed out from the beating.  Wiana swore vengeance because of my actions."

Wobbles leaped from the bench and tried running but Abbot Markus seized her paw, holding her in place. 

"That comment was a mother's indignation speaking.  She knows now that you saved them from some sadistic wildcat's version of torture that could have meant the death of one or both of her daughters."  Markus leaned closer to her.  "It was Wiana that suggested tonight's welcoming feast.  As she tells it, without you, she would have lost her children months ago."

The hare stared at the tapestry for a few moments.  The summer sky turned black as the clouds rolled across the transom windows, pitching the chamber into a shadowy gloom.  The hare closed his eyes while he recollected the story about the Horde and how it all ended.

General Zavallin's retreat almost turned into a rout, but military discipline won the day and the army continued their orderly retreat.  As the Horde marched south, the Unity Division paced them, holding to a parallel path on their right flank.  The day after the rescue, the High Kickin' Sixth Division, along with the unit commanded by King Brisson, took up station on the Horde's left flank.

Markus laughed.  "Wish I was a tick in the General's fur.  Can you imagine his surprise when they sighted Ferretville and saw the Long Patrol's banner flying from every flagpole?  My sister, Colonel Darlow, sailed from Salamanderstron twenty days before the relief of Redwall, intending to lay siege to the port.  What happened sure surprised her."

Colonel Darlow anticipated a prolonged engagement as she thought General Zavallin commanded the port of Ferretville.  What she found was the dregs of Brigadier Shawarran's unit, injured soldiers unfit for combat.  Without a strong central command structure, anarchy ensued.  A hostile populace left the garrison with an enemy inside the city's walls and an army threatening them from outside their fortifications.  Slaves had gone feral as they fought for whatever food was available, including the bodies of the dead.  The Horde soldiers were so demoralized that when the Long Patrol offered terms, they surrendered without a fight.

Horde ships were allowed into port and their supplies confiscated over the next three months.  When the ships departed, bound for their homeland, they carried only the dispirited remnants of a once victorious army.  Their slaves were offered their choice of returning with the defeated raiders or staying in this new land.  Most chose to remain.

King Brisson then offered all invaders who chose to remain, amnesty for any wrongs committed since their arrival.  Markus recalled the badger king's proclamation.  "The scars of war must be healed, but not through bloody vengeance."  His generosity to a former enemy proved to be the first step.  Many slaves remained in Ferretville doing the same work they did under their former master's lash.  Thanks to their efforts, the town has grown into a major port city populated by every known species.

"Freedom transforms a beast, Wobbles.  Your weasel friend, Avbron, started a shipping business in Ferretville with his new mate.  Tergello married our Abbey's warrior, Firelog, and has become a mother and quite a quilter.  The fox engineer, Pucha, is overseeing the reconstruction of the Abbey wall she helped destroy."

Just then, the windows turned into drums as raindrops fell.  At first, the cadence remained slow, like a funeral dirge.  Then the timing picked-up as the rains fell heavier.  Soon the beat came so fast that no single drop could be heard.  Windows turned translucent as water cascaded like a river flowing over the glass barrier.

Down the far end of the hallway, three shadowy forms walked into the room.  The first morphed into a male badger that surprised Wobbles.  The fellow's resemblance to Bruno was so strong that for a moment she thought him a reincarnation of her son's guardian.  Though the boar had a wide grin on his face, his fur remained plastered to his body.  Each step he took left a small puddle of water marring what had been a pristine slate floor.

A female squirrel hung onto his paw.  The child swung the badger's arm back and forth, as if it were a clock's pendulum.  Like the male badger, she too was drenched.  Her clothing clung to her fur and the fluffiness Wobbles spent hours achieving had gone for naught.  The dibbun kept staring at the badger with eyes full of wonderment.

Wobbles jumped to her feet.  Her voice boomed through the hallway louder than the thunder outside catching almost everyone's attention.  The severity of her tone never registered on the girl and she took no notice of her standing there with paws resting on her hips.  A light growl from the badger and his muzzle pointing from the kit squirrel to Wobbles had the enthralled girl shift her eyes away from the badger.

"My word, child.  Don't you have sense enough to come in out of the rain?  Just look at you.  I swear you're the very definition of a tree rat if ever there was one."

The girl reacted to the harsh tone.  She ducked behind the huge badger.  The youngster peered up at her protector who smiled at the dibbun.  That gave the girl a measure of confidence and she moved back to his side, but never released his paw.  She then danced in place; her singsong voice filling the hall with a gleeful sound as her eyes remained focused on the boar badger.

"I found Uncle Thorn, Granny Wobbles.  I found him.  I found him.  I found him."

Thorn gave the Father Abbot and "Granny" Wobbles an impish grin while doing nothing to curb the girl's exuberance.  He ignored the child's manipulations, satisfied that she found his paw such a great source of entertainment.  He spoke at a level that overpowered the young squirrel's song.

"Your granddaughter found all the children enjoying themselves at the pond too much of a temptation.  At the time, I thought the storm would pass us by so I didn't have the heart to end everyone's fun.  Seems we all got caught in the rain.  I sent the other children to the Dormitory so they could change into dry clothing."

His eyes shifted from Wobbles to the girl and back.  "I asked the child for her name, but she said I had to come here and meet you."

The girl used the badger's paw like a springboard as she leaped upward, her giddy voice interrupting Thorn.  She giggled each time she spoke, no doubt enjoying the game she played.

"It's a secret.  It's a secret.  It's a secret.  It's a secret."

"Enough child."  Wobbles saw the humor in this moment and her anger vanished.  "She calls you uncle because her parents lived here when you were a pup.  I told her while she visits, she could live in the Dormitory with you, Pa Badger Thorn.  If you would allow it." 

Wobbles interpreted his silence as a question regarding the girl's status.  If Wobbles stayed at Redwall, why house the girl with his young charges?  His worried expression told her what concerned him.

"It's not permanent, Pa Badger.  She will be returning home next month after Chitter stops for a visit.  Highclimber wants her to have some time with children other than squirrels or otters."

Thorn's nod made Wobbles slump onto her bench, pleased that the badger accepted the child as a guest.  Wobbles then retrieved the smaller of two backpacks from under the bench she occupied.  She handed it to Thorn.  While he checked the packed garments, Wobbles reached around Thorn.  Her paw flicked out as she gave the girl a playful cuffing, which had the girl giggling. 

"Grandma Wobbles wants you to tell everyone your name." 

The kit squirrel puffed out her tiny chest like an important dignitary preparing to deliver a speech.  Were it not for her drenched fur, her tail would have been a lot fuller as it stood upright.  She locked eyes with the Father Abbot's before turning to the boar that stood next to her.

"Tassel, my name's Tassel."

Thorn lifted the dibbun squirrel.  He glanced at the others before he complimented the child on such a pretty name and told her it was also his mother's name.  The badger nodded to the elders gathered in the room and excused himself, claiming he and the girl needed dry clothes.  All watched Thorn climb the stairs the Father Abbot used earlier and waited until the two wet creatures were out of sight. 

Once they left, the third interloper stepped forward.  The lady hedgehog gave a slight head bob in the direction of Markus before facing her.  She appeared taller than most of her kind, but maintained a slim figure.  Based on the touch of snow along the edge of the hedgehog's muzzle, Wobbles guessed her at double her age.  She introduced herself before speaking to the Father Abbot.

"She's not the only dibbun in this area named after our former Badgermom," said Healer Shortspike.  "Hiding those babies in the root cellar and protecting them with her life made Tassel quite a heroine.  I've found families visiting her grave atop the hill almost every day since her death.  I even caught Lady Sydamo paying homage to her for saving her grandchild's life, though if asked, I know she'll deny it."

"You're right," said Markus.  "She proved herself a most honorable beast.  Though her son has proven to be an excellent Pa Badger, we all hope that Major Serenity will one day resign her commission and become our next Badgermom."

Markus offered his services as a guide to Wobbles.  He claimed many first-time visitors to the Abbey became lost and wanted to save her such an indignity.  The Father Abbot told her he knew Redwall's many corridors and would be honored escorting her to her new quarters.  They were about to depart when the Father Abbot reached out and took hold of Shortspike's arm.

"I found this letter among the personal effects of my predecessor.  She had it hidden in her desk and I just found it this morning.  Imagine my surprise, it's an envelope that has Robertasin's seal and instructions that it be given to you, but it also said you had to be in this room when I gave it to you.  I might've asked you later about its contents, but her instructions for me insisted I honor your privacy.  It seems our former Abbess has something to say that had to wait until after her death."


Healer Shortspike accepted the envelope and waited until the one-legged Father Abbot led Wobbles out of the Tapestry Room.  She ignored the steady downpour beyond the room's high windows and sat on the bench recently vacated.  Her paw turned the envelope over and she examined the thick wax that contained the signet ring mark of the former Abbess.  Her eyes misted over as she recalled the many memories they shared, both good and bad.

You grew into the role, Robertasin.  I think you sought the job more for the opportunity at wielding power over others, but you learned there were more important things to consider.  In the end, you were the one who assured this Abbey's continuation.  We all owe you a great debt.

Shortspike's claws shook as she slid one talon under the seal.  For a moment she thought about leaving the message unread.  There didn't seem to be anything more that needed saying between them.  Yet curiosity had her destroy the seal.  She unfolded the document.

My dear Shortspike:

Remember that day I had Tassel shaved?  If you gaze closely at the face of Martin the Warrior, you will know why.  The Eternal told me to weave her fur into an old skein of grey wool and present it to Lady Sydamo for repairing the face of our founder.  It's funny how things worked out.  Our vermin badger has become part of our greatest treasure.  I mentioned this once in my personal diary, but since most historians only read the summary journals, it might be many decades before this secret is ever learned.  Guard it well as I fear there are still some within our Abbey that have never forgiven our former Badgermom for her crimes committed so long ago.  Until we meet on the other side.

Robertasin,
Deceased Abbess of Redwall Abbey

The Healer folded the letter and placed it deep in her pocket.  She stood up and approached the Grand Tapestry.  Like many of the other residents, she had complimented Lady Sydamo on her exceptional skill at restoring the greatest treasure of the Abbey.  With tears falling like the rains outside, Shortspike spoke to the image of Redwall's founder.

"May you find the peace you deserved in life, Tassel.  May you find comfort knowing we shall honor your memory for all time."