Invaders of Redwall --- No Comments Please

[cairn destop]

THE SECOND ASSAULT

"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."

[cairn destop]

STANDING BEFORE THE BRIGADIER

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.

[cairn destop]

THE UNITY DIVISION

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."

xxxxx

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.

xxxxx

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."

[cairn destop]

CAUTION

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.

xxxxx

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?

xxxxx

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.

[cairn destop]

A TRAP REVEALED

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.

[cairn destop]

REUNION

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."

[cairn destop]

TWO PLANS UNDERWAY

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."

xxxxx

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.

xxxxx

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."

[cairn destop]

FRUSTRATION

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."

[cairn destop]

WALKABOUT

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."

[cairn destop]

VICTORY

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.

xxxxx

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." 

[cairn destop]

ENTERING REDWALL

"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.

[cairn destop]

INTO THE BREACH

"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.

xxxxx

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."

[cairn destop]

REDWALL'S DEFENDERS

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.

xxxxx

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.

xxxxx

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."

xxxxx

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."

[cairn destop]

WE NEED A HERO

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. 

xxxxx

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.

xxxxx

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. 

[cairn destop]

ENDINGS

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?"

xxxxx

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.