Flinky’s head bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. “Ah, sure, ’tis certain clear, yer mightiness. We’ve all got the message, an’ a fine important one it is, sir!”
Bragoon and Saro backed out of the camp. A moment later they were lost in the surrounding trees. The vermin sat wordlessly staring at one another until Plumnose broke the silence.
“Wodd duh we do now?”
Flinky’s mate, Crinktail, was in no doubt. “Like they said, we wait ’til it’s dark, then we gets out of here. I don’t know about youse, but I’m goin’.”
Flinky agreed. “Aye, ye don’t disobey two like Bragoon an’ Saro. Best do the sensible thing, mates.”
Recovering from the slingstone blow, Skrodd sat up groaning. “Unnnh, wot hit me?”
Slipback, a weasel with most of his back fur missing, toyed with the cutlass that had belonged to Burrad.
“Ye were knocked cold by a slingstone, mate.”
Skrodd felt the lump on his skull and winced. “Who did it?”
Flinky chuckled. “ ’Twas none other than a famous squirrel called Saro. Yore lucky she did, ’cos the one you was goin’ after wid yore blade was ’er partner, Bragoon.”
Skrodd stood slowly and walked across to Slipback. Suddenly he dealt the weasel a swift kick to the chin. As Slipback fell, the tall fox grabbed Burrad’s cutlass.
“Keep yer paws off dat blade, ’tis mine now. I slew Burrad, an’ I’m the new chief round ’ere!”
Slipback avoided a second kick. “Only by accident—dat don’t make yew chief!”
Skrodd turned to face the rest of the gang, wielding his new weapon. “Accident or not, Burrad’s dead. Does anybeast want to challenge me? Come on!”
None came forward. They knew the tall fox’s reputation as a fighter; even Burrad had never kicked him about.
Skrodd smiled grimly. “Right, up on yore hunkers, we’re goin’ to track those two down!”
Little Redd exclaimed, “Didn’t ye hear Flinky? Those two are dangerous warriors, Bragoon an’ Saro.”
Skrodd turned on the little fox. “Ye mean that ole ragbag who was jiggin’ about an’ tryin’ to sing for his supper? Wot did the other one look like, Flinky?”
The stoat shrugged. “Small an’ oldish, why d’ye ask?”
Skrodd curled his lip scornfully. “A pair o’ little ole tattered ragamuffins, an’ ye lot believed they was Bragoon an’ Saro. Real famous warriors are big an’ tough. Any two beasts could say they was Bragoon an’ Saro. Those two were nothin’ but a pair of ole impostors. Now come on, let’s get after ’em. Nobeast knocks me down wid a slingstone an’ lives t’brag about it. I’ll gut the two of ’em!”
A hefty-looking rat called Dargle remained seated. “They said we was to sit ’ere ’til it was dark, then head back t’the Northlands. The otter said there was twoscore fighters layin’ nearby, an’ that we’d be dead meat if’n we didn’t do like we was told.”
Skrodd shook his head in disbelief. “An’ ye believed ’im? That’s the oldest trick in the book. Watch, I’ll show ye twoscore o’ fighters!”
Furiously grabbing anything that came to paw—firewood, pebbles and soil—the tall fox flung them at the surrounding trees, yelling out defiantly. “Now then, ye mighty fighters, come out an’ show yerselves. I’ll fight ye all at once, or one by one if’n ye ain’t frightened o’ me! Get out ’ere, ye mangy frogbait!”
Silence greeted the challenge. Skrodd spat contemptuously into the fire, glaring at the vermin gang. “Wot a bunch of addlebrains! Up on yore paws an’ get movin’ ye bunch o’ ditherin’ oafs. After I’ve slain those two ole relics, we’ll get the rest o’ this job done. Move!”
As they moved southward into the woodlands, Little Redd discussed the situation with Flinky. “Skrodd ain’t takin’ us to that Abbey place that Burrad was always goin’ on about, is he?”
Flinky nodded. “Ah sure, it looks like he wants t’be the big bold beast who gets the magic sword. Huh, magic sword! I wonder where ould Burrad heard that tale?”
Juppa, the weasel who was Slipback’s mate, joined the conversation. “Burrad said his father told ’im about it, just afore he died. Said there was an Abbey, a big place called Redwall. Accordin’ to ’im, there’s only a few peaceful woodlanders lives there. They keep a magic sword at Redwall. ’Tis said that the warrior who holds that sword is the greatest in the land!”
Slipback confirmed his mate’s story. “Aye, none can stand against the sword owner, I’ve heard the tale meself.”
Skrodd, who was leading the gang through the darkened woodlands, overheard Slipback’s remark. He stopped and questioned the weasel. “Wot have ye heard? Tell me.”
The garrulous Flinky spoke up. “Ah sure, ’twas me that told him. I sat wid Burrad’s ole dad many a night, yarnin’ away. He was a fine ould feller, not like his son. Anyhow, he told me all about the magic sword, so he did.”
Skrodd was fired with the idea of possessing such an enchanted blade. He stared hard at the gabby stoat. “Right, then, you tell me everythin’ the ole beast said.”
Flinky liked to talk, but he was also aware that the tall fox was not one to be taken lightly. “Ah, well let me see now. There’s this place, see, a grand ould Abbey called Redwall that stands on a path somewhere in the centre of the land. Sure, an’ a fine buildin’ it is!”
Little Redd interrupted. “I’ve ’eard o’ Redwall.”
Skrodd froze him with a glare, gesturing Flinky to continue.
“Aye, Redwall was built by a mighty warrior long ago. He carried a great sword made from bits o’ the moon ’n stars. A marvellous blade, magic enough t’make a champion fighter out o’ anybeast. That warrior’s long dead now, but the sword still hangs in the Abbey.”
This time it was Skrodd’s turn to interrupt. “Then why doesn’t one of the creatures at Redwall Abbey wear it?”
Flinky shook his head. “Ah no, they’re all only simple woodland beasts. They’re farmers an’ such, not fighters. Hah, what need d’they have o’ swords, ’tis said that Redwall is a place of peace an’ plenty.”
Little Redd’s eyes shone with longing. “I wish I had a magic sword!”
Skrodd shoved him roughly. “A runt like yew, huh, you’ll have to fight me fer it. That sword is goin’ t’be mine!”
The hefty rat Dargle muttered under his breath. “If ye think ye can take it, fox!”
Skrodd looked around at the vermin behind him. “Did somebeast say somethin’?”
Flinky rubbed his stomach. “Ah no, Chief, ’twas just me ould guts rumblin’ away. I knew that fish wasn’t fer me somehow.”
Bragoon and Saro had made camp in a grove of conifers, some miles south of where they had encountered the vermin.
Burying the fishbones beneath the deep layer of pine needles, the otter wiped his mouth. “Bit o’ fish like that makes a nice change, eh mate? Did ye manage to lay paws on any o’ that stuff they was drinkin’?”
The aging squirrel wrinkled her nose disgustedly. “That poison? Vermin-brewed nettle grog. Small wonder they’re stupid—it must’ve rotted what little brains they had. Best stick with clean streamwater until we get back to Redwall an’ get some decent drink.”
She lay back, viewing the star-dusted skies through the treetops. “Aah, t’be back home in the good ole Abbey. D’ye think they’ve forgiven us for the old Dibbun days?”
Her companion chuckled. “I certainly hope they have, we were a fearsome pair, mate. Hmmm, wonder if ole Granmum Gurvel’s still the Abbeycook. Hoho, the pies’n’scones we swiped off’n her kitchen windowsill. No wonder she turned grey!”