Mattimeo tugged the chain rebelliously. “Well, how am I supposed to talk to her? She’s nothing but a
whining nuisance. And another thing, why have I got to be like my father all the time?”
“Because you are the son of the Redwall Warrior, weak ones may look to you for defense and
protection,” Tess replied in a level tone. “Cynthia isn’t as strong as you and she doesn’t realize the danger
we’re in. No one has ever treated her in this cruel way before, and to add insult to injury, you start
snapping and shouting at her. I know she’s only a silly little vole, but that doesn’t entitle you to be nasty to
her.”
Mattimeo was dumbfounded. Tess was right, of course, but she had no reason to start shaming him
within hearing of the others. He was about to start a justifying argument when Vitch strolled up, swinging
his cane with a malicious grin on his face.
“Come on, you dozy Redwall lot, keep marching. Be strong like Mattimeo. After all, he’s the one you
can thank for all this. Slagar wouldn’t have chanced within a mile of your precious abbey if he hadn’t
wanted to steal the famous warrior’s son. Ha, just think, you’d all be sleeping safe and dry tonight in your
dormitories if it weren’t for Matt the brat.”
Tim Churchmouse ducked under a whippy aspen branch. He caught hold of it, swung it forward and
let it go suddenly. It swiped Vitch across the chest, sending him sprawling in the wet grass.
The undersized rat sprang up. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” he said, his voice dripping hatred. “Let
me tell you something to cheer you up. Me and Slagar took care of the stupid fat Friar, Mrs. Bankvole too,
and that dozy father of yours. Haha, we did them good and proper, killed ’em. You won’t be seeing them
anymore.”
Ignoring his chains, Tim sprang forward, dragging the others with him. He was on top of Vitch, biting
through his ear before any creature could stop him.
“You filthy lying little ratscum, I’ll kill you!” Tim shouted.
Slagar, Halftail and some others came bounding through the rainy curtain and flung themselves into
the fray, laying about viciously with their canes, trying hard to pull the furious Tim off Vitch. Mattimeo,
Sam, Tess and Auma hurled themselves into the melee, kicking and scratching madly. Even Cynthia Vole
managed to get a few nips in.
It did not last long. Finally overcome by slavers, the captives were beaten back into line. Slagar blew
mud and stormwater through the mouth aperture of his silk mask as he prodded the cane hard against
Mattimeo’s chest.
“You started this. You’re the troublemaker. Well, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget before you’re
much older.”
Vitch lay in the mud, holding his ear to staunch the flow of blood. He pointed at Tim.
“It was that one, he tried to bite me ear off, I was only walking along mindin’ my own busi—”
The masked fox struck the rat’s outstretched paw with his cane. “I’ve told you once before, ratface. Now
stop slobbering down there and get up on your paws, or you’ll find yourself chained in line with these
others.”
For long, weary hours the slave line staggered and stumbled through the rain-battered forest. Mattimeo
and his friends took turns napping as they marched, each keeping the other moving straight as they
snatched a small respite. Brambles tore and tugged at their saturated habits, which clung tightly about
them, making an extra burden to carry. Chain manacles rubbed and wore, cutting through fur to sore and
chafed limbs. Paws that had been accustomed to soft Abbey sward soon became raw and pierced by thorns,
stung by nettles. Caked with mud and drenched in rain, they staggered onward. No one was allowed to
walk. The slavers drove them hard and fast, dogtrotting through woodlands and speeding up when
passing through open clearings. Slagar was anxious to get as far from Redwall as possible while the rain
kept covering their trail.
Dawn broke over the column. Sullen grey-black skies rumbled thunder, occasionally flashing forked
lightning and keeping up the remorseless deluge of rain. Slagar shielded his eyes as he looked upward.
Truth to tell, he was as weary as his slaves or slavers, having to lead, run up and down the length of the
line all night and keep a constant vigil against trouble breaking out. He signalled to Wedgeback.
“We’ll rest for a while. String ’em out between that beech and the big oak yonder. Keep them under that
low fringe of shrub growing between the trees. Better feed ’em first.”
The captives were thrown an assortment of edible roots and plants. Water was everywhere, so there
was no need to dish it out. After the lines were wound around the two broad treetrunks the captives were
allowed to slump down. Half sheltered from the driving rain, they lay exhausted beneath the low bushes.
Mattimeo was jerked roughly out of his slumber as the chains were loosened.
“Come on, mouse, on yer paws. The Chief wants a word with you.”
The young mouse allowed himself to be dragged, half awake and pawsore, by Wedgeback and
Threeclaws. Slagar sat awaiting him in a makeshift den at the base of a big spruce.
“Come in, Mattimeo. You two, get about your business. I have something to tell our little friend which
concerns only him and me.”
Wedgeback and Threeclaws departed. Slagar leaned back, the silken hood quivering and twitching as
he watched his captive through the twin eyeslits. “Come and sit here, Mattimeo,” he said, his voice
sounding almost friendly. “Try to keep your eyes and ears open. I don’t want you dropping off to sleep just
yet. I’m going to tell you a little true story, so pay attention.”
The dusty path outside Redwall Abbey had been churned into mud by constant rain. Gloomy puddles and
stretches of water lay in the depressions of the road. Matthias pulled his hood up over his ears and
signalled to the party waiting at the threshold of the main gate in the watery dawn light.
“We march north!”
Overhead, the Sparra patrols took off into the driving rain. Matthias, Jess Squirrel and Mrs.
Churchmouse headed the march. Mr. Churchmouse was still too unsteady on his paws to be in the
vanguard with the others who had lost young ones to the fox.
Basil Stag Hare joined them, still nibbling breakfast from a haversack tied about his narrow chest.
“Reminds me of the great rains ten seasons ago, or was it eleven? Filthy stuff, rain. Isn’t much fun to
drink, either. Sooner have October ale any day.”
Matthias could not resist a smile, despite the seriousness of the mission. “Stop chunnering, you great
old feedbag, and get tracking for signs.”
“What, er, righto sir. No sooner a word than a sniff, quick’s the word, sharp’s the action, eyes front and
all that.”
Progress was painfully slow. The ditch to the west and the flatland one side of the path had to be
searched, the path itself and the woodland fringe on the opposite side were carefully scrutinized. Whether
it was the continuous rain or the oppressive sky Matthias could not tell, but an air of hopelessness seemed
to pervade the search.
At midmorning they left the path to shelter beneath some trees on the woodland side, squatting to share
bread and cheese, passing a canteen of blackberry cordial from one to another. The atmosphere was
decidedly suppressed as they crouched gazing out at the western plain, the horizon lost in a veil of
rainwater, listening to the ceaseless pitter patter of raindrops on woodland leaves. Each creature had his or
her own feelings of sorrow, grief, loss, regret, or just puzzlement as to why this sudden misfortune had