hear the snake sleeping. Silently I dragged myself away from that terrible snake’s lair and out of that place
of death. I hid out in Mossflower for two seasons. All the autumn and winter I lay in a den, treating myself
with every herb, root, cure, poultice, medicine and nostrum I knew. Sometimes the pain was so great that I
thought I must surely die, but I kept myself alive with secret remedies known only to healer foxes. Magic
passed on to me by my mother, combined with the thought that one day I would grow well and strong
enough to take my revenge upon Redwall, kept me alive better than herbs. I stayed alive to wreak
vengeance upon those who had caused this injury to me, to make them weep bitter tears for my pain.”
With a quick movement Slagar donned his hood and fastened the drawstring.
“You lie!” Mattimeo protested. “The creatures of Redwall would never hold or imprison an innocent
creature who had harmed nobody. Our infirmary is for the sick, not for captives. You have not mentioned
my father. What harm has he ever done to you?”
The Sly One leapt up, kicking Mattimeo hard.
“Silence! Who are you to dare talk to me? I am Slagar the Cruel. My revenge is against all Redwall, and
your father is the very symbol of all it stands for. He even robbed me of my revenge against the serpent by
killing it with his magic sword. He will learn the meaning of pain. Not a bodily pain as I have suffered, no,
this will be a far more worrying agony, the loss of his one and only son. Halftail! Take this slave back and
chain him with the others.”
As Mattimeo was led away Slagar called after him, “Tell your friend the squirrel that you have talked
with the Son of Sela.”
The young mouse’s friends had not slept. They lay half in and half out of the pelting rain, miserably
wondering where Mattimeo had been taken. Suddenly Auma nudged Tim, pointing to the two figures that
materialized out of the downpour. They breathed a sigh of relief, seeing it was Mattimeo with one of the
guards.
Halftail pushed them aside roughly as he linked the young mouse back onto the running chain. “Move
over, you lot. Make space here, your little pal’s back.”
They wriggled back, as far under the bushes as they could. It was a bit drier there. Tim, Tess, Auma and
Sam listened intently as Mattimeo related Slagar’s story. When he had finished, Sam gave them the real
version of what had happened that night long ago.
“I remember what took place. Tim and Tess wouldn’t, they were only tiny infants, and you weren’t
even born then, but I was a season and a half old. Though I couldn’t talk much, I could see and hear well
enough. If that fox is the son of Sela, then his name is Chickenhound, or at least it was then. He and his
mother were traitors. Posing as healers, they acted as spies for the rats, but they tried selling information to
both sides. Like all traitors, they were discovered. The rats speared him and his mother and left them in a
ditch. Sela died, but Chickenhound was only wounded. He dragged himself to Redwall, so we took him in
and cared for him. He repaid our hospitality by stealing a sackful of the Brothers’ and Sisters’ possessions
and murdering old Methuselah, our recorder. Chickenhound ran away and was never heard of again, until
now.”
Mattimeo lay back in the damp grass. “What a pity that the snake didn’t finish him off. He’s still a sly
fox, but completely insane. The snake poison and his desire for revenge have twisted his mind until he
actually believes his own story and really thinks he is in the right.”
Threeclaws poked his ugly head under the bushes at them. “Hoi! Get to sleep in there and no talking,
or I’ll lay a cane across your backs!”
Tiny streams leapt and gurgled, rivers overran their banks, the rain poured relentlessly down on
Mossflower Woods, rattling off the leaves, slopping in the undergrowth, spattering summer flowers until
they bent their heads under the weight of water. Beneath the shrubbery between the oak and the beech
trees, the young prisoners chained on the slave line slept fitfully, knowing that in a short time they would
be brutally roused and forced to march again.
Midafternoon found Matthias, Basil and Jess still striking east into Mossflower. They were constantly
finding evidence that the cart had travelled in this direction, such as crushed leaves, broken branches and
bruised bark, but Mathias noticed that Basil did not look too pleased with the situation.
“What’s the matter, Basil? We’re on the right trail, aren’t we?”
The lanky hare pawed rainwater out of his left ear, shaking his head. “Oh, we’re on some sort of trail,
old mousemate, but there’s quite a few things I’m not happy about, doncha know. One is this infernal rain.
I was built for dry sunny flatlands, not great soppin’ forests. Then there’s this cart. There’s supposed to be a
band of slavers with at least three captives, though I’d say a bunch more if they’d been out robbin’ young
uns. Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that there are very few pawtracks about? We’ve only seen the odd one,
or maybe two at the most. Now, they can’t all travel in the cart, ’cos there’s nothin’ to pull it, except
themselves. Got me? And if they were pullin’ it an’ walkin’ alongside it, there’d be a lot more tracks of
pawprints, mud churned up and so on.”
Matthias agreed with Basil’s shrewd observations. “You’re right of course. That suggests two things:
either we’re walking into a trap, or it’s just a ruse to lure us away from the real trail that the fox and his
band have taken.”
Just then Jess Squirrel tumbled down from a sycamore. She was holding a paw to her mouth for silence.
“Ssshh! I was climbing a few trees to get my bearings and guess what? I’ve spotted the cart up ahead.”
“Where?” Matthias asked.
“About half a short march away on the bank of a stream. There doesn’t seem to be any beast with it,
though. No sign of our young uns.”
Matthias drew his sword. “Let’s go carefully. They may be somewhere about, so keep low. Jess, you
lead the way.”
Silently as rain mist the three slid through the trees and bushes, their senses alert, ready to spring into
action at the turn of a leaf. Matthias grasped the great sword of Redwall tight in both paws. Holding it
upright, he peered across its double-edged blade, hoping fervently for a single glimpse of Slagar the
masked fox.
Crouching low, they skirted a small grove of evergreens, the falling rain covering any slight pawnoise
that was made. Jess quietly blew raindrops from her whiskers as she beckoned them to stop.
“See, over there, to the left of the rowan tree.”
Sure enough, there stood the cart, its gaily painted wheels and sideboards spattered with mud and
scratched by branches. Over the top they could see the coloured canvas lying heaped upon the cart bed.
“Waitin’ orders, sah. What do we do now, old scout?” Basil murmured.
Matthias weighed up the situation. “Well, we’ve got it covered from this side, and the stream’s at its
back. Let’s just lie here a moment and keep our eyes open for any signs of life.”
“Signs of life? Say no more, old warrior chops. That bally canvas on the old cart is movin’.”
There was a muted growling noise from the cart bed as the canvas twitched and bulged. Matthias
issued orders.
“Jess, you take the right, Basil, the left. I’ll go in front and center. Careful now, if it is anything
dangerous then be sure to give me room for a good swordstroke. Come on.”