The cart was followed by a rabble of ill-assorted vermin: stoats, ferrets and weasels, garbed the same as
their comrades who were already waiting with Slagar. They wore broad cloth sashes stuffed with a motley
assortment of rusty daggers, spikes or knives. Some carried spears and curious-looking single-bladed axes.
Slagar the Cruel hurried them along.
“Come on, shift your hides, get that door back in place quick!”
The driver jumped down from the cart.
“They’re all here, Slagar,” he reported, “ ’cept fer that otter. He wasn’t strong enough to carry on, so we
finished ’im off an’ chucked his carcass in the ditch, then covered it with ferns. The ants an’ insects’ll do the
rest.”
The hooded fox gave a bad-tempered snort. “So long as you weren’t spotted by any creature. News
travels fast in Mossflower. We’ve got to stay hidden now until Vitch gets back.”
The twelve captives chained to the wagon shaft, mice, squirrels, voles, a couple of small hedgehogs and
a young female badger, were in an emaciated condition.
One of them, a squirrel only a few seasons old, moaned piteously. “Water, please give me water.”
The stoat who had been acting as driver swung his willow cane viciously at the unfortunate squirrel.
“Water? I’ll give you water, you little toad. How about a taste of cane, eh? Take that!”
Slagar stepped on the end of the cane, preventing the stoat swinging it further. “Halftail, you idiot,
what d’you want, slaves to sell or a load of dead flesh? Use your brain, stoat. Give the beast a drink. Here,
Scringe, give ’em all a drink and some roots or leaves to eat, otherwise they’ll be fit for nothing.”
The ferret called Scringe leapt to do Slagar’s bidding.
Halftail tugged at the willow cane to free it from Slagar’s paw. The hooded fox held down harder so the
stoat could not budge it.
“Now then, Halftail, me bucko, I think you’re getting a bit deaf lately. I thought I told you to keep
inside the woods with that cart?”
Halftail let go of the cane. “Aye, and so I did, wherever possible,” he said indignantly. “But have you
tried hauling a cart and twelve slaves through that forest out there?”
Slagar the Cruel picked up the willow cane, the hood coming tight about his jaws with a sharp intake of
breath. “You forget yourself, stoat. I don’t have to try hauling carts, I’m the boss around here. When I
looked up that path a short time ago, I saw you coming up the center of the road as if you hadn’t a care in
the world, bold as brass in broad daylight. Do you realize that a sentry could have seen your dust from the
top of Redwall Abbey?”
Halftail failed to recognize the danger signals. “Yah, what’s the difference,” he shrugged. “They never
saw anything.”
Slagar swung the cane furiously and Halftail screamed in agony. He huddled down against the side of
the cart, unable to avoid the rain of stinging cuts showering on his head, shoulders and back.
“I’ll tell you the difference, slimebrain. The difference is that you don’t talk back to me. I’m the leader.
You’ll learn that or I’ll flay your hide to dollrags!” Slagar’s voice grated harshly with each slash of the
whipping willow.
“Whaaah mercy, ooh owow! Please stop! No more, Chief!”
Slagar snapped the cane and threw it scornfully at the stoat’s heavily welted head.
“Ha, your hearing seems a little better now. Cut yourself another switch. That one’s worn out.”
The masked fox whirled upon his band of slavers. They sat in cowed silence. The silken hood stretched
around his face as he leaned forward.
“That goes for all of you. If anyone ruins my plan, that creature will wish he’d taken his life swiftly
with his own paw, by the time I’m through with him. Understand?”
There was a murmured growl of assent.
Slagar climbed up into a ruined window frame. He sat gazing in the direction of Redwall Abbey.
“Scringe, bring me some decent food and a flask of wine from the cart,” he commanded.
The servile ferret ran to obey his master.
“Threeclaws, station yourself outside at twilight. Keep an eye peeled for Vitch coming back.”
The weasel saluted. “Righto, Chief.”
The afternoon wore on, peaceful and golden. Now and then a small dust devil swirled on the path with the
summer heat.
Slagar ran a paw tenderly over the silk harlequin-patterned hood, smiling beneath it as a plan of
revenge against Redwall revolved slowly in his twisted mind.
Vengeance had kept him going for a long time now. Sometimes he actually savoured the burning lances
of pain that coursed through his face, knowing the day was approaching when he would pay back those he
considered responsible for his injuries.
A beetle trundled out of the pitted, rotten woodwork of the window frame. Slagar the Cruel pierced it
neatly with a single claw, watching the insect writhe in its death throes. “Redwall, heeheeheehee!” The fox’s
laughter sent shudders through every creature present.
Chapter 3
“Mattimeo, Mattimeo!”
Cornflower wrung her paws distractedly. She took one last look around Cavern Hole before climbing
the stairs to Great Hall. It was quiet and cool in the Abbey’s largest room. Shafts of sunlight, multi-coloured
from the stained-glass windows, lanced downwards, etching small pools of rainbow-hued light on the
ancient stone floor.
The mouse wandered outside, murmuring beneath her breath as she bustled along, “Where has the
little snip gone this time, I wonder? Oh, Matti, you’ll have me grey before my time.”
John Churchmouse was climbing rather stiffly down from the west wall stairs with his book and quill.
He almost bumped into Cornflower as she crossed the grounds.
“Afternoon, ma’am. My, my, you look busy.”
Cornflower sat upon the bottom step and heaved a huge sigh. She fanned her whiskers with her paw.
“Busy isn’t the word for it, Mr. Churchmouse. I’ve spent the last hour looking for that son of mine. You
haven’t seen him, by any chance?”
The kindly recorder patted Cornflower’s paw. “There, there, don’t you worry your head, ma’am. If your
little Matti is anywhere, he’ll be with my Tim and Tess. Young rips, they were supposed to be helping
Brother Rufus to write out place names for the table. Ha, there he is now. Hi, Rufus, seen anything of Tim,
Tess or young Matti lately?”
Brother Rufus strode across, shaking his head. He waggled a scroll of birchbark parchment at them
both.
“Ruined!” he exclaimed. “Just look at this list they’re supposed to have written. I can’t possibly use any
of this for place settings. Look, Abbot Mordalfus, spelt with one ‘b,’ Basil Stag Hare, you’d think that was
simple enough. Oh no, they’ve spelt Basil ‘Bazzerl’ and put an ‘e’ on the end of Stag!”
John Churchmouse pulled forth a kerchief. He blew his snout loudly to disguise the laughter that was
shaking him. “Hmm, yes, ahaha. ’Scuse me, well, that wouldn’t have been my Tess, you know. She’s quite
good at the spelling.”
Brother Rufus rolled the parchment tightly. “It’s that little Mattimeo, he’s the ringleader. I know you
may not like that, Cornflower marm, but it’s the truth!” His voice was shrill with frustration.
Cornflower nodded her head sadly. “Yes, I’m afraid I must agree with you, Brother Rufus. Matti is
becoming a real problem. I daren’t tell his father half the things he gets up to.”
John Churchmouse peered sympathetically over the top of his square eyeglasses. “Maybe it’d be better