dishwater, standin’ over me and makin’ me scour and cl—”
“Ah shut your trap and stop snivelling, rat. This little mouse, was he called Mattimeo, son of Matthias
the Warrior?”
“Aye, that’s him, but how do you know?”
Slagar touched the red silk skull cover, baring his fangs viciously. “Never mind how I know. He’s the
one we’ll be taking away with us, him and any others we can lay our paws on.”
Vitch brightened up. “Maybe I’ll get a few minutes alone with Mattimeo after we make our getaway,
when he’s chained up good and proper.”
Slagar watched the small rat’s face approvingly. “Ha, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Heehee, like it, I’d love it!” Vitch’s eyes shone malevolently.
The fox leaned closer. “Vengeance, that’s the word. I tell you, rat, there’s nothing in the world like the
moment when you have your enemy helpless and you can take revenge.”
Vitch was puzzled. “I can’t imagine a little mouse like that being able to hurt you, Sly One. What did he
do that you seek revenge upon him?”
Slagar had a faraway look in his eyes, and beneath the mask his breath hissed roughly.
“It was his father, the Warrior, that big badger too — in fact, it was all the creatures at Redwall who
hurt me. The little one was not even born then, but I know how they all dote on him. He is the son of their
warrior, the hope of the future. I can kill a lot of birds with one stone by taking Mattimeo. You couldn’t
imagine the agonies they’d go through if he went missing. You see, I know the woodlanders of that Abbey.
They love their young and they’d rather be made captive themselves than have anything happen to their
precious little ones. This is what will make my revenge all the sweeter.”
Suddenly Vitch stretched a paw towards Slagar’s masked face. “Did they do that to you? Is that why
you have to wear a mask over your head? Why don’t you take it o— Aaaarrrggghh!”
Slagar seized Vitch’s paw and bent it savagely backwards. “Don’t you ever dare put your grubby paw
near my face again, or I’ll snap it clean off and make you eat it, rat! Now get back to that Abbey and keep
your eyes open. Make sure you know exactly where that young mouse is at all times, so that I can put my
paw on him when the moment arrives.”
He released Vitch and the small rat huddled on the ground, sobbing. Slagar spat on him
contemptuously. “Get up, misery guts. If you’re still lying there in a moment, you’ll feel my sword. That
really will give you something to moan about.”
Vitch picked himself up slowly and painfully. Next moment he was sent hurtling by a kick on the
behind from Slagar.
“Garn! Get yourself out of my sight, you snivelling snotface.”
Vitch departed hastily, leaving Slagar to take his ease once more. The Cruel One lay back, all thoughts
of sleep banished by one word which echoed around his twisted mind like an eerie melody.
Revenge!
Chapter 5
Matthias the Warrior of Redwall stood with his back to the empty fireplace. Cornflower had gone out early
to help with the baking. Golden morning sunlight streamed through the windows of the small gatehouse
cottage, glinting off the dewy fruit piled upon the table. There was a pitcher of cold cider, some cheeses and
a fresh-baked loaf set out for breakfast but Matthias lacked the appetite to do it justice and stared miserably
about the room. It was neat and cheerful, which did not reflect the Warrior’s mood.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in, please,” he called, straightening up.
The Foremole entered, tipping the top of his black velvet furred head with a huge digging claw. He
wrinkled his button nose in a wide smile that almost made his bright little eyes vanish.
“Gudd morn to you’m, Mattwise, yurr. Uz moles be diggen a cooker pit t’day. May’aps you’ud loik to
’elp?”
Matthias smiled fondly. He patted his old friend’s back, knowing the mole had come to cheer him up.
“Thank you for the offer, Foremole. Unfortunately I have other more serious business to attend this
morning. Hmm, that sounds like it in the next room, just getting out of bed. Will you excuse me, my friend?
”
“Hurr hurr, ee be a roight laddo, yurr young Mattee. Doant wack ’im too ’ard naow,” Foremole
chuckled, and left to join his crew.
Matthias had been far too angry to deal with his son on the previous afternoon, so he sent him straight
off to bed without tea or supper. Now the Warrior stood facing the bedroom door, watching the tousled
head of his son peer furtively around the door jamb.
Seeing his father, he hesitated.
“Come in, son.” The Warrior curled a paw at him.
The young mouse entered, gazing hungrily at the laden breakfast table before turning to face his father.
Sternness had replaced the previous day’s anger on the Warrior’s face.
“Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Mattimeo?”
“ ’m sorry,” Mattimeo mumbled.
“I should hope you are.”
“ ’m very sorry,” Mattimeo mumbled again.
“Foremole said I should whack you. What do you think?”
“ ’m very very sorry, ’t won’t happen again, Dad.”
Matthias shook his head, and placed a paw on his son’s shoulder.
“Matti, why do you do these things? You hurt your mother, you hurt me, you hurt all our friends. You
even get your own little pals into trouble. Why?”
Mattimeo stood tongue-tied. What did they all want? He had apologized, said he was very sorry, in
fact, he would never do it again. Jess Squirrel, his mother, Constance, they had all given him a stern telling-
off. Now it was his father’s turn. Mattimeo knew that the moment he set paw out of doors he would be
spotted, probably by Abbot Mordalfus, and that would mean another stern lecture.
Matthias watched his son carefully. Beneath the sorrowful face and drooping whiskers he could sense a
smouldering rebellion, resentment against his elders.
Turning to the wall over the fireplace, Matthias lifted down the great sword from its hangers. This was
the symbol of his rank, Warrior of Redwall. It was also the only thing that could command his son’s total
attention. Matthias held the weapon out.
“Here, Matti, see if you can wield it yet.”
The young mouse took the great sword in both paws. Eyes shining, he gazed at the hard black bound
handle with its red pommel stone, the stout crosstree hilt and the magnificent blade. It shone like snowfire,
edges sharp and keen as a midwinter blizzard, the tip pointed like a thistle spike.
Once, twice, he tried to swing it above his head. Both times he faltered, failing because of the sword’s
weight.
“Nearly, Father, I can nearly swing it.”
Matthias took the weapon from his son. With one paw he hefted it, then swung it aloft. Twirling it,
whirling it, until the air sang with the thrum of the deadly, wonderful blade. Up, down and around it
swung, coming within a hair’s-breadth of Mattimeo’s head. Turning, Matthias snicked a stalk from an
apple, sliced the loaf without touching the table and almost carelessly flicked the rind from the cheese.
Finally Matthias gave the sword a powerful twist into the warrior’s salute, bringing the blade to rest with its
point quivering in the floor.
Admiration for the Warrior of Redwall danced in his son’s eyes. Matthias could not help smiling
briefly.
“One day you will be the one who takes my place, son. You will grow big and strong enough to wield
the sword, and I will train you to use it like a real warrior. But it is only a sword, Mattimeo. It does not