Far out upon the western plain, a great dark red bird crashed to earth among the dandelions and kingcups
and lay among the yellow flowers like a red sandstone rock. The great bird’s sides heaved and her neck
pulsed as she greedily sucked in air. Her eyes dilated and contracted, fearsome orbs of tawny umber,
flecked with turquoise and centered with gleaming black, as she scanned the blue sky above for predators.
One wing tucked neatly across her back, the other hanging limply at her side, she made a flapping run
and gained the air. The red bird flew with a painful rolling motion, the injured wing flopping lower than
the good one. Flight was becoming too difficult to sustain, so she came to earth again, this time in a rolling
heap of feathers as she struck the plain floor, scattering buttercup petals in all directions.
The great bird rested momentarily, her huge curved beak gaping open, tongue hanging to one side.
Doggedly struggling to her legs, she walked for a while, the injured wing trailing limply in the dust, her
eyes fixed upon the building in the distance at the woodland edge. It was not so open there. Her beloved
mountains were too far away, so she would try to make the building before sunset. There would be places
where she could lie and rest, nooks and crannies where she could not be caught out. The open plains made
her feel vulnerable; in flight she was a redoubtable hunter and fighter, but crippled like this she could only
keep low and hope there were no flocks of other birds abroad that would relish the chance to attack an
injured bird on the ground.
Flapping and hopping, scrambling and crawling, the great red bird made her way east towards the
building which offered refuge.
On the far flung south reaches of the plateau lands, dawn broke placidly over the copse. Matthias rose and
picked up his sword.
“A good day to settle business, Orlando.”
The badger shouldered his axe. “We travelled a long way to see this dawn, my friend. A good day.”
All around, shrews were girding themselves up for war; bows, arrows, slings, lances, even clubs were
got ready. As Basil lugged the five weasel prisoners along on a makeshift lead, they wailed pitifully:
“No, no, please, don’t make us go down there!”
“We’ll be killed, we won’t stand a chance!”
“We have no weapons, we’ll be slain!”
Basil tugged the lead sharply. “C’mon, step lively there, you wingeing weasels. You’ve lived like
cowards; try to die like heroes. Hmph! Fat chance o’ that, eh, laddie buck? Stop snivellin’ and wipe your
nose, you villainous vermin.”
They broke away from Basil’s grasp and flung themselves in front of Matthias, grovelling shamelessly.
“Spare us please, sir, spare us!”
Sir Harry flapped down from an alder.
“There’s nothing affects a craven
Like the thought of sudden death.
The idea he might not see the night
Or draw another breath.”
Orlando kicked a weasel in the rump as he stepped over the prostrate creatures.
“You know, Matthias, these scum aren’t going to be a bit of good down there. They’ll probably give the
game away with all their sobbing and bawling. Shuttup, you snivelling snotnoses, or I’ll finish you here
and now!”
The weasels fell silent. Matthias leaned on his sword, stroking his whiskers.
“You’ve got a good point there, Orlando, but what do we do with them if we don’t send them ahead of
us on the stairs?”
Orlando hefted his battleaxe. “Let me finish ’em off now, and save a lot of trouble.”
The weasels began moaning afresh. “Stop that crying. D’you hear me, stoppit!” Matthias snorted
impatiently. “Right, here’s what we’ll do, Orlando. I couldn’t let you kill them in cold blood, that isn’t our
way. We’ll set them going southward. Sir Harry, would you accompany them on their way to make sure
they keep going? Sorry about this, but there probably won’t be a lot of space down there for you to fly
about, and you’d get into trouble under the ground.”
Sir Harry shrugged.
“As you wish, as you wish, Matthias.
We each have a role to be filled.
I’ll take these weasels south for a bit,
But the first one to cry gets killed!”
The owl picked the lead rope up in his beak and flapped off, with the five weasels stumbling and
hurrying behind him.
Basil watched them go. “Pity about old Harry. He looked a bit peeved to me. D’you think he’s gone off
in a huff, Matthias?”
The warrior mouse nodded. “I’ve no doubt he has. Don’t worry, he’ll be back. Meanwhile, I’d like a last
word with everybeast. Gather round and listen to what I have to say to you.”
The small army squatted in the copse, while Matthias stood on the top stair of old Loamhedge and
addressed them.
“First, I want to thank you all for your help and for coming this far with me. You have left your homes
and territories far behind. Orlando, Jess, Jabez and myself have good reason to live or die today. You see,
we have young ones to rescue. The rest of you, I cannot ask you to sacrifice your lives for our cause; they
are not your young ones down there.”
Basil Stag Hare stood up. “Beg pardon, old lad, but young Tim and Tess are down there. What’d my
old chum John Churchmouse and his good lady wife say if I came back empty-pawed without their young
uns? Coming with you? I’ll say I am, bucko. You try and stop B. S. Hare esquire!”
Cheek stood by the hare. “I’m with Basil. He’s a grumpy ol’ frump and I like him, so there!”
Basil and Cheek went to stand with Matthias. Log-a-Log drew his short sword.
“Shrews and Guosim are friends of Redwall. I never started a job that I didn’t finish. I go with you.”
The whole of the Guosim moved as one with Log-a-Log to stand at Matthias’s side.
Orlando raised his huge axe. His voice was tight with eagerness as he called: “Come on, Warrior, what
are we waiting for?”
Mattimeo and the slaves had been taken from their darkened cell. Nadaz and several black-robed rats led
them to the edge of the ledge where the statue stood. They were permitted to look over into the depths.
Through the greenish mist, Mattimeo could make out the thin bedraggled forms of scores of young
creatures: squirrels, otters, hedgehogs, mice. They were hauling huge blocks of stone on towropes, and rats
stood guard over them with whips and cudgels, urging them with heavy blows to greater efforts. Other
young ones were lifting the stone blocks into position with pulleys and tackles, while yet other young
woodlanders laid mortar and limestone cement in the gaps that were to receive the stones. Sometimes a
young creature would cry out and fall over exhausted, only to be beaten by the rats until he or she got up,
or lay permanently still.
Numbed by the horror of it, the new slaves were led before the statue and forced to bow their heads
whilst Nadaz spoke to Malkariss.
“I am Nadaz, Voice of the Host. O Ruler of all below earth, these are your new servants. What do you
require me to do with them?”
The hairs rose on Mattimeo’s neck at the sound of the voice emanating from the crystal-toothed statue’s
mouth.
“They have looked upon my kingdom. Soon they will have the honour of building it for me,” it
proclaimed.
From his bowed position, Mattimeo glanced along the line. He saw Vitch chained and held by two rats.
The young mouse nudged Tess.
“Look who’s there, our little slave-driver being rewarded for his services. I hope they chain me next to
him for a while down there.”
Tess stamped her paw hard against the ledge, her eyes blazing. “They can chain me next to who they