“Nah, we never gave ’em permission.”

“Trespassin’, that’s wot they’re doin’.”

Soll unshouldered the boat, placing it carefully to one side. His voice was calm and friendly. “Me’n’my friends are travelers. We don’t want trouble.”

The stoat turned to his weasel companions, putting on a mocking tone. “Did y’ear that, buckoes? They don’t want trouble. Ain’t that nice?” Turning swiftly, he slammed the spiked metal ball of his mace and chain against a thin laburnum tree, tearing off a chunk of bark. His voice hardened as he shook the weapon at the hedgehog. “Well, you’ve already got trouble whether y’want it or not. Now drop those foodpacks an’ yer weapons too, an’ leave the pretty boat where ’tis. Then run back the ways yer came an’ I’ll let yer off wid yore lives. But yer better do it quick!”

Soll held up a large paw. “I hear you, friend. Let me have a word with these young ’uns first.” Without waiting for a reply, Soll turned and addressed his followers quietly.

“Steady now, me liddle dears. I know yore warriors an’ you could deal with yon vermin, but why waste life? They’re only bullies an’ loudmouths, or they’d ’ave acted afore now. Leave this t’Soll.”

The giant hedgehog turned back then, and took a few resolute steps forward. Seeing the size of him reared up to his full height, the vermin trio fell back a pace. Soll’s face was stern and unrelenting, and his voice rang like iron. “Y’see those four young ’uns back there? Well, each of ’em is a Redwall Abbey Champion. They’re born warriors. Any one of ’em could lay all three of you out!”

Both weasels looked apprehensive at this statement, but the stoat kept up his swagger. “Yore lyin’, ’edgepig. Those four, ha! I’ll wager that four seasons back their mammas was still tuckin’ ’em in bed!”

Soll raised his bushy eyebrows, widening his eyes until he began to look quite insane, and his voice rose to a roar. “But I only keep my friends for special occasions, an’ this ain’t nothin’ special, three painted popinjays like you. Yore all mine!”

Soll’s powerful paws began clenching and unclenching, his eyes popped even wider and his voice swelled like thunder. “’Cos you’ve left it until too late to run away now! Y’must deal with me! I’m the son of a gutripper an’ skullcrusher! Born in dark moon an’ storm! My enemies don’t ’ave graves, I et ’em all! First I’ll bite off yer ears an’ tails! Then I’ll build me a great fire, a roastin’ fire! I’ll cut me a sharp green spit, one that can take three vermin at a time! Then I’ll get my skinnin’ sword an’ I’ll . . .”