“Anybeast interested in lendin’ a paw to fetch water from the pond for that orchard out there? Seems there’s only me an’ my son left t’do it.”

Cregga placed a paw across her brow. “Oh, I’m sorry, Rusvul. I meant to send Nutwing over to tell you the orchard’s been watered enough for today.”

Nutwing smiled behind his pebble-thick glasses. “Hmm, mm. Glad I’m not the only creature who forgets things.”

Rusvul had been at Redwall less than three seasons. He had been a wanderer and a warrior, but when his wife died he’d come to stay at Redwall, bringing with him his son Dannflor, a quiet young squirrel. Both were strong and good workers, but Rusvul had changed since the death of his wife. He was no longer the happy-go-lucky creature of former days, but was often quick to take offense, and sometimes difficult to get on with.

He nodded at the creatures assembled in the kitchen, then turned to Dannflor. “Let’s put these pails away an’ get washed up afore lunch, son.”

Outside, the Abbey pool seemed to cool Rusvul down a bit. Dannflor washed his paws in silence, watching his father sluice water across his face with both paws, blowing and snorting as it entered his nostrils. Dannflor glanced up at the sky. “Wish it’d rain, then there’d be no need t’carry water, eh?”

Rusvul wriggled a paw in one ear to get the water out. “Aye, son. Wouldn’t have been a bad idea for somebeast to tell us the orchard had enough water, an’ all.”

Dannflor shrugged good-naturedly. “It’s not the Badgermum’s fault she forgot. She carried as much water as both of us earlier on.”

Rusvul nodded grudging agreement. “Mebbe she did, but this place needs a leader, an Abbot or an Abbess. I liked ole Abbot Arven. When he was alive things seemed t’run smoother.”

Dannflor dried his paws on the grass. “That’s ’cos Arven was a warrior one time, just like you. Prob’ly the reason you got on so well together.”

Rusvul smiled one of his rare smiles, and flicked a pebble at his son. “True enough, Dann. Me’n’you are the only warriors left in Redwall now, an’ we get on well t’gether, don’t we?”

Dannflor caught the pebble and skimmed it out over the pond. “Of course we get on, ’cos I’m your son an’ yore my dad. But I’ve never been in a fight or seen battle, so you couldn’t really call me a warrior. I was only a Dibbun before we came here, y’know.”

Rusvul’s eyes hardened. He took his son’s paw and held it tight. “But you are a warrior, Dannflor, I know it. The blood of warriors runs in yore veins. Never forget that, son!”