Slagar seemed to ignore him for a moment. Turning to the cart, he whipped out a swirling silk cloak. It was decorated with the same design as his headcover, and the lining was black silk, embellished with gold and silver moon and star symbols. Twirling it expertly, he threw it around his body, leaping nimbly on to a row of pews. Then Slagar spread his paws wide in a theatrical gesture.

“I will be Lunar Stellaris, light and shadow, hither and thither like the night breeze, presiding over all. Lord of Mountebanks, now you see me. . . .” He dropped out of sight behind the pews, calling, “And now you don’t!”

The audience strained forward to see where he had hidden himself. Slagar was gone from behind the pews.

Suddenly, as if by magic, he reappeared in the midst of his band. Right alongside Hairbelly.

“Haha, Lunar Stellaris, Lord of light and dark. But to those who disobey my word I am Slagar the Cruel, Master of life and death.”

Before Hairbelly could blink an eye, Slagar had run him through with his sword. The stricken weasel stared at Slagar in surprise and disbelief, then he looked down at the sword protruding from his middle and staggered as his eyes misted over.

Slagar laughed, an evil, brutal snigger. “Take this fool outside and let him die there. We don’t want his blood in here. Now, any one of you scum that wants to join him, just let me know!”

*   *   *

The morning of Redwall’s feasting dawned misty at first light. Abbot Mordalfus and Matthias had fished since the previous afternoon. Having had little luck in daylight, they elected to continue until such time as they made a catch. Tradition dictated that a fish from the Abbey pool must grace the center of the festive board. In bygone years they had been lucky enough to land a grayling, but this year there were few. Out of respect for the graylings, they had let two fine big specimens slip the lines, fishing doggedly throughout the night. In the hour before daybreak they struck a medium-sized carp. It was a fine battle. The small coracle-shaped boat was towed round and round the waters, ploughing through rushes and skidding across shallows. Mordalfus was an experienced fishermouse, and he plied all his skill and guile, remembering the time when he was plain Brother Alf, keeper of the pond. Helped along by Matthias’s strong paws, the carp was fought and tackled, diving and tugging, leaping and backing, until it was finally driven into the shallows, blocked off by the boat, and beached on the grassy sward.

*   *   *

Warbeak the Sparra Queen was up early that day. She roused the sparrow tribe who lived in the roof of the Abbey when she spied the activity at the pond.

“Warbeak say Sparras help Matthias and old Abbot-mouse.”

Matthias and Mordalfus were glad of the assistance. Tired, wet and hungry, they sat breathing heavily on the bank.