“I promise. Just get me down.”

*   *   *

That same joyous day, the remnants of General Ironbeak’s force were led out on rope leads to the top of the north battlements.

Ambrose Spike and baby Rollo followed them up the north wall steps to the ramparts, the infant bankvole waddling along comically in a passable impression of the bird’s gait.

A light, warm breeze stirred the Abbot’s robe as he and Constance lined the prisoners up. The inhabitants of Redwall stood about on the broad wall top, glaring at the subdued line of rooks and the two magpies, who blinked in the strong sunlight, huddling nervously together at the sight of Stryk Redkite as she watched them from the wall threshold above the gatehouse.

“Is that all of them, Ambrose?”

“Aye, ’tis, Father Abbot.”

“Good. Mrs. Churchmouse, Cornflower, would you put the collars on them, please?”

The two mice emptied iron collars from a sack. Ambrose Spike had made the collars from iron barrel hoops. They were circular and left open in the middle, and slipped easily around the birds’ necks.

Ragwing the rook dipped his head cheekily, and the iron collar slipped off and clanged upon the wallstones.

Winifred replaced the collar and whacked the rook with her rudderlike tail.

“Do as you’re told, featherbag, or I’ll give you something you won’t forget in a hurry,” the otter warned.

The Abbot folded his paws into his habit sleeves.

“You birds, listen to me! We have not slain you or treated you badly, but this does not mean we are soft. Your leader and his crow are dead; the siege of Redwall is over. I have granted you the gift of life. You will be spared, but you must go back to your northlands and never return here again. This is my decision. I will not slay or enslave you, as your General would have done to us. However, you will take with you a token to remind you of your visit to our Abbey. The collars will allow you to fly, not too high, though. They will also prove an encumbrance. Forget your warlike ways; from now on, survival will be your main object.”

The Abbot nodded to Constance.

The mighty female badger took the collar of the first rook between her paws. With a small grunt of exertion she bent it so that the open ends of the iron closed about the bird’s neck. The collar was now firmly in place, not too tight, but not loose enough to get off.

From bird to bird she went, bending the iron neck rings into place until the operation was completed. The rooks and the magpies pecked at the collars and cawed angrily.