Turning, he swept through the ranks of blackrobes, leading them back down the causeway steps. They were soon lost in the green mist that arose from the depths. From below, there came the sound of chiselling and hammering, the scraping of great stones being dragged and the crack of whips, intermingled with the weak anguished cries of young woodland slaves imprisoned beneath the earth into a life of forced labor.

The statue of the immense white polecat stood alone in the torchlight. A sigh emanated from the mouth.

“Aaaaahhhhh, my kingdom!”

9

At Redwall, sporting events for the youngsters had been going on since early afternoon. Matthias woke refreshed. He sat on the west wall steps with John Churchmouse, Abbot Mordalfus, Basil Stag Hare and old Ambrose Spike. They drank cider and watched the antics of a young mole trying to shin up a greased pole to retrieve the bag of crystallized fruits from its top. The little fellow was over halfway up, further than any had got, and the watchers on the steps yelled encouragement:

“Dig your claws in, Gilly. You’ll make it!”

“Take it easy, old lad. A bit at a time, that’s the way!”

“Stay still! Stay still! Oh he’s slipping!”

Gilly slid slowly earthward, his face a picture of longing.

“Gurr, sloidy owd greasepole, ee be loik tryin’ t’ rassle wi’ a damp frog. O shame on oi, ee carndy’s still thurr.”

They applauded loudly. “Good try, young un, well done!”

Constance the badger came ambling over towards them. As she passed near to the greased pole, young Sam the Squirrel moved like lightning. He dashed a short way, bounded on to Constance’s back, sprang up on her head and gave a mighty leap. It carried him over the top of the greased pole. He snatched the candied fruit bag as he went, without a backward look.

“I say, was that fair?” Constance blinked owlishly.

Gilly and Sam sat laughing on the grass, sharing the fruits between them. The young mole patted Sam with a greasy paw as he stuffed a sugar plum in his mouth.

“Hurr hurr, bain’t nuthin’ in ee rules agin it, no zurr.”

“Look out, gangway, here come the runners!”

On the second lap of the Abbey grounds, the runners came by, Tess Churchmouse in front by a whisker and a tail. They sped by, jockeying frantically to be among the front runners on the last lap.

John Churchmouse puffed at his pipe between chuckles. “She’s a one for the running, my young Tess is.”

Mattimeo came dashing across, wearing a coronet of dripping duckweed on his head.

“Look what the otters gave me, I won, I won!” he shouted.

Streamsleek, a powerful young otter, followed in Mattimeo’s wake, along with a group of young creatures. The otter slouched down on the steps, shaking water from his coat.