Baby Dumble was awake. He sat on Thrugg’s shoulders, wide-eyed as crows fell from the sky like tattered scraps of dark cloth. Eventually the crows made it back to the safety of the pine thicket. They crouched among the trees as the six falcons circled in a warlike aerial display. Between the streambed and the trees, crows dead and injured littered the ground like discarded rags.

Thrugg and Dumble cheered wildly, but Rocangus perched miserably on the haversack, muttering away. “Ach, ’tis a sad thing tae be stuckit here on the ground, by mah eggshell it is. Missin’ oot on a scrap the like o’ that!”

Landing back in the streambed with his clan members, the Laird contracted and dilated his big golden-flecked eyes as he preened his wing feathers delicately.

“Ah wisht ye could fly, Thrugg. Battlin’ in the skies is a grand thing, sure enough. Och, the wee Dumble is awake an’ all. How are ye, bairn?”

Dumble offered his paw. “Please ter meetcha, mista.”

*   *   *

The rest of the night they spent sleeping in the fragrant heather that grew along the far streambank, safely surrounded by the six falcons. Next morning they were on their way again, trekking northeast. Thrugg raised his head and saw the snowcapped mountains far off, pushing their peaks up at the high blue summer skies.

Rocangus flapped his good wing. “Lookit, ’tis a braw sight. Did ye ever see stones piled so high that winter snow stays atop o’ them in summer, Dumble?”

The little dormouse nibbled on a candied chestnut. “I never see’d mountings wiv snow. Goin’ ter play in it when us gets there, eh, ’Ocangus?”

*   *   *

Snow would have been of great use to cool fevered brows in Redwall Abbey at that moment. Mrs. Faith Spinney carried up a pail of springwater that had been left in the cellars to stay cold overnight. Trudging up the stairs, she stood to one side as Foremole and two of his crew lugged down a large basket, bumping it on each stair. The Foremole tugged his snout respectfully to her.

“’Scuse oi, marm, but us’ns be goin’ to do ’ee washen in ’ee pond. Boi ’okey, oi never did see so much durty washen in moi ol’ loif. These yurr diggen claws ain’t bin so clean since moi mummy used t’ scrub ’em furr oi when oi was a hinfant.”

Faith patted their velvety backs. “Bless you all, you’re so kind.”

*   *   *

Abbess Vale was up to her paws in oatmeal. She mopped it up from the floor and set the bowl upright.

Brother Hollyberry tried to help her, stammering apologetically, “I’m sorry, Vale, it was all my fault. The old paws started shivering and I couldn’t stop them. Here, let me clean it up.”

Furgle the Hermit approached with a ladleful of dark liquid. “Huh, looks like you’re coming down with a touch of Dryditch Fever, too, my friend. Here, get this down you.”