Ferahgo’s paw strayed to the handle of his favorite knife. “It does not please me when my orders are not carried out.”

Dethbrush tried hard to stop his limbs trembling; he swallowed hard, licking at dry lips.

“Master, we searched night and day without rest. They must have found a way to cross the south stream—that is where I lost their tracks. I thought it would be better to report back to you, rather than get lost in strange country.”

Ferahgo opened his eyes. He was not smiling. “You did right, Dethbrush. Rest and eat until tomorrow. Then you will go tracking again with your rats. But remember, I want Dingeye and Thura, or their heads, brought back here to me. It is bad for the morale of my Corpsemakers if they realize that deserters can escape my punishment and roam free. Do you understand?”

Dethbrush gave a sigh of relief and nodded. “I understand, Ferahgo. This time I won’t fail you.”

Ferahgo closed his eyes. “Make sure you don’t, my friend.” He smiled slightly and waved a paw in dismissal.

Dethbrush went to look for water, his mouth dry with fear.

2

Redwall Abbey slumbered peacefully under the noontide sun. A songthrush trilled sweetly from the surrounding greenery of Mossflower Woods, its melodious tune echoing from the dusty red sandstone walls of the main building to the outer ramparts. Somewhere in the Abbey pool a trout half leaped at a passing gnat, missed it and flopped back lazily into the water. Two moles lugging a trolley laden with vegetables for the kitchen turned at the sound, commenting in their quaint mole-speech.

“Ee be a gurt noisy trowt that un, eh, Burrley.”

Burrley, the smaller of the two, wrinkled his button nose. “Hurr, you’m doant say. Oi’d be gurt ’n’ lazy iffen oi dwelled inna pond wi’ nothen t’ do. Ho urr!”

They trundled into the Abbey, speculating on the easy life-style of trouts who lived in ponds.

*   *   *

Mrs. Faith Spinney was picking fruit in the orchard. The good hedgehog lady muttered quietly to herself as she checked the contents of her basket.

“Early plums, gooseberries, small pears . . . dearie me, they are liddle uns too. No mind, they’ll make tasty cordial. Damsons aren’t near ready yet—pity, I do like a good damson pudden. Now let me see, what have I forgotten?”

The sight of a tree jogged her memory.

“Apples, of course! Those big green uns be just right for bakin’ pies.”

Standing on tip-paw, she reached for a large green apple hanging from a low bough.

Zzzzip! Splott!

An arrow sped by, a hairsbreadth from Mrs. Spinney’s paw. It pierced the juicy apple, sending it spinning from the bough onto the grass. The hedgehog dropped her basket and dashed off, ducking low and shielding her head with both paws as she whooped out in terror. “Ooowhoo, help, murder! We’re bein’ attacked by scallawagians!”