Redwall: Book One: Chapters 11–20

Foremole stood watching as two of his team started the dig. Matthias looked on in wonderment. One minute they were above ground, a moment later there was a veritable shower of loam and topsoil as they vanished beneath the earth: nature’s own technicians.

He cleaned the long ugly wound and applied a poultice of herbs.

I told the Voles the bad news, and blow me if that little ninny Colin Vole didn’t go to shrieking and screaming all over the place as to how they’d all be murdered in their beds. Believe me, there was no way of silencing the daft young thing.

Abbot Mortimer sighed and shook his head at Matthias. The badger was more voluble.

Taking the edge of her pinafore she softly wiped away his tears.

Redtooth, Darkclaw, Cheesethief, and Fangburn lounged about at his feet on old burst hassocks.

The rest were posted on sentry duty outside.

Cluny’s long tail swished restlessly, the single eye stared at a carved eagle holding the rotting lectern on its outspread wings.

Nobody was sure if he was rat or weasel, or even a bit of both. He was very lithe and wiry, and his long sinewy body was covered in sleek, black fur.

If anything were to happen to me, you’d all be a leaderless rabble, a headless mob.

All those not employed defending the Abbey would husband the crops and gather in supplies for the larders in the event of a prolonged siege.

All those not employed defending the Abbey would husband the crops and gather in supplies for the larders in the event of a prolonged siege.

Ambrose sighed wistfully as he attended the two moles staggering under a bundle of dandelions and tubers.

Many a marauding bird had been driven off by these same tiny archers.

Bands of Redwall mice practiced at thrust and parry with staves.

But as it was a personal choice between learning cudgel and wrestling from Constance or quarter staff from Matthias, to a mouse they had opted for the latter.

Matthias stood up, smiling ruefully.

Methuselah leaned forward indignantly. “Who said that? Did I?”

I have an uncanny feeling that you may be the one I have been saving this vital piece of information for.

About four summers ago I treated a sparrowhawk who had pulled a sinew in her foot. She could not use her talons properly.

Like a sinuous black lizard he slithered past slumbering creatures and around rubble heaps, never once making a sound.

Using shrubs and bushes as cover he moved furtively forwards, never taking any needless chances or making sudden movements.

A group of mice led by Brother Alf tried fording the ditch and climbing up into the meadow.

Laconically he spoke. His voice was strangely calm. “Too late, mouse. Martin is with Cluny now.”

There was an awkward hush—anger and guilt lay thick upon the air. The kindly old mouse shook his head and held up a conciliatory paw.

Cornflower looked at Matthias solicitously. “He’s doing fine, thank you, Matthias. I’m just going to get some herbs for the Abbot. Shouldn’t you be lying down? Your face looks terribly puffy.”

At the camp of Cluny the Scourge, the rat army was girding itself up for war.

That is Martin the Warrior. Yes, the same one who is supposed to protect that doddering old Abbot and his witless mob of mice.

His fierce eye gazed out across the mighty army: black rats, brown rats, grey rats, piebald rats, skulking weasels, furtive stoats and sinuous ferrets, all gathered round, their weapons glistening and dripping with the rain.

As Cluny exhorted them, they roared back their frenzied replies:
“Where does Cluny’s army go?”
“Redwall. Redwall.”

Directly ahead lay a vast overgrown area which was neither pasture nor meadow. It was the common land that had once belonged within the curtilage of St. Ninian’s.

Clumps of thistle and slight ground hummocks would be his only cover.

In a flash Basil had lugged a haversack from the undergrowth and was spreading a repast on the grass between them.

I heard the Joseph Bell tolling out the sanctuary message. Huh, even had some cheeky old hedgehog telling me to run for it.

Basil stopped and ruminated for a moment.

D’you fondly imagine that I’d sit there munching at the old nosebag while some ugly great rodent and his band of yahoos run about conquering my countryside?

Ask away, Matthias, you young curmudgeon.

The common was peaceful and sunny; butterflies perched on thistle flowers and grasshoppers serenaded each other with their ceaseless cadences.

The last words Ragear ever heard on this earth were uttered in the adder’s sibilant hiss.
“Asmodeus, Asmodeusssssssssss!”

No need to get uppity, young feller.

Alone and unencumbered, Matthias struck off into the woods.

Traveling doggedly on wearied legs, he realized that his entry to Redwall would have to be from the Mossflower side, as the main gate would probably be under attack.

Lying face down on a low outcrop of red sandstone, Matthias drank his fill of the cool, sweet stream water.

Matthias was glad of the brief respite after all the excitement.

They had lasted out well; the rats had not breached the wall in any way.