Redwall’s twin bells had tolled out the midnight hour, but their muted tones were heard only by the three creatures who were still awake. Abbess Tansy, Friar Butty, and Craklyn the Recorder sat around a table in the kitchens, studying the journal of Abbess Germaine. It had been written countless seasons ago when the Abbey was actually under construction. The Little Owl Orocca had watched them awhile, waiting for Taunoc, who had gone off under the command of Major Perigord. When it became apparent he would not be returning that night, Orocca retired to care for her three owlchicks in the kitchen cupboard.

Butty selected some hot muffins, which his helpers had baked for next morning’s breakfast, took a bowl of curds, flavored it with honey, and stirred in roasted almonds. He brewed a jug of rose-petal and plum-flower tea and set the lot on the table, inviting his friends to help themselves.

“It’s sort of half breakfast an’ half supper, suppfast, I calls it, when I’m up very late cookin’ down here. Tell us more about this place called Kotir, marm.”

Craklyn opened the journal at an illustrated page. “This is what it must have looked like, an old crumbling castle, damp, dark, and ruled over by fearsome wildcats, backed by a vermin horde. Martin the Warrior and his friends destroyed it and defeated the enemy, long before Redwall was built. They diverted a river and flooded the valley in which Castle Kotir stood. It sank beneath the waters and was never seen again. Redwall was built from the north side first, I think the south wall was to have been bordered by the lake that had covered Kotir. But our Abbey was not built in one season, nor ten, nor even twenty. You can see by these sketches farther on that by the time the north wall was erected, the lake had begun to dry up. Abbess Germaine states that all the soil and rock dug up for the Abbey foundations was dumped into the lake. Well, over a number of seasons the lake became little more than a swamp, the only trace of it being a spring that bubbled up in a hollow some distance from the original lake site. This kept throwing up clear water until it became incorporated in the Redwall plans as an Abbey pond.”

Tansy blew upon her tea and sipped noisily. “The very same pond we have in our grounds today, how clever! But carry on, Craklyn. What happened next?”

“Hmm, it says here that by the time the main Abbey building was in progress, a drought arrived after the winter. Spring, summer, and autumn were intensely hot and dry, not a drop of rain throughout all three seasons. Even the Abbey pond shrunk by half its length and breadth. What had once been swamp became firm and hard ground, with tree seedlings taking root on its east side. So they ignored the fact that Castle Kotir, or a lake, or even a swamp had once been there, and carried on to build Redwall Abbey.”

Craklyn closed the journal and dipped a hot muffin in the sweetened curd mixture. Friar Butty flipped through the pages; yellowed and dusty, they seemed to breathe ancient history. He paused at one page with a small illustration at its chapter heading.

“Here ’tis, see! A sketch of the completed Abbey with a dotted line representin’ Kotir an’ where it once stood. There’s the answer!”

Abbess Tansy brushed muffin crumbs from the parchment. “Well, I never. They built the south wall right over the part where Castle Kotir’s northwest walltower stood. So after all these seasons the ground has decided to give way, and that hole we were looking down must be the inside of Kotir’s walltower. It would be fascinating to climb down there if it was dry and safe enough.”

Orocca’s head appeared around the partially open cupboard door. “You’ll beg my pardon saying, Abbess, but I wish you’d stop all your noisy yammering and go now. These eggchicks need their sleep!”

Tansy began gathering up the remains of the meal carefully. “I’m sorry, Orocca. Right, let’s away to our beds. We’ll take a look down there first thing in the morning. Shad and Foremole will go with us, I’m sure.”

*

As dawn shed its light over the flatlands west of Redwall, Major Perigord sat up in the dry ditch bed where he had passed the night. Captain Twayblade was balancing on a thick protruding root, scanning the dewy fields in front of her.

Perigord reached up and tugged her footpaw. “My watch I think, old gel. Any sign of ’em yet?”

Twayblade climbed down from her perch. “Not a bally eartip. Where d’you s’pose they’ve got to, sah?”

The Major drew the rags of his once-splendid green velvet tunic about him and yawned. “Who knows? Torgoch an’ Morio are a blinkin’ law unto themselves when they’re on the loose together. I say there, come on, Taunoc, you jolly old bundle of feathers, up in the air with you an’ scout the terrain, wot!”

Taunoc peered from under his wing, then struggled from beneath the ferns where he had been sleeping, and blinked owlishly.

“Strictly speaking, I am a nocturnal bird, not widely given to flapping about in dawnlight like a skylark. What is it you want?”

With a flourish, Perigord drew his saber and poked at the sky. “I require your fine-feathered frame cleaving the upper atmosphere, lookin’ out for any sign of our friends. That too much trouble?”

With a short hopping run the Little Owl launched into flight. “After a night in a ditch, nothing is too much trouble.”

He soared high, wheeling several times before dropping like a stone. “Your Sergeant and Lieutenant are coming now, west and slightly south of here. I suggest you wave to denote your presence, Major.”

Perigord climbed out of the ditch and waved his saber. It glittered in the early sunlight as he hallooed the two hares. “What ho, you chaps, what time d’you call this to come rollin’ back home? Come on, Torgoch, on the double now!”

Sergeant and Lieutenant came panting up to the ditch. Throwing themselves flat in the damp grass, they lay recovering breath.

Morio raised himself up on one paw, his normally saturnine face glowing with pride. “We found the place, sah, day an’ a half’s march sou’west o’ here. There’s a rock stickin’ up like an otter’s tail top of a rollin’ hill range, and beyond that a valley with a gorge runnin’ through. Looks somethin’ like this.” In the bare earth of the ditch top he scraped out a rough outline with his knifepoint.

Twayblade nodded approvingly. “Well done, chaps, looks a great spot for a picnic, eh, wot?”

Perigord studied it, obviously pleased by what he saw. “Aye, we could shell a few acorns there! Stretch our forces along the ridge and send out a decoy party t’lead ’em into the valley from the south side. If we can get ’em with the gorge at their backs and the hill in front, ’twill be an ideal battleground. Taunoc, time for you t’do your bit, old lad. Fly out an’ scout this place. When you’re satisfied as to its location, seek out Rockjaw Grang and tell him exactly where the battlefield is to be. Got that?”

Once again the Little Owl heaved himself into the air. “I think I am reasonably intelligent enough to understand you, Major. After all, I am an owl, not a hare!”

When the owl was well away, Sergeant Torgoch grinned at Twayblade. “Well curl me ears, marm, there goes an ’uffy bird if ever I saw one. Bet ’e counts ’is feathers regular!”

“You, sir, would find yourself counting your ears after an encounter with me, I can assure you!”

Torgoch almost leapt with fright as the owl landed beside him. The bird stared accusingly at Perigord. “You gave me the location and told me to whom I should deliver the information, but you did not mention when the battle is to take place.”

The Major bowed courteously to Taunoc. “Beg pardon, I stand corrected. Shall we say three days, or however long after that the Rapscallions can be delayed? We need to play for all the time we can get. My thanks to ye, sir!”

Long after the owl had flown, Sergeant Torgoch looked mortified. “I really opened me big mouth an’ put me footpaw in it there!”