Afternoon sunlight slanted through the gaps in the ruined walls and roof of Saint Ninian’s old church, highlighting the desolation of weed and thistle growing around broken, rotted pews. A small cloud of midges dispersed from dizzy circling as Slagar brushed by them. The fox peered through a broken door timber at the winding path of dusty brown which meandered aimlessly southward to meet the woodland fringe on the eastern edge.

Slagar watched silently, his ragged breath sucking in and out at the purple-red diamond-patterned skull mask which covered his entire head. When he spoke, it was a hoarse, rasping sound, as if he had received a terrible throat injury at some time.

“Here they come. Get that side door open, quick!”

A long coloured cart with rainbow-hued covering was pulled into the church by a dozen or so wretched creatures chained to the wagon shaft. A stoat sat on the driver’s platform. He slashed at the haulers savagely with a long thin willow withe.

“Gee up, put yer backs into it, me beauties!”

The cart was followed by a rabble of ill-assorted vermin: stoats, ferrets and weasels, garbed the same as their comrades who were already waiting with Slagar. They wore broad cloth sashes stuffed with a motley assortment of rusty daggers, spikes or knives. Some carried spears and curious-looking single-bladed axes. Slagar the Cruel hurried them along.

“Come on, shift your hides, get that door back in place quick!”

The driver jumped down from the cart.

“They’re all here, Slagar,” he reported, “’cept fer that otter. He wasn’t strong enough to carry on, so we finished ’im off an’ chucked his carcass in the ditch, then covered it with ferns. The ants an’ insects’ll do the rest.”

The hooded fox gave a bad-tempered snort. “So long as you weren’t spotted by any creature. News travels fast in Mossflower. We’ve got to stay hidden now until Vitch gets back.”

The twelve captives chained to the wagon shaft, mice, squirrels, voles, a couple of small hedgehogs and a young female badger, were in an emaciated condition.

One of them, a squirrel only a few seasons old, moaned piteously. “Water, please give me water.”

The stoat who had been acting as driver swung his willow cane viciously at the unfortunate squirrel.

“Water? I’ll give you water, you little toad. How about a taste of cane, eh? Take that!”

Slagar stepped on the end of the cane, preventing the stoat swinging it further. “Halftail, you idiot, what d’you want, slaves to sell or a load of dead flesh? Use your brain, stoat. Give the beast a drink. Here, Scringe, give ’em all a drink and some roots or leaves to eat, otherwise they’ll be fit for nothing.”

The ferret called Scringe leapt to do Slagar’s bidding.

Halftail tugged at the willow cane to free it from Slagar’s paw. The hooded fox held down harder so the stoat could not budge it.

“Now then, Halftail, me bucko, I think you’re getting a bit deaf lately. I thought I told you to keep inside the woods with that cart?”

Halftail let go of the cane. “Aye, and so I did, wherever possible,” he said indignantly. “But have you tried hauling a cart and twelve slaves through that forest out there?”

Slagar the Cruel picked up the willow cane, the hood coming tight about his jaws with a sharp intake of breath. “You forget yourself, stoat. I don’t have to try hauling carts, I’m the boss around here. When I looked up that path a short time ago, I saw you coming up the center of the road as if you hadn’t a care in the world, bold as brass in broad daylight. Do you realize that a sentry could have seen your dust from the top of Redwall Abbey?”

Halftail failed to recognize the danger signals. “Yah, what’s the difference,” he shrugged. “They never saw anything.”

Slagar swung the cane furiously and Halftail screamed in agony. He huddled down against the side of the cart, unable to avoid the rain of stinging cuts showering on his head, shoulders and back.

“I’ll tell you the difference, slimebrain. The difference is that you don’t talk back to me. I’m the leader. You’ll learn that or I’ll flay your hide to dollrags!” Slagar’s voice grated harshly with each slash of the whipping willow.

“Whaaah mercy, ooh owow! Please stop! No more, Chief!”

Slagar snapped the cane and threw it scornfully at the stoat’s heavily welted head.

“Ha, your hearing seems a little better now. Cut yourself another switch. That one’s worn out.”

The masked fox whirled upon his band of slavers. They sat in cowed silence. The silken hood stretched around his face as he leaned forward.

“That goes for all of you. If anyone ruins my plan, that creature will wish he’d taken his life swiftly with his own paw, by the time I’m through with him. Understand?”

There was a murmured growl of assent.

Slagar climbed up into a ruined window frame. He sat gazing in the direction of Redwall Abbey.

“Scringe, bring me some decent food and a flask of wine from the cart,” he commanded.

The servile ferret ran to obey his master.

“Threeclaws, station yourself outside at twilight. Keep an eye peeled for Vitch coming back.”

The weasel saluted. “Righto, Chief.”

*   *   *

The afternoon wore on, peaceful and golden. Now and then a small dust devil swirled on the path with the summer heat.

Slagar ran a paw tenderly over the silk harlequin-patterned hood, smiling beneath it as a plan of revenge against Redwall revolved slowly in his twisted mind.

Vengeance had kept him going for a long time now. Sometimes he actually savoured the burning lances of pain that coursed through his face, knowing the day was approaching when he would pay back those he considered responsible for his injuries.

A beetle trundled out of the pitted, rotten woodwork of the window frame. Slagar the Cruel pierced it neatly with a single claw, watching the insect writhe in its death throes. “Redwall, heeheeheehee!” The fox’s laughter sent shudders through every creature present.