It was late afternoon on the common land at the back of Saint Ninian’s. Slager had marshalled his band of slavers. Threeclaws the weasel and Bageye the stoat stayed inside the ruined church, together with the wretched little group of slaves, who had been manacled to a running chain. They were to await the return of Slagar and the others that night.

Now the Sly One reviewed his force. They were dressed as a band of travelling performers. None looked evil, Slagar had seen to that. Every ferret, stoat or weasel had a silly grin painted on its face with berry stain and plant dyes, and all wore various types of baggy comical costume. The fox swept up and down the line, adjusting a ruffle here, affixing a false red nose there.

Dressed as the Lord of Mountebanks, Slagar the Cruel looked neither comical nor amusing. There was a mysterious air about him, hooded and caped in swirling patterned silk which showed the black lining of the moon and stars motif at every turn.

“Right, listen carefully. Throw down any weapons you are carrying. Right now!” His voice was a warning growl, flatly dangerous.

There was an uneasy shuffling. The slavers were apprehensive of entering the Abbey without weapons. Slagar paced the ranks once more.

“Last chance. When I say throw down your weapons, I mean it. Next time I walk around I will search you, and anyone carrying a weapon – anyone, I don’t care who – I’ll kill that creature with his own armoury. I’ll gut him, right here in front of you all. Now, throw down your weapons!”

There was a clatter. Knives, hooks, swords, strangling nooses, daggers and axes fell to the ground like a sudden shower of April rain.

Slagar kicked at a saw-edged spike. “Wartclaw, gather ’em and sling ’em into the church until we get back. The rest of you, form up around the cart, ten in front pulling, the rest at the sides and back shoving. We’ll take the path nice and easy now, travel at a steady pace. That’ll bring us there in the early evening.”

*   *   *

As they trundled along the path, the Sly One said to his minions, “Leave all the talking to me. I know these creatures and I can handle them. Nobody talks, is that clear? I don’t want any loose-tongued addlebrain blowing the gaff by mistake. If anyone speaks to you, then pull a silly face, smile and turn a cartwheel. Act the goat. You’re supposed to be a travelling entertainment, so look amusing. If they ask us to share their food, which they probably will, then mind your manners and don’t go piggin’ it down. Take a slice or a portion of whatever and pass the bowl to your neighbor. If there’s ladies present, then be polite and offer them the food first, before you start wolf in’ it down your famine-fed gobs. Be friendly with the little ones and keep your eyes out for any likely looking youngsters, straight-limbed, sturdy. Don’t for the claws’ sake recognize Vitch. You’ve never set eyes on him before. Right, any questions?”

Fleaback held up a paw. “Er, how’ll we know when the moment is right, Chief?”

“I’ll tell you, dunderhead.”

Halftail was a little puzzled. “But how will you know, Slagar?”

The Sly One looked at him pityingly. “Because they’ll be asleep, nitbrain.”

“How will you know that they’re all going to go asleep together at the same time?” Halftail persisted.

Slagar patted his belt pouch. “Don’t worry, I’ll see to that. Oh, and after we’ve put on our performance, don’t drink anything, whatever you do. When you are sitting at the table you can drink what you like, but not once you’ve left the table to perform.”

“Duh huh huh hu!” Skinpaw laughed oafishly. “Yer goin’ to drug ’em, aren’t you, Chief?”

Slagar looked down from his perch on the cart. “I’ll drug you if you don’t shuttup, turniphead.”

Halftail piped up again. “But if we drug ’em all, what’s to stop us taking over this Redwall place ourselves?”

The Sly One nodded. “I was wondering when somebody was going to ask me that one. Well, I’ll tell you. I think the place is bad luck. Others have tried and failed, and I mean real warriors, not like you dithering lot. No, all I want is slaves and revenge. A mere pawful of rabble could never hold a place like that. You’ll know what I mean when you see the big badger, or the otters. They really know how to fight. They’re not afraid of death if their precious Abbey is threatened.”

“And we’re going in there unarmed?” Halftail’s voice sounded shaky.

“Of course we are, halfwit,” the fox said sarcastically. “You can bet they’ll search us, and we wouldn’t last a second if they found arms on us. That Matthias the Warrior would go at us like a thunderbolt.”

“Matthias the Warrior? Is that the badger?” Halftail asked.

“No, he’s a mouse.”

“Haha, a mouse,” Skinpaw sneered.

“Yes, a mouse. But you won’t laugh when you see him. That one’s a born warrior. He has a sword too, and I think it’s magic.”

“A magic sword! Hoho, I might just borrow that for meself,” Halftail howled.

“Stop the cart!” Slagar commanded.

Immediately the cart ground to a halt. The silken mask puffed in and out furiously with savage temper.

“Don’t dare touch that sword. Its magic is only for the Redwall mice; there’s probably a spell on it. It would be the death of us. Stick to the slaving, do you hear me? It’ll be bad enough stealing his son, but if you follow my plan we’ll get away with it.”

There was an ominous silence. Dust rose off the path where the cart had stopped. The slavers looked doubtfully at one another, the unspoken question hanging like a rock in their mouths.

Steal the son of such a warrior, so that was Slagar’s revenge. A fearsome warrior with a magic sword, strong enough to protect a whole abbey.

“Who told you to stop? Come on, stir your stumps and get this cart moving,” Slagar told them.

They pushed and pulled with mixed emotions.

“Do as you’re told and I’ll make you rich,” Slagar egged them on with his sly tongue. “You all know me, Slagar the Cruel, the Sly One. Nowhere is there a cleverer slaver than me. I am the Lord of double-dealing, and my plan will easily confound an abbeyful of honest woodlanders. There’s not a stoat, weasel, rat, ferret or fox among them; they’re too noble for their own good. They’ll never find us. I will have my revenge on Redwall and you will all be rich, when we go to sell them where none can follow.”

Scringe the ferret asked the question, dreading the answer as the words tumbled out.

“Where’ll we sell the slaves, Chief?” He swallowed hard and wished he had not spoken.

“In the Kingdom of Malkariss!!!”

A moan of despair arose from the slaving band.

Slagar was talking of the realm of nightmare.