A silence had fallen upon the ledge. Friend and foe alike were hushed as Matthias and the Wearet circled about. The warrior mouse, straight backed, moved lightly on his paws, the great sword of Martin held double-pawed against his right cheek. The Wearet crouched low, spear held pointing at his opponent, the loaded net making swift dragging noises as he cast it in small circles continuously. The eyes of the two fighters were locked as each tried to read the other’s thoughts, hoping one false move of a paw would give him the advantage.

Matthias attempted to keep his back to the entrance, where Orlando and his friends waited, but the cunning skill of the Wearet forced him round until he could feel the rat horde at his back. The Wearet snarled viciously and shuffled forwards, jabbing at his foe. Matthias was concentrating on the spearpoint and the swirling net; not until too late did he feel the spear butt of a black-robed rat hit him in the back of his legs. The warrior mouse fell backwards. The Wearet hurled himself forward, spear first, but Matthias twisted to one side, caught the end of the net and gave a sharp tug, adding impetus to his enemy’s charge.

There was a bubbling scream as the Wearet stumbled in his lunge, and the rat who had tripped Matthias with the spear butt staggered forward, impaled upon the Wearet’s stabbing spear. Matthias goaded his foe sharply across his hindquarters with the needlelike swordpoint. The Wearet foamed and screeched as he shook the fallen rat from his spearpoint, casting the weighted net back over his shoulder. The weights struck Matthias on top of his head. Blackness interspersed with colored stars exploded behind his eyes, and he felt rather than saw the spear jab at his throat as the Wearet attacked on the turn. There was a ringing clang as the Warrior’s swordpoint countered the spear blade.

His head clearing, Matthias leapt nimbly forward, clipping the Wearet’s slobbering jaw and slicing across his spear paw. Despite the ferocity of the attack, the Wearet kicked Matthias in the stomach and whipped away at his body with the folded net. He drove his opponent back until he was practically at the rock wall of the ledge. Matthias whirled the sword and came forwards, propelling himself forcefully off the rocks.

“Redwaaaaall!”

The fury of the onslaught drove the Wearet back. He took two sharp slashes upon his flanks before clouting Matthias in the face with the flat of his spear blade and throwing the net over the mouse warrior. Matthias knew he was snared. He could not use his sword, and the net weighed heavily upon him as the Wearet stooped to gather the ends and fully entrap him. Seeing a slim chance, Matthias trod on the grounded blade of the spear, causing the Wearet to try to pull the spear free.

It was all the chance Matthias needed. He bulled forward, battering into the Wearet. Shoving hard with head and paws, he sent his foe hurtling back into the ranks of the rats. Matthias dropped his sword and fell flat, keeping his paws tight to his sides. The Wearet stumbled and struggled amid the rats. Holding only one edge of the net, he dragged at it. The net slid from Matthias, who snatched his sword and jumped up, charging straight in among the rats, hacking this way and that in an attempt to get at the Wearet.

“Get out of there, watch your back, Matthias!” Orlando roared from the cave mouth.

Matthias dimly heard Orlando. With the spirit of Martin coursing through his veins, he whirled in a tight warrior’s circle. Up, down and at middle height, the great sword was everywhere at once in a glittering circle of steel. Rats fought to get out of its way.

Wearet cut through the rats to Matthias’s opposite side and regained the open space. As the warrior mouse came spinning out of the horde, he saw the Wearet and carried on his deadly course. Still spinning, his sword sheared into the net, shredding it to a useless mass of cordage as it was swept from his foebeast’s paw. The Wearet snatched a fallen stabbing spear, arming himself doubly. Prodding and thrusting, he locked blades with Matthias. The ring of sword upon spears echoed around the ledge as the pair fought madly, backwards and forwards, hacking and slicing, parrying and striking in a hideous ritual of death.

*   *   *

Mattimeo and his friends had lain miserably in the darkened cell until they lost track of night or day. Several attempts had been made to force the door, each one more futile than the last. Auma’s body ached from the number of times she had thrown herself at the heavy unyielding door, and Sam’s teeth were numb through trying to gnaw at the timbers. Mattimeo, Tim, Tess, Jube and even Cynthia had tried in one way or another, all resulting in bleeding and splinter-stuck paws. They sat miserably in the darkness. Cynthia began weeping.

“There, there, hush now. We’ll get out of here, you’ll see,” Tess comforted her.

Auma placed her aching back against the wall. “I’d like to think we’ll get out of here too, but where would we go?”

“Anywhere!” Mattimeo’s voice trembled. “I wouldn’t mind getting out of here just to die fighting those robed rats instead of perishing down here like some insect under the ground. At least it would be better than a life under the whip of a slavekeeper.”

“Ssshhhh!”

“Who said that?”

Sam crawled close to Mattimeo. “I did. Listen, can you hear anything?”

“No, can you?”

“I’m not sure, but it sounds like a drum pounding far away and the sound of voices.”

Cynthia Bankvole sobbed aloud. “I knew it. They’re having some sort of feast, and we’re going to be dragged out of here and eaten. I’m sure of it!”

“Oh, stop being silly, Cynthia!” Tess snapped at her impatiently. “What a foolish idea. Where are all these drums and voices coming from, Sam? I can’t hear a thing.”

Auma stood up. “I can. Sam’s right, it sounds like pounding and chanting and shouting. Whatever it is, you can wager it’s not going to be any party for us. Maybe Cynthia’s right.”

Tim’s voice came out of the gloom. “Really, Auma, not you too. Voices, drums, chanting. I thought you had a bit more sense than frightening others.”

“Huh, I can’t hear anything, but I agree with Auma. Sometimes it’s best to expect the worst. That way you’re never disappointed,” Jube said philosophically.

“Thanks for cheering us all up, hedgehog,” Tess scoffed. “Here we are, locked in a cell below ground and manacled without a hope or a weapon between us, and you’re chattering on about us being the dinner at some sort of evil ceremony—”

“Hush,” Sam interrupted, “I can hear paws coming this way and a dragging sound too!”

Cynthia gave a little scream.

Mattimeo stood up, resolute. “Well, let them come, and we’ll make an end of it one way or another. Let’s try and do what our parents or Martin the Warrior would do in a corner like this: sell our lives dearly. We have manacles, and they can be turned into weapons. Let whoever beast it is come and try to do their worst.”

*   *   *

Supported by Flugg and two other shrews, Log-a-Log made his way painfully up the tortuous winding passages towards the surface. The shrew leader groaned and lowered himself slowly down, resting his back against a door.

“Log-a-Log, are you all right?” Flugg asked anxiously.

He nodded wearily. “I must sit here awhile. It’s all uphill to the copse. Let me rest and catch my breath.”

The shrews sat with him.

“When we get above ground you must leave me,” he said, turning to Flugg. “Go back and help our friends. Flugg, you have been my good comrade and brother for many seasons. Listen now. Once you leave me and I am no longer with you, the Guosim must have a new leader. That one is you, Flugg. Forget your name; now you are Log-a-Log of all the Guosim.”

Flugg banged the door angrily with his sword hilt. “No! Do not talk like that. You must live!”

Log-a-Log held a paw to his throat wound. “You cannot disobey me. The law and rules of the Guosim say this is the way it must be. If there were a river or a stream here now, I would ride a log on my last journey. Then you would have no choice. Hear me, I have spoken. What was that?”

Some creature was banging on the door from the other side.

Flugg banged in reply. Placing his mouth near the jamb, he called, “Logalogalogalog!”

There was more thumping in reply, followed by a voice calling, “Redwaaaall! Mossflowerrr!”

Log-a-Log struggled to his paws. “I’d know that voice anywhere. It’s just like his father’s. It’s Matthias’s young one. Get that door open, Guosim!”

There was a heavy padlock and hasp on the door, but one of the shrews named Gurn produced a small dagger.

“Stand aside. Let me try with this,” Gurn told the others.

Luckily it was a lock of simple and ancient design. Gurn’s dagger jiggled and twisted a few times, then there was a click, and he pulled the padlock curve from the hasp ring.

Inside the cell Auma had her ear to the door. She listened carefully.

“Keep quiet. We’ve given them our challenge, now let’s see what they do.”

“Are they shouting flogaloggle or whatever it is?” Jube piped up. “Daft sort of war cry, if you ask me.”

“We never asked you, Jube. Be quiet,” Mattimeo commanded curtly. “What’s happening out there, Auma?”

“I think they’re unlocking the door, Mattimeo.”

“Right, this is it. Get your manacles ready and give the best fight you can manage. If we don’t meet again, my friends, goodbye.”

Auma’s voice was hoarse and urgent.

“They’ve unlocked the door, wait, it must open outwards. . . .”

Mattimeo felt for his companion’s paws in the darkness.

“Why wait? Let’s rush them.”

“Chaaaaarge!”

They hit the door. It flew open wide. Mattimeo flung himself upon the first creature in his path. Tim and Sam leapt on another. Even the dim passage light dazzled their eyes, which were accustomed to nothing but complete darkness. Grappling on the floor, the young mouse heard his name called by a deep gruff voice:

“Mattimeo, it’s me, Log-a-Log!”

Mattimeo had Flugg by the throat. His paws dropped with a clank of manacles as he yelled out. “Stop, they’re friends!”

Immediately, the fight halted. Mattimeo and his companions stood in the torchlit passage, rubbing their eyes. Gurn shook his head admiringly.

“What a bunch of young warriors. Don’t rub your eyes too hard. Let me open those manacles with my dagger.”

Cynthia began sobbing again, but this time it was with happiness.

The friends were smiling at each other. Gradually it was dawning on them that they were no longer the prisoners of Malkariss, Slagar, Nadaz or any other evil creature.

Mattimeo’s laughter boomed around the passage walls.

“Hahahaha, free. We’re free. It’s my father’s friends, the Guosim!”

“It’s certainly your lucky day, young ’uns, most of your parents are here. There’s Matthias, Orlando, Jabez, Jess, even old Basil Stag Hare. We joined forces with them to search for you. They’re down on the big ledge fighting the hordes of Malkariss.”

Mattimeo could hardly believe his ears. His father, the Champion of Redwall . . . here!

Auma let out a great whoop, Sam leapt high into the air, Jube wrinkled his nose knowingly.

“Told you so, I said we wouldn’t get far without my old dad catching us up. Do you remem—”

He was seized by Tim and Tess and whirled around, then Cynthia joined in.

“Good old Basil, the Redwallers are here! Hurray!”

Flugg was knocked flat by the whirling dancers, but Mattimeo helped him to his paws. Dusting himself off, the shrew grinned broadly.

“By the fur and the claw, and the law, I’m glad we found you lot, though you’ve got our Log-a-Log to thank for that. If he hadn’t decided to rest here awhile we’d have gone right past you and you’d have rotted in there.”

Laughing happily, Mattimeo knelt to shake Log-a-Log by the paw.

“I knew you’d find us. Oh, I just knew it would happen someday. Thank you, Log-a-Log. Oh, thank y—”

The Log-a-Log of all the Guosim was smiling, even though his eyes had closed for the last time. He had lived long enough to keep his promise to his friends. He had found their young ones.

*   *   *

Matthias was growing tired. The Wearet seemed to have hidden stores of insane energy. The strange beast was wounded in a dozen different places, but his size and mad ferocity seemed to buoy him up. The warrior mouse went into the sword fighter’s stance, blade held ready to cut, sweep and thrust, gaining a small respite for breath as the Wearet circled him, looking for an opening. Matthias turned slowly as the Wearet tried to get behind his back.

In the mouth of the tunnel, Orlando stood alongside Basil, watching the gruelling conflict.

“That creature can’t get the better of our Warrior, but I think Matthias is looking very tired now. Is that a very deep gash on his brow, d’you think, Basil?”

“Tchah! A mere scratch, old lad. I’ve done more damage to a salad with a spoon. Don’t let the Champion of Redwall fool you, Orlando, oh dear no. In a moment or two he’ll decide it’s time for lunch and he’ll settle old thingummybob’s hash, you mark my words!”

Basil was proved right. The moment Matthias saw he had the Wearet with his back to the wall, he came in like a hungry wolf. Sparks flew from the rocks as Matthias smashed home a devastating attack. He seemed to be everywhere at once, roaring, slashing and milling. The confident sneer faded from the Wearet’s face as he found himself battling for dear life. The mouse warrior fought with the strength of two and the skill of many seasons. The Wearet pushed himself from the rocks with a gigantic effort and lunged savagely forward with both spears. Matthias darted to one side, and his blade crashed down like summer lightning, shearing through both spear handles in one heroic sweep. The warrior mouse turned a half-circle with the momentum, but the Wearet was swifter than a shadow. He leaped at Matthias’s unprotected back. Passing his paws over Matthias’s head, he began strangling the warrior mouse with the broken handles of the spears which he had held on to.

Choking for breath, Matthias slammed his swordpoint down into the Wearet’s footpaw. Grasping the spear-hafts with both paws, he crouched deep, leaning forward. The Wearet screamed and shot over Matthias’s head, landing with a thud at the end of the ledge. Matthias leapt up and hurled himself onto the Wearet. His foe was waiting. The Wearet thrust all paws straight into the air and Matthias felt himself rise. He struck the very brink of the ledge and rolled over into the void with a shout of dismay.

*   *   *

General Ironbeak fluttered about in the sunwarmed shallows of the Abbey pond. He took a deep drink, throwing his head back as the bright droplets sparkled from his fine dark plumage. Mangiz stood to one side, taking in the scene with disdain. He had often drunk water, but bathing in it was out of the question. The raven General shook himself and swaggered briskly about at the water’s edge. Today was a day for great plans. The omens were good and he felt energetic.

“Chakka! That was good. Now, my Mangiz, are your visions favoring us? Does your mind’s eye see clear still?”

“Kayah! All is still well, my General, though my visions say that haste would be unseemly.”

“Kaah! Unseemly, what kind of old farmhen’s talk is that? Listen to me, my strong right wing, you just keep your visions happy and Ironbeak will do the planning.”

“But, General, I told you yesterday, the visions said that—”

“Silence. Kraggah! I have heard enough. Go and bring my magpies to me and all my fighting rooks. I have a plan to put paid to all the nonsense that surrounds this redstone house. A good plan, straightforward, with no trickery or sneaking about like thrushes in a hedgerow. From now on we will fight as we did in the northlands; no creeping around the back, good direct attacking, straight wing-to-beak fighting with no prisoners taken. Now go!”

Mangiz was beset by a dreadful feeling of foreboding, though he knew there was no talking to Ironbeak when he was in conquering mood. The crow withdrew, bowing respectfully.

“General, your wish is my command, I will bring all our birds to you.”

*   *   *

Little Sister May looked a simple soul, but that was because deep down she was a very wise schemer. During the night she had laced Stryk Redkite’s drinking water with a huge dose of the drug she had concocted for the magpies in the orchard. Stryk was a thirsty bird, and she had drunk deep. Now the great red kite lay soundly under the influence of Sister May’s sleeping potion.

Abbot Mordalfus, John Churchmouse, Brother Rufus and Sister May gathered round the unconscious bird, each of them versed in the art of healing as passed down through generations of Redwall Brothers and Sisters.

John Churchmouse donned his spectacles and dusted off a slim volume. “Hmm. Old Methuselah’s Index of Bird Ailments and Remedies. What d’you think, Father Abbot?”

The Abbot looked up from a tome he was studying.

“Aye, that’s a good one, John, though there’s much to recommend this fine book, Sister Heartwood’s Compleat Category. It contains nearly five chapters on birds.”

Brother Rufus helped Sister May as she raised Stryk’s broken wing. Then she wiped her paws busily upon a clean white apron.

“Oh dear, that is a nasty-looking break. Mr. Spike, would you roll one of those small firkins over here so we can keep this wing in the right position?”

Ambrose grumpily complied with the request. “It don’t do much for the clearness of beetroot portwine to be messin’ an’ rollin’ it about. Here, I ’ope you’re not goin’ to feed that great feathered lump on my best beetroot portwine.”

“I should say not, Ambrose,” John Churchmouse chuckled. “Though we may need a drop or two of it ourselves before we’re finished here.”

“Then I may’s well stay here an’ help you,” the hedgehog cellar-keeper grunted.

The broken wing was propped up on the barrel top and weighted securely with books. Abbot Mordalfus inspected the wingtip.

“Look, there’s a pinion feather missing. Sister May, will you check the bird’s tailfeathers and see if there’s one the same size as the final outward pinion on the other wing? Ambrose, would you have a look in the kitchen for any good strong fishbones. Oh, and we’ll need fine greased twine and some dried onionskins, and have a scout round for that jar of rivermud compound we use on burns. I have great faith in the healing powers of that stuff.”

They called their requests after Ambrose as he trundled off:

“Fetch the finest sewing needle that Cornflower has got.”

“And don’t forget the witch hazel.”

“Some almond oil, too.”

“Then nip into Cavern Hole and pick up my herbal bag, please.”

Ambrose shrugged his spikes moodily. “I don’t suppose you’d like me to fetch your lunch, dinner, tea’n’supper too. Huh!”

“Oh, and Ambrose, would you ask Winifred to fetch our lunch, dinner, tea and supper out here? This is going to be a long job!”

*   *   *

Ironbeak left off tugging a worm from the lawn as Mangiz approached. He saw the crow was alone and glared severely at him.

“Yakk! Well?”

“My General, what has happened is none of my doing. If you peck me and claw me you will be doing me a great wrong.”

Ironbeak’s bright eyes shifted back and forth between the Abbey and the crow.

“I will peck the tongue from your foolish beak if you do not stop babbling and tell me what is happening.”

“Kaah! It is the rooks and the magpie brothers, my General. They have barred themselves within the dormitory room and will not come out.”

“Now what has got into those duckbrained idiots?” Ironbeak snorted.

“They say that the head of the ghost mouse appeared to them last night, and it warned them to stay in the dormitory room.”

The raven leader struck his powerful beak sideways against a stone. The noise it made surprised Mangiz.

“Kaahagga! Then I must go and talk to them!”

Mangiz followed the General at a respectable distance. He did not like the way Ironbeak had said the word “talk.”

The raven perched in the broken window space of the dormitory room; his seer crow sat upon the grass, listening intently.

“Kaah! So, my fighters, you have been listening to the ghost mouse again. What did it have to say this time?”

Apart from a few muffled caws, there was no clear reply. Ironbeak dug his claws into the woodwork of the window frame.

“Kraa! You do not choose to speak to your leader. Then I will come in and speak to you.”

He hopped down and vanished inside the dormitory. Mangiz hunched up, closing his eyes as he listened to the awful sounds of birds screeching and beds being upset. He couldn’t see the feathers which flew out of the dormitory window.

“Yaggah! Who gives the orders, a mouse’s head or Ironbeak? I am in command here. Get out! Out, you worthless rabble!”

Rooks and magpies poured out of the window, struggling against each other to get through the enclosed space. Mangiz winced at the savage sounds of his General dealing out fierce punishment. Not for nothing was he known as the most feared fighter in the northlands.