My crewmates are grim; they're not looking forward to the battle. We've heard a lot about this horde. The fortress, built on the backs of woodlanders, is sturdy. Its inhabitants are bloodthirsty; more of my friends and neighbors have fallen to their wrath than I can count. We've all lost someone here.
They spread tales of the wild parties held within those walls. There's gluttony and drunkedness, sometimes for days on end. Sometimes I despise the debauchery, sometimes I wish I were part of it. To have that kind of wealth, to be able to stuff and guzzle while the creatures huddled outside go hungry ... it's tempting. If we can take down the horde, there will be enough for all my crewmates and I to finally retire in quiet comfort, at peace and all our fallen family avenged.
It's amazing that they've lasted this long. Their ruler is nearly powerless; all rule goes in the hands of his followers. Anarchy! They predict the future, and rely on strange signs and symbols for their strength. Their children long for battle practically from birth. At the sight of one of my kind, they become abusive and threaten us without reason. Huh -- suspicious beasts can't be trusted themselves.
It was all right when they kept to themselves, but they've been sending butchers all over Mossflower -- young ones, hotheaded -- endangering my family and others like me. They travel in small bands, and I never know when or where they'll be, when it's safe, whether I could die today. My uncle Agric was insulted and robbed not a year ago, he and a friend, as they sat by their fire and had dinner.
These roving killers, it's too much. Within that fortress is enough gold to make us all rich. Its walls would protect our families. We could farm the land and mine its minerals. We'd be free of the hatred, free of the second-best citizenship. And we'd be free of the outrageous heathens inside those red sandstone walls.
We'll be at Redwall tomorrow, and we'll finally give those revolting mice their due. Heathens. They're all heathens.