1

The early rays of late summer sunshine streamed through Abbott Walden's dormitory window, rousing him from slumber. The aged vole sat up, rubbed his eyes, stroked his prominent whiskers, and set about his day. He had always been an early riser, finding long periods of rest unproductive and dull. Besides, who would want to sleep in on what promised to be such a beautiful day?

Walden descended the stairs and walked out onto the grounds around the Abbey. He would start his day with a stroll around the outer wall, he decided, affording him the time to ponder the many quandaries facing Redwall lately. Much of the old woodwork had gone soft, almost rotten with seasons of disrepair; it was about time he organized a crew to have it all replaced. Or better yet, he thought, why not make an Abbey-wide event of it, enlisting the help of everybeast down to the youngest Dibbun? With more paws to help, the work would go quicker, perhaps take no longer than a day. And if he promised a feast at the end—

Lost in thought, when he rounded the belltower and entered the western front lawn, he did not at first notice the intruders. It was only a sudden, raucous snigger that stirred him from his plans for the feast. He looked up, adjusted his spectacles, and squinted.

They were three vermin. Draped in gray cloaks, an older stoat and a dour-faced fox stood behind a young, female weasel, who was seated at a small wooden table Walden recognized as belonging to the cellar. Atop the table was a flagon of damson wine and a plate of scones.

"Who are you and how did you enter this Abbey?" asked Walden. He kept his tone moderated and calm, watching how the vermin would react.

The stoat and the fox said nothing, but the weasel, sampling a scone, extended a paw in a lazy wave. Abbott Walden took note of the many, many daggers strapped to a belt around her waist. "'Ello there," she said, mouth half-full with scone. "'Bout time somebeast showed up, was gettin' tired of waitin'."

"You've yet to answer either of my questions," said Abbott Walden.

"Silly me, must've forgot." The weasel swallowed her scone and took a swig of damson. "I'm Alagadda of the Many Blades, pleasure t'meetcha."

Had the situation not been so serious, Walden might have had to stifle a laugh at the preposterous name. Instead, he said: "Well, Alagadda, if you and your friends have good intentions and are willing to relinquish your arms, you're welcome to stay at Redwall Abbey for as long as you follow our rules. If not, however, I must politely ask you to leave."

The stoat behind Alagadda erupted into laughter—it had been he who sniggered earlier. "Relinquish our arms, 'e sez! 'Ow'm I suppos'd to relinquish somethin' attached at the socket!"

A glare from both Alagadda and the fox silenced him. Alagadda turned back to Walden. "Pardon him, he don't know as much as 'e should. As for the matter at hand, goodbeast, I'm 'fraid I ain't gonna relinquish my arms. Got too many of 'em. As for good intentions, well. Can't say you're in luck as far's that's concerned, either."

The lean, thin weasel rose from her seat at the table. As she stood, Walden noticed she had far more knives and daggers strapped to her than he had estimated when she was sitting; with every step she jangled. Slowly, with calculated and graceful steps, she made her way across the front lawn toward Abbott Walden, drawing a long, curved dagger from a sheath at her hip, twirling it around in her paw almost carelessly as she crossed the grass. Walden knew that if he ran he had no chance of outpacing her—he was too old and she too young, even if he surprised her with a head start. Instead, he stood his ground, adjusting his spectacles and staring boldly up at her as she neared.

She held the dagger to his throat. "I've seen beasts such as yoreself afore," she said. "That same look of defiance. The ones who won't cower or cringe. I've seen that very selfsame look yore givin' me now ebb out the eyes of a beast as I slit their throat, like this—"

With one effortless motion she drew the blade along Walden's neck. Despite himself, Walden shot a trembling paw to the spot, only to feel the slightest trickle of blood; she had only nicked the skin.

"—Save just a liddle bit deeper." She sheathed the blade and suddenly shifted to a smile. "But let's not have to talk like that, okay? 'Tis a dull subject."

Despite trembling all over, Abbott Walden forced himself to remain a shred of composure. "Well then, what is it you want from us? We have no treasure, no valuables—"

"I want only what I already have," said Alagadda. "Namely, yore Abbey."

She raised a paw and snapped her fingers. In an instant a flood of vermin poured from the gatehouse behind her—rats, stoats, ferrets, and weasels in all manner of ragged garb, whooping with their weapons raised as they stormed the Abbey grounds. Walden tried to count the multitude as they flooded in, knowing it might be important later, but they were too numerous. At least fifty, one hundred—more even. How had they gotten in?

As the vermin horde forced their way through the doors to the Great Hall, obliterating the tranquility of the morning with their warlike cries, Alagadda swept a paw around Walden's shoulder, pulling him close as though they were longtime friends. She materialized a scone a took a wolfish bite out of it. "The stories weren't lies, goodbeast—the vittles here are the best I've e'er had!"