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Early evening in spring was a truly a sight to behold in Mossflower! The setting sun backlit the leaves of every tree as it descended, creating a blazing green inferno, while the sky itself streaked every shade orange and purple imaginable in the fiery light sources retreat. Delicate catchflys and evening primroses slowly opened their buds to reveal milky white petals, and dozens of fireflies, seemingly to impatient to wait until proper dark, could be spotted just beginning their eerie dance around the trunks of the rowans and elms deeper into the forest.

Sadly, all the splendor of nature around them went unnoticed by the inhabitants of Redwall Abbey. Every able-bodied creature had been called up to the ramparts above the main gate of their beloved home, brandishing any weapon that came to paw; arrows, daggers, and a few swords bristled, smooth round stones weighed the cups of several slings, and even a few gardening implements like spades and hoes could be seen. Torches and lanterns had already been lit and were being held aloft in preparation for the coming dark. Everybeast stood in silence, all eyes on the dry ribbon of yellowish dust that was the road that led from River Moss right to the front of the Abbey, waiting to find out if the grizzled mouse with the thickest brogue any'd ever heard, was telling the truth.

They didn't have to wait long to find out; soon enough a dust cloud, raised by many marching paws, could be seen in the rapidly failing light, followed by many dots of light that could only be torches. As the procession came closer, the sharper-eyed of the Woodlanders assembled atop the wall couldn't help but notice the way they were structured. The majority of the block formation was made up of the remains of The Chainbreaker's crew, thin and dressed in little more than rags, in the center, while the four sides consisted of squirrels, two rows deep, in uninteresting but well-made grey tunics. Each squirrel carried a spear, every lethal blade polished to such an extent they reflected the torches and doubled the light. And marching out in front, alone, was a squirrel who could only be Igral Le Traitre.

Igral Le Traitre cut an unusual figure for a squirrel. He was noticeably shorter than all other squirrels under his command and almost as thin as his former shipmates, with complete and utter confidence stamped on his face. His outfit, though even more finely tailored than the uniforms of his underlings, was ridiculous for the purposes of traveling through any type of terrain. A rainbow of garish colors only babes and those with the maturity of a babe would find appealing, it was constructed of velvet and topped with an absurd feathered cap. A short, thin-bladed scimitar hung at his side from its sheath on a broad belt whose gold buckle glinted in the last rays of sun.

"Well well well," he shouted up at the creatures assembled on the wall once they stopped their march, his voice high, haughty, and overall unpleasant, "I do enjoy a fine welcoming party! Say, is that my dear matey Bil up there? Hello Bil, we were all wondering where you'd gone off to. You know how I worry about you!"

He laughed a cruel-sounding laugh, waiting for the mouse to respond. When he remained silent the squirrel spoke up again. "Now now Bil, don't be like that. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking about what you know I do to turncoats and those who displease me. I'll make a deal with you, my fine fellow," he shouted, laughing that awful laugh again, "whomever the leader of this liddle fortress is, slay them for me right now and I promise I will make your demise quick and relatively painless!"

Argo snarled quietly to himself from his perch high up in an ancient oak tree situated near the road --his position obscured from that direction by foliage-- where he'd been silently waiting. He slid one of his throwing daggers, a curiously flat and small thing, from its equally flat sheath on the leather strap across his chest where the flush hilts of its two twins could be seen and mentally calculated just the angle he'd need to hit the hated beast in front right in the side of his neck. He pressed the flat of the razor sharp blade to his lips, whispered 'fer ya, Dennalia,' and reared his arm back to throw. Just as he was about to let loose, a strong paw clamped around his wrist!

"Got one up 'ere, Sire," the large squirrel who'd managed to sneak up on his shouted as he tried to wrestle the blade from the scarred fox.

Every beast turned to look up where the voice had come from, which was easy enough to find thanks to a gentle shower of leaves shaken loose from the struggle between the two. Argo, his chance at a clean kill gone, shoved his elbow hard into his finder's throat, knocking him from the safety of the branches. As the fallen beast hit the ground with a sickening thud the fox finally let the dagger fly, hoping to at least wound his advisory. He chastised himself soundly as the blade missed the beast entirely, landing a safe distance in front of him.

The fox took off as several of the squirrel guards began climbing after him, leaping from branch to branch towards the long length of rope he'd strung up between a tall ash fairly close to the northeast corner of the wall surrounding the Abbey for a quick getaway. Being a fox, he was nowhere near as fast in the trees as them, but he was close enough to his escape plan for their speed to not matter much; he gripped the rope and shimmied across, seasons of scaling rigging showing through, and promptly cut it free as he reached the safety of the ramparts to stop his pursuers from following.

"Did you simple country bumpkins really think a squirrel wouldn't have eyes in the trees," the pompous squirrel shouted, the most smug expression on his face as he casually flipped the dagger that had been meant for him up in the air and caught it by the blade a few times.

"So, who's the kind beast that gave me the gift of this lovely dagger? Come on, don't be shy, come into the light!"

Shocked gasps gasps erupted from the remains of the Chainbreaker's former crew and a smattering of the squirrels as the large fox came fully into view, his stoic and scarred visage even more savage-looking than normal due to the way the torchlight danced across his face. Even the fledgling warlord below was at a loss of words for a few moments. He quickly recovered and his expression, formerly an odd mixture of anger, surprise, and more than a little fear, changed back to that same arrogant, devil-may-care smile.

"Well well well, my old messmate Argo! A little birdie told me you'd passed on to Hellsgate seasons ago! How glad I am to see you still alive and drawing breath, however few breaths you have left to draw. Tell me, how's your strapping young son?"

Icy claws of hate gripped tightly in Argo's chest at the squirrel's mocking of his son, but managed to keep it under control and not rise to the bait. However, all thoughts of not being goaded left his mind at Ingral's next comment.

"What's this now? No words for an old friend like myself? That's fine, I'm use to silence from the Steelfang clan; the seasons know your wife has been particularly talkative lately either!"

Before he even knew what he was doing he was halfway down the stairs leading to the front gate, and the hated enemy behind it, with half a dozen Redwallers trying to hold him back, the squirrel's cruel mocking laughter echoing in his ears.

"Geroff me, I'm gonna rip 'im apart wit' me bare paws," he shouted, flecks of spittle spilling forth.

"Oh yes, please do let him go," came that awful, reedy voice from across the wall, "we'll settle this just he and I!"

Janglur, seeing no other option, reared back and belted the enraged fox across the jaw hard enough to rattle him about and force him to take a seat down on one of the broad, sandstone steps. Bil dropped to a knee in front of him and took hold of both his squared shoulders.

"Noo ye listen tae me, ye gang oot thare richt noo 'n' he'll murdurr ye afore ye'll even ken whit happend. He wants ye in this state, ye cannae let him win!"

It took everything Argo had in him, but he managed to regain something akin to calm as he walked back up to the ramparts.

"The might Argo, backing down from a challenge," Ingral mocked as he reappeared atop the walls. "Tsk tsk tsk, I must say, I never in my wildest dreams think I'd live to see you expose your yellow belly, my old friend."

Instead of engaging in a battle of words with the squirrel he simply pointed at the far younger creature and said, "T'marrow, dawn, me an' ye finish this once an' fer all, one-on-one."

He turned his back to the assembly below, and slowly and calmly walked away.

Ingral's face sank into a look of contemplation as he replied, more to himself than any other, "Aye, that we will Argo, that we will."

He turned his back on the creatures on the wall, mimicking the fox, and gave a quick paw-signal to his second in command, who nodded his understanding.

"Alright you lot," the unusually long-furred captain shouted out in a smart, clipped manner, "about face and back to camp!" **************************************************************************** Argo sat cross-legged on the warm red stones of the hearth in Cavern Hole. All the Abbey's peaceful creatures had long since gone to their beds, leaving him, thankfully, alone to prepare for his battle on the morn. He closed his emerald eyes as he listened to the rasping song of whetstone on steel, visualizing the fine-grained texture of the sharpening implement, grating the edges of what was his father's blade down to create new razor-sharp ones. Once he was finished with the sword he picked up its diminutive twin, the dagger, and got to work on it. He faltered momentarily in his rhythm, listening for a moment, at first hearing nothing but the crackle of burning logs before he heard the sound that'd made him stop again, and picked back up his broken stride before speaking.

"Ya can quit tha sneakin' 'bout, marm."

The sound of long robes against stone grew louder before stopping right next to him. He didn't need to turn his head to know who was taking a seat next to him on the floor.

"Bit undig'ified fer a Abbess ta be sittin' on tha ground, ain't it, marm?"

Song chuckled, the sound flittering through the still air like tiny musical bells.

"I suppose it is, Argo, but then there's no one else around to see it, is there?"

"True 'nuff, marm," he said, a small smile finding its way onto his face for the first time since that morning.

"I see you're only sharpening your sword and one dagger."

"Aye, ain't worryin' 'bout t'others. Bil tells me Ingral's one'a tha fastest 'e's e'er seen wid a blade, don't need nothin' slowin' me down."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the scarred fox continuing with his preparations, before she spoke again.

"You know you don't have to do this alone."

"Yes, marm, I do. Af'er wot 'e's done, can only be I. Ain't yer fight."

"But Argo, he wants this Abbey, why else would he come this way, that makes it our fight too! Besides, and forgive me for saying so, he's so much younger than you; that could give him quite the advantage."

He finally looked at her, and in his eyes she could see nothing she had to say was going to stop him from doing what he felt needed to be done. "Aye marm, I'm gettin' old. Me vision's gettin' abit fuzzy, ain't as fast as I once was, an' me joints get ta crackin' sometime's when I move. None'a that matter's, Imma kill 'im or die tryin'."

Song nodded, slowly rising to her footpaws. "Goodnight, Argo Steelfang, I wish you luck upon the dawn," she said, doing her best to keep the tears threatening to shake her voice at bay.

"G'night, Abbes Song." ******************************************************************** "Furlonge," Ingral called out, "you may enter now!"

The squirrel in question, Ingral's second in command, gulped noisily as he steeled himself and pushed aside the flap of his leader's tent, which was a garish shade of purple. He placed his paws behind his back to hide the fact they were shaking horribly in fear, as they had been since Argo had revealed himself to still be alive. He stood at rapt attention in front of his price, seated in an absurdly ornamental throne, and awaited him fate, hoping his many seasons of devotion were enough to save him.

"Furlonge," the foppish squirrel said, rising up from his seat, "were you not the one I personally placed in charge of eradicating that damnable fox and his spawn?"

"Yes, Sire," he said, a noticeable quaver in his voice.

"And were you not the one that stood here in the center of my tent and told me, beyond a shred of doubt, that he'd been sent to the gates of Hellsteeth?"

"Y-y-yes, S-sire," he said, voice trembling even worse.

"Well well well, seems you may have missed a small detail, doesn't it?"

"S-s-sire, please, I--AAAHHHHH.....!"

Any pleasing or groveling the unfortunate squirrel might've done was cut off by the vicious-looking dagger suddenly planted between his ribs. As he sank to the floor, eyes glazing over, Ingral wrenched the blade from his side.

"Chanser, you may enter now," he shouted, pleased to see the tall, red-furred squirrel that pushed his way past the tent flap and into his private accommodations, didn't even flinch at seeing his dead former comrade heaped upon the floor.

"It seems I have an opening for a new captain," Ingral said. "Interested?"

"Aye, Sire," he said, throwing up a smart salute, knowing what would happened if he hesitated for even a moment, "t'would be an honor."

"Excellent! Now, about the little bit of unpleasantness that must be done on the morrow before I can claim the Abbey of Redwall. While I have no doubt in my abilities to butcher peasant fox, I'm placing all my trust in you to do what you must to protect your prince."

"Aye, of course, Sire."

"Now mind you don't kill him, only maim," Ingral said. "His life is mine to take, and if the final blow were to be taken away from me, my sword would need to quench its thirst with another beast, if you follow me."

Chanser's stoic features faltered for only a moment, signalling to his leader he understood perfectly.

"Wonderful, already I like you more than this oaf," he said, kicking the carcass at his footpaws with complete and utter contempt. "Speaking of which, your first act as my new captain is to remove this filth from my temporary abode before it starts to stink!"