Blowfly, get me two runners.â
An enormously fat rat, with a whip curled about his shoulders, motioned two lean crew members forward.
Raga Bol sat looking at them in silence, until they squirmed under his unwinking gaze. His jaw clenched as he moved the stump where his left paw had been. âYou two, go back to where I slew the stripedog. Find the carcasse, anâ bring me back his head.â
Each of the runners touched a paw to his ears. âAye aye, Capân!â
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Raga Bol stood watching them climbing the sides of the ravine, then turned his attention to an old female Searat crouching nearby. âWirga, is that hook ready yet?â
âItâll be ready by dawn, Capân.â The old one gave him a toothless grin. âSo thee wants the big stripedogâs head, eh?â
Raga Bol drew his cloak tight and sat, staring into the fire. âNobeast ever took a paw oâmine anâ stayed in one piece, dead or alive. Now get that hook ready ifân ye want to keep yore head, ye withered old torturer!â
2
Far over to the west, a brighter spring day had dawned. Ascending meadowlarks heralded the sun beneath a soft, pastel blue sky. Drawn by the sudden warmth, mist rose from the greenswards, transforming dewdrops to small opalescent pearls amid the dainty blossoms of saxifrage, buttercup, capsella and anemones. Mossflower woodland trees were blessed with a crown of fresh green leaves. Life was renewed to the sounds of little birds, calling to their parents with ceaseless demands for food.
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Toran Widegirth loosed his apron strings, satisfied that he had completed his duties as Redwall Abbeyâs Head Cook. Leaving his kitchens, the fat otter sought the beautiful spring morn outdoors. Heaving a sigh of relief, Toran sat down on an upturned wheelbarrow at the orchard entrance. He was joined by his friend Carrul, the Father Abbot of Redwall. The mouse sat down beside the otter, both relaxing in silence, blinking in the sunlight and savouring the first good weather that spring.
Carrul glanced sideways at his companion. âNot going with Skipper and otter crew this season?â
Toran watched an ant negotiating its way over his footpaw. âMuch too early, it ainât summer yet. But you know Skipper anâ the crew, first sign oâ sun anâ a skylark anâ theyâre off like march hares to the west seashores for the season.â
Abbot Carrul chuckled. âFully provisioned I trust?â
Toran nodded wearily. âAye, I saw them off myself at dawn. Pushinâ a cartload oâ victuals Iâd made special for âem. Singinâ their rudders off, dancinâ like madbeasts!â
Carrulâs smile widened. âI know, they woke me up, I saw them from my window. Good luck and fair weather to them. So why didnât you go? I gave you permission to take as long as you wanted to go on leave.â
Toran shrugged. âOh, Iâm gettinâ too old for that sort oâ thing. Leave it to the younger ones.â
Carrul snorted. âToo old? Too big in the tummy, you mean! If youâre too old, then what about me, eh? I was your teacher when you were only a tiny Dibbun at Abbey School!â
The ottercook tweaked his friendâs bony paw. âAye, anâ ye havenât gained a hairâs weight since then. How dâye do it, you skinny, ancient mouse?â
The Abbot looked over his small square spectacles good-humouredly. âI donât spend my whole life down in those kitchens like you do, my friend. Oh, Toran, isnât it just a glorious day? I hope the summer is a really golden one.â
Toran snuggled more comfortably into the wheelbarrow. âMakes ye feel good tâbe alive, donât it, Carrul?â
They both lapsed into silence again, gazing around and taking in the beauties of their Abbey.
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Behind them, Redwall rearedâa legend in pink, dusty sandstone with its high walls and