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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Dawn broke over Mossflower Woods with a flourish of vibrant birdsong. As the first hues of the coming sunrise crept over the horizon, the stars that had shone so brightly the night before began to fade into the brightening sky.

In a quaint little cottage carved out of a mushroom, a shadow stirred. It snored and grumbled, twisting and turning and doing it's best to ignore the early morning aurora creeping in through the window, until it suddenly remembered just how much it had been looking forward to this particular morning. 

With a squeal of delight, Horace Sligtickle threw off his blanket and bolted out of bed.

It would have startled any resident of Mossflower to see the young rat up so early, for both by the black of his fur and the volume of his snores, Horace was infamously ‘nocturnal.’

Having been left outside the gates of Redwall as a child, Horace had been raised like any other abbeydweller, though a great many shortcomings and old, irreconcilable differences had prevented him from ever truly finding his place in the order. 

With the help of Foremole Raker he’d moved into his finely crafted mushroom cottage this past spring. Hidden in the shade of a sycamore it lay a mere stone’s throw away from his childhood home, where Horace was always a welcome sight at tea-time. And though his attempts to fly the nest were half-hearted at best, in solitude Horace had truly begun to thrive. There was no early morning bell to dread, no mountain of chores to hide away from and all the time in the world to enjoy. 

And enjoy it Horace did. By now he had amassed a vast collection of flowers and pinecones from frequent long walks through the woodland. When he was feeling creatively inclined, he carved little figurines out of wood. He had even tried his paw at baking (which was fun!) and brewing (which was less so!).

But the rat’s true magnum opus lay a few paces away from his cottage, where the woodland gave way to a small clearing. 

It was here Horace had started his garden.

He’d spent the past few months carefully cultivating the soil, layering it with love, affection, every seed he could get his paws on, and a sack of Foremole Raker’s nutrient-rich compost. When the first saplings had begun to show, he tended to them with a parental touch that was the envy of broodmothers and Badgermums everywhere.

All of the early springtime he’d stood in the rain, shielding his plants from the worst of it with an old and rickety umbrella. And when the weather turned hot and the sun threatened to burn away all his love and labour, he had tugged an overhanging branch over to provide shade, and blown gentle, cooling breezes over the plants until he was very red in the face and could huff and puff no more. He had given each of the saplings a name and had often (when the opportunity permitted and he was quite sure nobeast was around to make fun of him for it) sung them the pawful of lullabies he had memorized from his time as a dibbun.

In time, his garden had grown to boast a truly impressive set of specimens, and many would require more than one set of paws for easier harvesting. 

When he’d first declared his intentions, nobeast had believed in him, and in truth Horace had not believed in himself either. Having spent most of his adolescence hopping from one flight of fancy to the next, always throwing himself into everything that came his way but never fully committing to it, Horace had built up a reputation as an unreliable and careless beast. 

But he’d proved his naysayers wrong, he’d proved himself wrong! And now he simply could not wait to see the looks on everybeast’s faces when he brought in a cartful of the finest spuds, tubers and turnips Redwall Abbey had ever seen. 

 And just in time for the Seasonal Nameday Feast! It was a longshot, but he was rather hoping it would be named in his honor. The ‘Summer Of Horace Sligtickle’s Extraordinarily Great Garden’ had a nice ring to it…

“Gooooood morning my dears!” Horace cooed, gently brushing aside the thick shrubbery that kept the plot a secret from any ruffians who might want to pillage his produce.

Unfortunately, as Horace was about to learn, it provided very little in the way of protection from falling space raccoons.

A high-pitched scream pierced the air, cutting through the birdsong and replacing it with the fluttering cacophony of a dozen flapping wings. 

Unable to believe what he was looking at, the now-hyperventilating rat took a deep breath, screwed his eyes shut, counted to three, and then opened them again.

He screamed louder that time. 

What had once been a rather spectacular garden had been reduced to ruin. Plant matter lay scattered across uneven, smashed up soil that looked as if it had been violently dug up and subsequently trampled by a boar. Bits and pieces of his precious vegetables lay scattered like corpses on a battlefield. Heart racing, eyes brimming with tears, Horace scrambled forwards in a desperate search for survivors.

 “D-daisy? Archibald? Marigold? M-mills?” 

There were none to be found.

“No no no! Please! Please! D-don’t leave me!” Cradling pawfuls of what had once been his nearest and dearest companions, the rat fell to the ground in an uncontrollable, sobbing heap. 

For Horace, who had never dedicated himself to anything as much as this garden, it was the tragedy of a lifetime. All the buckets of water he'd hauled from the River Moss, all the hours he’d spent caring for, loving and cherishing his sprouts and saplings…

In the end, it had all been for nothing, and they had been mercilessly parted by the cruel, cold paw of death.

Sniffling pitifully, the rat blew his nose on the sleeve of his tunic, and in doing so accidentally caught a whiff of something otherworldly.

Horace sat up, whiskers twitching as he tried to piece together the unfamiliar scent. It was strong, musty, somewhat reminiscent of a particularly malodorous badger, but otherwise entirely alien. Realizing that whatever it belonged to was probably the beast responsible for the massacre, a prickle of fear ran down his spine. 

He’d never met another vermin before (and wasn't entirely sure he counted), but they were often described as being foul of scent as well as intent… if the rat’s nose was to be believed, Horace was sure he was smelling an entire horde of them. 

“H-hullo?” he called into the silence. 

There was no answer. 

Wiping his nose on the back of his paw, Horace made to call out again only to think better of it.

These creatures had mercilessly set upon his helpless vegetables the night before. How was he to know the same fate would not befall him? He had to warn Redwall about this before it was too late!

 But Horace remembered with a pang that it was just as likely nobeast would believe him, and they would all roll their eyes and laugh at the latest and greatest of Horace’s excuses; believing it to be a tall tale he came up with to justify a poor crop.

Overcome with righteous anger, Horace set his plants down, pulled up his sleeves and stormed over.

He had to see the monsters for himself!

Remembering about halfway through his crusade that he lay firmly on the verge of plump and had never been martially inclined, the rat tempered his temper, and crept over on tip-paw.

Carefully, quietly, Horace brushed aside a layer of foliage and snuck a peak. 

He’d been expecting a small army, but instead found a single, large… something.

A good (but regrettable) whiff told him for a certainty that this was the ‘vermin horde’ he was dealing with; no doubt resting after gorging itself silly the night before. The something was as tall as a badger, though rather less broad in the shoulder. It's tail was bushy, ringed black and brown, and on it's face it wore a mask. 

Whatever it was, was fast asleep, and emboldened by this, Horace drew nearer and in doing so almost tripped over a strange rectangle with different shapes carved into it's surface. Horace cocked his head to the side, but found the object made no more sense from that angle either. Without really thinking, the rat reached a paw over, and gently pushed down on the large triangle symbol.

‘I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CANNOT LIE!’

Startled by the sudden, deafening sound, Horace leapt a foot in the air and landed on his rump. In a desperate attempt to preserve the element of surprise his paws scrabbled at the music box for silence, but everything he did only seemed to make it grow louder.

‘AND A ROUND THING IN YOUR FACE, YOU GET SPRUNG!’

Overtaken by primal panic, Horace glanced back up at the mysterious creature, noting for the first time the sharpness of it's claws, the length of it's teeth and the redness of it's eyes. 

It's wide open, and unblinking eyes. 

Scrambling back through the shrubbery, Horace turned tail and ran; managing to regain enough composure to scream his head off as he bolted past the sad remains of his garden, the mushroom cottage he called home and the rest of the short woodland between him and the familiar safety of Redwall Abbey.

Senior Corporal Officer Jaden-Whitstickle ‘Jadwick’ Hundred-Yard Boogaloff had not earned his medals by being idle. And Senior Corporal Officer Jaden-Whitstickle ‘Jadwick’ Hundred-Yard Boogaloff had earned a lot of medals. 

The old hare was short a leg and half an ear, his eyesight was famously poor and he was slowly but surely growing deaf. Such trivial matters however, had yet to prevent him from rising at the crack of dawn and going about his regular patrol of the walltops. 

The air was still crisp, but growing steadily warmer as the sun crawled it's way up the horizon with a laziness borne of certainty. 

Boogaloff ascended the stairs with no such laziness. He had taken a solemn vow at the age of three, to protect the beasts of Redwall Abbey and guard them with his life if need be. He’d been armed with nothing more than a wooden sword back then, and everybeast had thought it adorable- but as sure as the sunrise Boogaloff had kept to his word.

Now, eighty-seven or so seasons later, the old hare was armed with a mighty warbow that only three beasts in the abbey had the strength to draw. 

(Boogaloff was not one of those three but it was still his bow.)

The hare allowed himself a brief respite once he’d gotten to the top of the stairs. Many had questioned his persistence over the years, but as far as Boogaloff was concerned no horde had troubled Mossflower under his watch, and this, of course, he attributed almost entirely to his own diligence. 

“Top of the morning to you, father Abbot!” Boogaloff called, finding to his delight that, for once, somebeast had beaten him to the walltops this morning. 

“And the rest of the day to yourself, Corporal!” Bimbondo smiled, returning the hare’s salute with a flourish of his spyglass. 

It was only once he drew nearer that the hare noticed the gently snoring novices laying in a pile beside the hedgehog, having at some point succumbed to exhaustion and toppled over each other.

“Stargazing, were we?” Boogaloff inquired, smiling fondly at the scene.

“Oh you won't believe it!” Bimbondo began, in a voice breathless with excitement. “I scarcely believe it and I saw it with my own eyes! This one star i-it flew all the way around the sky, round and round- eight times, I counted, and then suddenly it burst! Pop! Like a bubble! It was- oh it was spectacular! A-and some of it seems to have fallen nearby!” Turning his attention back to the surrounding woodland, Bimbondo returned the spyglass to his eye. “I’ve been trying to figure out where! W-was thinking perhaps we could organize some kind of excursion. See if we could maybe find something!”

“Are you sure it would be safe?” For some reason the mention of a search made the hare feel uneasy. It was a warrior’s instinct he couldn't quite shake off. “‘Tis possible you were not the only one who saw this star of yours,” Boogaloff pointed out. “And just as possible you won't be the only beast looking for it, wot.”

The Abbot paused, having failed to consider this in all his excitement. The hedgehog's quills, already soft and drooped with age, fell further. “I hadn't thought of that. Although it was rather late- or er- I suppose early since it was past midnight. I don't think anybeast- although maybe a few owls…” Bimbondo shook his spiky head. “You don't really think it's dangerous, do you? As far as I know, we raised the only vermin in the area and I was actually hoping Horace would join us.”

Boogaloff raised a pair of placating paws. “I'm not trying to discourage you, sah, just making sure you know what you're getting yourself into, wot.” The hare shrugged. “I got a funny feeling, ‘tis all.”

“Well, I suppose there's only one thing for it then,” Bimbondo pretended to heave a weary sigh, only to turn on the hare with a wide smile. “You'll just have to come with us and make sure nothing excessively terrible happens!”

“Ha! Well that's checkmate I suppose, wot. ‘T’would be my honor, sah. Just let me know when you and these sleepypaws plan to head out.”

The two old beasts shared a chuckle and parted ways with a merry wave.

With the promise of adventure on the horizon, Boogaloff went about his patrol in high spirits, filling the air with the dull, rhythmic tapping of his peg leg. 

Upon completing his first round, the old hare settled at his post overlooking the main gate, where his comfy chair awaited him. Excessively pillowed, decadently soft and moulded to his rump, Boogaloff had never known a finer companion. 

He was just about to pop off his peg leg and relax when he saw a shadow flitting through the trees, and his ear twitched in recognition of the approaching sounds of war.

His time had finally come.

“VERMIN AT THE GATES! TO ARMS! TO ARMS I SAY!” Leaping to his feet with a delighted cackle, Boogaloff seized the nearby alarm bell with both paws. “REDWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALL!” 

The warning was loud enough to rouse the entire abbey, but none heard it clearer than Abbot Bimbondo, who nearly dropped his spyglass in surprise. 

Beside him, the pile of novices came alive in an unholy amalgamation of flailing limbs. A great deal of pushing and shoving followed, as they struggled to disentangle themselves from each other.

“Lyles, geroff me!” 

“Scoffer, that's my tail.”

“Stop pulling!”

Managing to squeeze free from between the larger forms of Lyles and Scoffer, Gumbalo was the first to realize that the ringing he was hearing wasn't coming from his ears. “Is it just me or does the morning bell sound different today?” 

“That's the warning bell,” came the muffled voice of Rufus, from somewhere near the bottom of the pile. 

A full minute of shoving and pushing followed before they all realized what that meant and promptly froze in lockstep.

“B-but that hasn't been rung in decades!” Bimbondo exclaimed, a rush of cold fear prickling through his spines. The greatest crisis of his tenure as Abbot had been finding a rat pup on the abbey doorstep, and generally the most difficult part of his job was deciding how often to throw a feast. Now faced with the cacophony of alarm, Bimbondo found himself feeling singularly ill-equipped for whatever was at paw and felt his old heart shudder. But, upon seeing that all his young companions were looking to him for guidance, the old hedgehog was quick to steel himself. “Hurry now, go see what's happened!”

They did not need to be told twice, and still only half awake, bolted towards the gate.

“B-but be careful!” Bimbondo added, as he hurried along after them at a much slower pace.

Despite being rounder than a ball of yarn, Scofferton was the first to reach the battlements.

“And not a blinking minute too soon, wot!” Boogaloff grinned, clapping the younger hare on the back. Utterly delighted to see that reinforcements were beginning to trickle in and that the abbey would not fall on his watch, the old hare waved the remaining novices over. 

“Alright chaps, ‘tis nothing to fear, merely a classic Redwall siege!” Thrusting his oversized warbow into Scofferton's shaking paws, Boogaloff whipped out a fine, twine string. “Help me string this ol’ beauty and we’ll give these blighters bloooood and viiiinegar!”

This was easier said than done however, for the warbow had been built with the strength of a badger in mind. Nevertheless, between Scofferton’s weight, Boogaloff's peg leg and the audible reddening of Lyle’s face, the string came on with a mighty twang. 

“We did it!” cheered Gumbalo, who had done by far the least. 

“Not quite, old boy. I'm afraid that was the easy part! Firing this monstrosity necessitates a four-beast operative formation, wot!” 

“There's six of us,” Rufus pointed out. 

Boogaloff went on as if he hadn't heard. “Scofferton, you're the heaviest so you've got to be the anchor! Lyles, help me with the string, we’ll pull it back together as far as we can and release in unison! Scoffer, push against us if you can but if you can't ‘tis alright so long as you hold the limbs steady. Rufus, Gumbalo, the two of you will nock the arrow! Holyberry, you're in charge of aim! Go for the biggest, ugliest blighter and the rest might lose heart!” The old hare finished by throwing up a salute, which the novices all returned with varying degrees of vigour. 

A moment later, the warbow was creaking with the sound of thunder as the abbeybeasts strained together with all their might.

Though he knew better than to give voice to his concerns, Lyles desperately hoped whatever battle was about to be fought would end in a single shot, for he could not imagine firing a second one (at least not from this bow). And judging from the way Scofferton, Holyberry and Gumbalo were holding up, this was not exactly an unpopular opinion.

“ALRIGHT HOLLY, GIVE US A TARGET!” Boogaloff boomed. 

Finally turning their gaze beyond the walls, the assembled Redwallers blinked stupidly, realizing that the meadow was practically empty and the warband they were preparing for consisted of a single, rapidly-approaching rat.

"It's Horace!"

Just like that, the well-oiled war machine spontaneously fell apart. Lyles and Holyberry grabbed opposite ends of the bow in an effort to alter it’s trajectory, Gumbalo seized the arrow with both paws and attempted to pry it from the bowstring, Scofferton tried in vain to communicate all of this to Boogaloff, and seeing where this was going, Rufus stuck his head over the parapets and began hollering at the approaching rat to take cover.

“Get a grip on yourselves!” Boogaloff, who’s earlier ringing of the bell had temporarily rendered him completely deaf, could only watch in horror as, from his perspective, the Abbey's first line of defense abruptly lost their minds. “Now is not the time to lose your nerve!”

“Holly, stop pulling!” 

“You stop pulling!”

“I’m trying to point it away from the abbey!”

“Come on chaps, focus! Or else we’ll be overrun!” 

“But Corporal Boogaloff, sah, there isn't a bally horde out there!” 

“Horace! Get down!” 

Somehow, in all the commotion, nobeast had payed any mind to the drawstring, which now slipped loose from the multiple set of fingers holding onto it. Gumbalo, who was still holding onto the arrow, was promptly sent flying. 

Boogaloff hooted in victory, Scofferton began to wail and the rest could only watch in open-mouthed horror.

Still panicking over his terrifying encounter with the mysterious creature in the woods, Horace had utterly failed to register any of what was going on the walltops. He did, however, notice the bolt of white lightning literally screaming it's way towards him.

By sheer miracle, the rat managed to skid to a halt, the arrow landing a mere whisker away from his nose, where it stood quivering, mouse and all. 

Shaking from the rush of fear and excitement that followed his impromptu flying lesson, but never one to let such things dampen his mood, Gumbalo grinned up at the ever-gormless Horace and raised a paw in greeting. “Morning Horace! Here for the Nameday?”

Lyles hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he finally managed to let it out.

Watching the pair of rodents make their way to the gate, the otter was relieved to see that they were both unharmed. Gumbalo had a spring in his step and was guiding Horace by the paw, chattering amicably about something Lyles couldn't quite make out from this distance. The rat seemed altogether more shaken by the incident, and kept shooting uncertain glances at the surrounding woodland as if expecting more arrows to suddenly come hurtling his way; But considering what had just occurred, this was fairly understandable.

By now, a good third of the abbey had assembled at the courtyard down below, in many cases dressed in their nightclothes and armed with whatever object had been closest to paw. 

“Lyles, is that you up there?”

“What is it, what's the emergency?”

“Please don't tell me we have to cancel the feast!” 

Seeing that Holyberry was busy failing to reassure a grieving Scofferton that they hadn't accidentally murdered two of their friends, and knowing that neither Rufus nor Boogaloff were good at this sort of thing (for rather different reasons) it fell upon Lyles to answer.

“Bit of a false alarm. Er- there isn't actually any kind of emergency. It was just Horace.”

In hindsight he could have worded that better, for the Redwallers below groaned in unison and promptly dispersed as if ‘it was just Horace’ explained everything; leaving Lyles with the distinct impression that they’d gotten a very wrong idea of what had actually occurred.

“A false alarm, you say? Did I hear that right?” The rather out-of-breath Abbot inquired, having now finally arrived at the battlements himself.

Lyles nodded, prompting the old hedgehog to breathe a massive sigh of relief and wipe his brow with the back of his paw. 

“Thank heavens!” Bimbondo chuckled, reaching over to give the softly-sniffling Scofferton a gentle pat on the back. “Meaning no offense, of course. I'm sure we could have handled whatever it was, but I do rather prefer not having to!”

“My apologies, Father Abbot, sah,” Tugging awkwardly at his collar, Boogaloff cleared his throat. Having by now realized for himself that the vermin he’d sounded the alarm over was practically a fellow Redwaller, the old hare was feeling appropriately sheepish. “If I’m allowed to say a single blinking thing in my defense, I-I didn't realize it was Horace! He’s not usually here at this time of day!”

“It is a little early for breakfast,” Bimbondo noted, scratching at his quills in consideration. “And I can't remember the last time Horace was up before the morning bell.”

“Aye! I thought the same! An’ I only assumed he was a threat from the way he was caterwauling! Surely you all heard it as well? ‘Twas every inch the warcry! A rather impressive one too, if I'm being honest.”

Having not heard this ‘warcry’ for themselves and finding it difficult to imagine an impressive one coming from Horace of all beasts, Lyles and the Abbot shared a discreet, skeptical grimace.

Before any more could be said on the matter, however, there came a soft knocking at the gate below, followed by Gumbalo’s usual cheery voice. 

“So this is the legendary Redwall Abbey! I hope I'm not late for the Nameday, I’ve heard the feasts they throw put royal banquets to shame! I’ve also heard they are extremely generous and hospitable to weary travellers looking for a place to rest their paws!”

Having failed to bear witness to the mouse’s flight, Bimbondo’s spectacles nearly flew off his face in surprise. “Gumbalo? How did you get down there so fast!?” 

“N-nevermind all that!” squeaked Horace, an uncharacteristically frantic note in his voice as he pawed at the gate. “Just please hurry up and let us in!”

“Hold on tight, Horace, we’ll be there in a jiffy!” Boogaloff assured him, before pattering off on his peg-leg at breakneck speed (which was both very impressive for a hare of his age, and very concerning considering all the stairs he had to contend with).

Abbot Bimbondo's immediate concern, however, lay with the rat. It did not take a particularly observant creature to notice that Horace was acting rather out of sorts. He clung onto the oblivious Gumbalo like a lost child, jumping at the chirp of every cricket and shivering like a beast lost in midwinter.

Seeing the rat in such a state, the hedgehog pulled the remaining novices aside. “It seems these weary travellers have had quite the misadventure! I think some of Cellarhog Raker's Iced Honeydew would be most welcome. Some of yesterday's pie, if we still have any, would not be amiss either.” 

“I’ll fetch ‘em,” deadpanned Rufus, before anybeast else could call dibs.

Knowing full well that Rufus would also be fetching himself a particularly large portion of delicious vittles, the remaining trio (and Scofferton especially) watched his departure with no small amount of envy.

Oblivious to the green in their eyes, Bimbondo clapped his paws. “Excellent! As for you three, I hope you don't mind helping an old hog down? I can do it myself, of course, but I fear you’d all grow old before I reached the gate!”

By the time Lyles and the others had made it down the stairs, Rufus had returned from the Abbey's kitchens (noticeably plumper) with a tray of drinks perfectly balanced atop his head and a platter of pie he was sharing with Gumbalo.

The pair watched as Boogaloff bombarded poor Horace with a remorseful tirade that, if ever put into writing, would have taken fifteen pages to transcribe.

“You’ve got to believe me, I would never have done it if I’d known it was you!” the old hare concluded, his eyes glistening with watery sincerity.

For his part, Horace seemed to only be paying half a mind. The rat still had his back pressed firmly to the gate, as if singlehandedly holding it shut against all the horrors of the world, but finding comfort in the familiar shadow of Redwall Abbey, and now surrounded by friends, he had recovered enough to catch the tail-end of Boogaloff's apology. “Y-you shot me!?”

“Well actually, he shot at you,” Gumbalo interjected from around a mouthful of pie. “I’m the one that got shot.” The mouse giggled at his own joke and helped himself to a second slice. “If I'm being honest, ‘twas rather fun! We should do this every Nameday! And next time we can shoot Rufus too and see which one of us flies farther!”

Nowhere near as excited about this idea as Gumbalo was, Rufus let out a long-suffering sigh. “Joy.” 

“Hullo Horace.” Scofferton raised a paw in greeting. “S-sorry about the arrow- I tried to stop it!”

“You're the reason it flew!” scoffed Holyberry. “I would have stopped it myself but Lyles here had other ideas.”

“You were trying to point it at the bell tower!” the otter protested. “And I don't think it's fair to blame Scofferton when he wasn't even holding the string.”

“Well that's the problem, isn't it? He should have been holding it!” 

Choosing to ignore the argument, and seeing that Horace had not so much as sniffed at the offered refreshments, Abbot Bimbondo's frown deepened. While the rat had his fair share of adolescent woes, it was not at all like him to refuse a glass of Honeydew. “Horace? Is everything alright?”

The rat shook his head and wiped at his nose. “N-no. I-it’s- it's m-my garden.”

“Oh? Ready to harvest it all, are we?” asked Gumbalo, having rather magnificently failed to read the room.

The rat's eyes welled up with fat tears as a dozen fond memories (now tainted by murder) flashed before his eyes. A moment later, he was blubbering with all his might.

Having not expected such an innocent inquiry to prompt that kind of response, the mouse turned to the others. ‘Was it the way I asked?’ 

It was something of an open secret that nobeast expected much of anything from Horace's garden. Though most of Redwall Abbey did their best to humour the rat; knowing that there was no harm in playing along with his flights of fancy; most knew by now to expect nothing but fables.

“Oh Horace,” Bimbondo murmured, pulling the rat into a gentle, spiky embrace. “There, there.” The hedgehog winced as the sobbing grew snotty, but held firm. “Nothing that is cherished is ever truly gone.”

Once the initial outbreak of grief had subsided, and the rat had calmed down somewhat, Lyles dared to voice the question on all of their minds. “What happened?”

“I-I don't know!” Horace sniffled. “I went to bed last night a-and everything was fine! Then I woke up this morning a-and all of m-my veggies w-were trampled up and smashed to bits! There was this- this thing there- I think it might have been a wolverine o-or something!” Horace’s voice broke cracked as he tried to hold his emotions at bay. “And I wanted t-to confront them- it!- b-but th-the music box started playing and I realised it was looking at me! I don't think I've ever seen sharper claws! A-and I got so scared a-and-” With a horrible shudder, and a pitiful whimper, Horace slumped back into the Abbot's arms (nearly sending them both teetering backwards, for the rat weighed nearly twice as much as the old hog). “A-and then I came here.”

“A wolverine’s come to Mossflower and it's first order of business was to sack your garden?” Holyberry reiterated, trying and failing to hide the disbelief in their voice. 

“I-I know what it sounds like b-but I-I’m not lying!”

The abbey novices shared an awkward shuffle. Having grown up alongside Horace they knew better than anybeast else that the rat meant well, but there was no denying he had never quite left behind the habit of telling tales. While none of them had seen Horace’ garden past it's infancy, they had all heard the rat speak of it in high spirits; His occasional bouts of ceaseless bragging had even begun to grate at the ever-patient Lyles. None of them wanted to call doubt upon his story, but it was simply easier to believe he’d made the whole thing up.

Rather more aware of what beasts thought of him than he was given credit for, Horace’s whiskers dropped in misery. “I-I’m not lying.”

“Of course you're not.” While the threat of invasion had left Bimbondo feeling helpless and out of depth, he was an old paw at this kind of crisis. The hedgehog’s face broke into a wide, crinkled smile, as he reached a paw up to ruffle the rat’s fur. “Come on you lot! Nobeast frightens our Horace!”

Lyles was the first to cotton on to what the Abbot had in mind. “Right! Lead the way, mate. This’ll surely be a lesson it won't forget!” 

“F-forget? I-I don't understand-”

“‘Course you do!” Boogaloff exclaimed, clapping the rat none too gently on the back. “We’re going to teach that garden-sacking son of a slug what for!”

“J-just us?” Horace squeaked, as Gumbalo ushered him and a reluctant Rufus out the gate. “B-but isn't it dangerous?”

“We can't know for sure until we see this creature for ourselves,” the old hare pointed out. “And if they're anywhere near as bad as you say they are…” The Corporal's voice took on an edge of steel. “It's them who's in danger."

Footnote: So in my original outline this chapter was literally a sentence long:

‘Rocket crash-lands in garden of local rat, who rushes to Redwall for help.’

Buuuut as you can tell I had a little bit too much fun with it :P I think mostly I did it to get a feel of this batch of Redwallers. Let it be known that while Rocket and company are gonna be this story’s main source of chaos and insanity, the creatures of Mossflower aren’t gonna be too far behind in that regard. 

I hope the chapter was relatively easy to follow for those of you here for Rocket and unfamiliar with Redwall- I don't think there's anything that will trip you guys up too hard, but I also didn't want to blatantly infodump (at least not until several chapters later, so you and Rocket can learn all the lore together!)- but I'm also aware that this chapter was pretty much All Redwall, oops.

To balance things out, next time we turn our attention back to a Moody Treenager and an Exceptionally Villainous Hamster…

Chapter Text

Throughout the galaxy, cricetian’s were generally known for two things:

a) An innate love of conquest; manifested in a need to dominate that made even the most high-functioning members of their society egomaniacs and control freaks.

b) And an impressive physical stature that was the envy of Kree and Skrull alike.

Being thoroughly unimpressive when it came to the latter, Hämsterviel had tried to make up for it by doubling down on the former. Unfortunately time and time again, through no fault of his own, all his carefully crafted schemes had amounted to were half-a-dozen consecutive life sentences.

With parole. 

That last part hurt.

“Without parole! I specifically asked for a sentence without parole! I resent every member of that jury! Why couldn't those unicellular degenerates see that I am an irredeemable monster!?” 

Not that any of it mattered now that he had gotten himself stranded on some out of the way backwater. At least in prison he'd had an entire secret laboratory built into his cell. All he had here was mud and wreckage. 

Hämsterviel had landed in a swamp. More specifically, his cape had gotten caught on a thorny branch overlooking a particularly deep and dark bit of bog, leaving him with little else to do than stare into the abyss and contemplate his life choices. 

He only had one regret.

“I should never have outsourced my prison-break! Stupid bounty hunters! I will make that pathetic procyonid pest pay if it is the last thing I do!”  

Not being a particularly strong swimmer and not one for grime of any kind, Hämsterviel did not dare try his chances with the peat. A few bits and pieces of the ship had managed to survive it's disintegration, however, and had formed a series of stepping stones to what looked like dry land. He would have to ditch the cape, but if he could get onto one he’d at least be on his feet again. 

More importantly for his long-term prosperity, there was the slim possibility that there were enough remaining parts-of-ship to scrape together some kind of workable tech. Preferably a radio transmitter of some kind, but the hamster wouldn't turn his nose up at a Magnetic-Field-Piercing Flare Gun…

Still ranting at the top of his voice, he began swinging his legs back and forth in an effort to gain momentum.

“We’ll see who’s laughing when this is over! Once the galaxy is mine, all shall rue the day they sneered at the great Dr.Jacques Von Hämsterviel! Hahahaha! Wait, what is that creaking noise?”

The branch holding him promptly snapped, splitting down the middle and dropping the hamster into the gunk below.

Screaming, Hämsterviel desperately thrashed against the current, whipping his limbs back and forth, battering the bog, scattering sludge and doing whatever it took to keep his head afloat.

…Until he realized the swamp looked far deeper than it actually was and he was not, in fact, fighting for his life.

Pulling himself to his feet, the hamster tried to wipe the mud off his cape, succeeded in giving parts of his white fur a dark greenish tint, and giving up altogether, stomp-trudged over to the nearest bit of rocket with many a muttered grumble.

Seeing what he had to work with did nothing to improve his mood. 

Despite the fact that they were (ostensibly) on a quest for vengeance, the Redwallers were in high spirits as they plodded along in the warm shade of Mossflower Wood. 

The second greatest crisis of his tenure seemingly having passed, Bimbondo once again had his head in the heavens and was jittery with excitement. Unable to contain it any longer, he siddled over to Horace’s side, and gently tugged at the rat’s whiskers to get his attention. “Once we’ve given your wolverine a good walloping, I hope you’ll join us on our quest. ‘T’would not feel right to go on an adventure without you.”

Horace raised an eyebrow in reply. “Quest?”

“We seek a fallen star!” Bimbondo exclaimed, throwing his paws to the side for emphasis.

Having had their fill of stars the night before, the assembled novices shared a collective groan behind the abbot’s back.

Lacking any context, Horace was left baffled by the exchange. “There’s a fallen star?”

“You must have been asleep for it,” muttered Rufus, with palpable envy. 

“It was pretty cool though!” Gumbalo chimed in, turning to walk backwards so that he was facing all his friends. “I got to make eight wishes! One for true love, of course. But I also got to wish for them to be handsome, kind-hearted, big, strong, brave, with a good sense of humour, nice breath and big feet.”

Even Lyles, who was normally too well-bred for this kind of thing, burst into fits of laughter; to say nothing of the others who were not quite as tactful.

Needless to say, Gumbalo was not amused. “What? Scofferton ordered himself a whole feast! I don't see why I can't be equally particular!”

“Don't let them get your whiskers in a twist,” Bimbondo chuckled, placing a gentle paw on the mouse’s shoulder. “Your true love sounds like a lovely beast.”

“Thank you, Father Abbot,” said Gumbalo, tapping his footpaw impatiently as Boogaloff, Holyberry and Scofferton shook off the last of their mirth. “Alright, you’ve had your laugh. Now it's my turn! Let's hear those wishes. I bet they're just as stupid as mine and far less romantic!”

Boogaloff shrugged jovially. “Didn't see a blinkin’ twinkle of that star, wot. Though when it comes to wishes I suppose I wouldn't say no to havin’ my old leg back. Lyles?”

“I didn't really think of one,” the otter admitted, awkwardly scratching the back of his head as he did so. “I wanted it to be something meaningful but I couldn't think of anything.”

“Me neither,” Rufus added, though there was a faint flush in his ears that told them all that this was not the entire truth. 

Before Gumbalo could pounce on what was no doubt the most embarrassing wish of them all, Horace released a forlorn sigh and said in a small voice. “I wish I still had my garden…” 

“It’ll grow back,” Lyles pointed out, not unkindly.

“We’ll make sure it does,” Bimbondo chimed in, giving the rat an affectionate pat on the back. “Take heart, it’s early in the season, there’s still plenty of time to prepare for a fabulous autumn harvest.”

Horace merely sniffled in reply. 

Feeling that his earlier fiasco with the alarm bell was in large part to blame for the rat’s stupor, Boogaloff cleared his throat importantly. 

“Not to be the onion in a fruit pie, wot, but I reckon it's safer we proceed more quiet-like from now on. We don't want the whole of Mossflower Wood knowing we're on our way. Straightforward battle strategy! When you’ve got the element of surprise on your side, ‘tis better not to let it go to waste, don'tcha know? I also reckon we're far enough along now to start thinking about a proper plan of action.”

“P-plan of action?”

Unbeknownst to the rat, Boogaloff traded a subtle wink with the rest of the Redwallers.

“That’s right. We don't want to walk into something we ain’t ready for. There's eight of us and as far as we know, only one of this big, mean it, which gives us the numerical advantage. That’s something else we don't want to squander. I reckon we should try and catch it in a classical pincer formation, wot!” Brushing aside a patch of forest floor, the old hare proceeded to illustrate his strategy. “We’ll split into two parties and form a wide circle around our target, ensuring they have no means of escape! Horace, Scoffer and the Abbot are with me. The rest of you follow Lyle’s lead. Once we have the scoundrel surrounded, I'll give the order to charge an’ we’ll beat ‘em black and blue!”

“Remember that we are still creatures of peace,” Bimbondo added, feeling ill at ease about the extent of their retribution; even if it was being directed towards a figment of Horace’s imagination. “Our justice must be tempered with mercy. N-no matter how much these ruffians deserve it.” 

Boogaloff hooted and clapped a paw against the abbot’s spiky back. “N-ouch! Not to worry Father Abbot Sir. A few paddles up the creek and they’ll be sailing away, as the otters say!” 

Before a rather indignant Lyles could ask which otter had ever said that, the corporal put a paw to his muzzle. 

“I’m enforcing a strict silence from now on, wot! If you've got to talk, do it quite-like,” Boogaloff went on, greatly enjoying this rare opportunity to play commander and secretly hoping Horace’s ‘wolverine’ would become a recurring problem. “Let's get cracking! And I don't want to hear so much as a single squeak!” 

Having never had to go dumpster-diving for salvageable parts, and not used to having his technological genius limited by a lack of resources, Hämsterviel had long since given up on crafting his own rescue mechanism in favour of finding one. 

Under intergalactic law, most ships came fitted in with a basic survival kit. In models with built-in self-destruct sequences, these were usually some form of ‘non-breakable’, which meant there had to be one somewhere amidst the sparse pieces of wreckage.

He just had to find it…

“Repugnant raccoon! Talkative tree! I am oh-so-mercifully offering you a truce! A temporary cessation of hostilities- until we have gotten off this contemptuous planet!- will be mutually beneficial! B-by then it may also be possible for me to arrange your payment!” 

The swamp replied with the high-pitched buzz of an approaching swarm, forcing the hamster to take shelter beneath the grimy water as a cloud of midges passed overhead.

While neither of the mercenaries had been pleasant company, both or either were preferable to the unending, bloodsucking fog he now found himself trudging through. Aside from the obvious security benefits, having someone to rant at would help take the edge off the unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory. 

Allocating blame usually made Hämsterviel feel better. It was one of his favorite hobbies.

“But do not mistake my generosity for forgiveness! I hold you both equally responsible for this predicament! And until I have procured a ship of my own, you will have to compensate me for your sheer incompetence! I would also like to state that, for the record, I also wanted to go to MacKrogan’s!” 

As the hamster raged on, a formless mass of darkness began forming along the treeline, slowly but surely shrouding the swamp in a sinister veil.

 After a brief pit-stop at Horace’s cottage to pick up a host of makeshift weaponry, the Redwallers split up, careful to stay upwind as they drew a wide circle around the clearing the rat had chosen for his garden. 

Once they were well out of Boogaloff’s earshot, and by extent Horace and the Abbot’s, Holyberry could no longer hold back a rising tide of frustration. 

“Lyles, can I ask you something?”

Far too much of a goody-two-paws to outright disobey an order for silence (even if there was no chance of it being heard), Lyles replied in a low whisper. “If this is about the star, I meant what I said earlier. I genuinely couldn't think of what to wish for.”

“What? No, not the- and stop whispering! Boogaloff’s not going to hear you! I meant- We all know there isn't actually a garden-smashing wolverine- so why are we going along with this?”

“Because it's fun!” Gumbalo chirped, dramatically rolling from one bush to the other in a display of stealth that could have roused a sleeping bear.

Rufus, following in the mouse’s wake with far more subtlety (his usual stride), shrugged his shoulders. “I like Horace.” 

“I like him too!” Holyberry protested. “But you’ve got to admit this is ridiculous- even for him. If I got upset about forgetting to water my flowers-”

“I don't think there's a wolverine either,” Lyles interrupted, still whispering. “But I also can't remember the last time I’ve seen Horace this upset.”

“Oh please. He's always been like this. Mountains out of molehills and everybeast always goes along with it.”

“Because it's fun,” Gumbalo reiterated, flattening himself against the side of a tree. “It’s not like we were going to do anything important today, and we’ll still be back in time for the feast. We cheer up a friend and have a laugh, no harm done!”

“I just think it's about time he did some growing up,” Holyberry scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest and kicking a stray pinecone with unreasonable prejudice. “We’re not always going to have time to ‘Oh Horace' him.”

“Holly, wait! Stop talking!” said Lyles, a note of urgency in his voice.

“No! Somebeast has to say it! We're all expected to know better, why should it be any different for him?”

“Holly!” Gumbalo hissed, with uncharacteristic intensity. “Shut. Up.”

Further emboldened by their efforts to quell her perfectly reasonable outrage, the squirrel went on, raising her voice to prevent them from talking over her as she stomped further into the woods ahead of them. “I get it! It's very sad his parents abandoned him, but that was seasons ago! Horace doesn't even remember that!”

Though it was half a lifetime in the making, Holyberry's rant was cut short by Lyles tackling her to the ground. Before she could retaliate with a fist to the schnozz, her ears twitched, and she finally heard it too- the unmistakable flutter of a violin, followed by a low voice.

‘When the Devil is too busy

And death's a bit too much

They call on me, by name you see,

For my special touch.’

The quartet shared a look of confusion- for up till now each of them had been under the assumption that there was nothing waiting for them at Horace’s garden but a few poorly-maintained crops; but the voice clearly belonged to something, and it was nobeast they knew.

‘To the Gentlemen, I'm Miss Fortune

To the Ladies, I'm Sir Prize

But call me by any name

Anyway it's all the same’

“Is it singing?” whispered Gumbalo, only to be aggressively shushed by the others. The mouse raised his paws in surrender. “I’m just saying ‘tis not a half-bad tune.”

‘I'm the fly in your soup

I'm the pebble in your shoe

I'm the pea beneath your bed

I'm a bump on every head

I'm the peel on which you slip

I'm a pin in every hip

I'm the thorn in your side

Makes you wriggle and writhe’

Silent confusion rapidly turned to righteous anger as they realized the horrible brute that had ravaged Horace’s garden and left the rat in tears was just as real, and just as wicked as they’d been led to believe.

‘And it's so easy when you're evil

This is the life, you see

The Devil tips his hat to me

I do it all because I'm evil

And I do it all for free

Your tears are all the pay I'll ever need!’

Feeling foolish for everything she’d said and everything she’d been about to say, Holyberry cracked her knuckles and motioned for them to advance. 

Nodding, Lyles echoed the gesture. 

Rat though he was, Horace was their rat. 

‘While there's children to make sad

While there's candy to be had

While there's pockets left to pick

While there's grannies left to trip

down the stairs, I'll be there, I'll be waiting 'round the corner

It's a game, I'm glad I'm in it

'Cause there's one born every minute’

On the other side of the ambush, Bimbondo was beginning to feel like the worst abbot ever. Not only had he failed to take Horace’s warning seriously, but he’d brought along a pawful of poorly-armed novices to deal with what was clearly a black-hearted scoundrel (for who else would revel in such petty cruelties?). 

And now that they had separated, with no way to discretely inform the others of a change in strategy; it was too late to call off the attack!

‘And it's so easy when you're evil

This is the life, you see

The Devil tips his hat to me

I do it all because I'm evil

And I do it all for free

Your tears are all the pay I'll ever need’

Boogaloff, on the other paw, was jittery with excitement. It wasn't every day he got the chance to deliver swift justice, let alone to somebeast so utterly deserving of it! Armed with Horace’s rickety umbrella, his party’s lack of real weaponry (and their growing apprehension) did not even seem to register to him.

‘I pledge my allegiance to all things dark

and I promise on my damned soul

To do as I am told, Lord Beelzebub

Has never seen a soldier quite like me

Not only does his job, but does it happily.’

Turning to the quivering creatures beside him, Boogaloff raised a paw and began counting down, until with a cry of ‘REEEEDWAAAAALL!’ that cut through the music, he leapt over the wild shrubbery separating Horace's garden from the rest of Mossflower Woods.

Landing with an impressive flourish, the old hare pointed the umbrella tip at the source of the villain’s wicked symphony; realizing too late that it was merely a music box- a diversion! 

‘I'm the fear that keeps you wake

I'm the shadows on the wall

I'm the monsters they become

I'm the nightmare in your skull

I'm a dagger in your back

An extra turn upon the rack

I'm the quivering of your heart

A stabbing pain, a sudden start.’

Having heard the signal, Lyles’s party tore forwards with warcries of their own (save for Rufus who lacked the enthusiasm for such things). It would have been a perfect pincer maneuver… had there been anything between them to pincer. 

‘And it's so easy when you're evil

This is the life, you see

The Devil tips his hat to me

I do it all because I'm evil’

Before Boogaloff could restrategize, issue new commands or even consider surrendering, Holyberry crashed into him, knocking Horace’s umbrella out of the hare paw and spinning through the air until it landed in the rat’s own paw. 

Having had a better idea of what to expect, and more familiar with the layout of his garden than anybeast else, the rat was the first to confront the red-eyed monster (finding to his surprise that it hadn't moved even a single inch since that morning).

“Y-you have until the c-count of ten to surrender!” Horace squeaked, rapidly losing confidence as behind him, Scofferton burst out of the greenery, slipped on the Zune and barreled into both Lyles and Gumbalo in a legendary display of poor motor control.  

As he struggled to make his countdown sound threatening, Horace’s shaking paws flicked open the umbrella. Startled by its rapid expansion, the rat stepped backwards with a cry of alarm, tripping on his tail in the process and stumbling into Rufus. 

Unable to deal with their combined weight, the dormouse was promptly flattened beneath the falling rat.

Within five seconds of their ambush, Bimbondo was the only Redwaller left on his feet. It was apparent to him, from the other side of the garden’s hedge, that the cruel Miss Fortune or the dastardly Sir Prize or whatever name the terrible creature went by, had proven too much for Boogaloff and Redwall's novices to handle!

His first instinct was to run for help- and call upon the entire abbey if necessary- but knowing he would not be able to live with himself if anything happened to his young friends and unable to leave them behind, Abbot Bimbondo charged into the fray with a noise somewhere between a whimper and a roar.

Too unconscious to dodge the blow, Rocket caught the hedgehog’s walking stick full in the face.

Rezna Fatesbane was not sure what to make of the strange creature known as Dr. Jacques Von Hämsterviel.

Having never met a cricetian before, she could only compare him to beasts she knew, but in all aspects the similarities fell short.

His ears were long and pointed, which suggested rabbit or hare, but his tail looked more like a wild pig’s, or perhaps a badly-shaved squirrel’s. Though she could understand his words, the accent was implacable. But on that note, he looked nothing like a mole either…

Despite possessing the stomach of a well-fed beast (which suggested an entirely different level of wealth than the rest of his appearance conveyed), the hamster wore no pants (which was mildly concerning but Rezna did not judge), or any ornaments of any kind beyond a tattered and dirty cape that must have once been (many seasons ago from the looks of it) an impressive shade of red. 

The most attractive portion of the creature, which Rezna eyed most intently, was it's neck. Both because of the small flash of gold hanging from it, and the ease by which it would snap in her paws. The thought of digging her fangs into soft flesh made her mouth water, and unable to contain her excitement any longer, Rezna emerged from the shadows.

“Bad time to trouble you, squirrel?”

Already scratching himself silly from a dozen mosquito bites, and having an all-around unpleasant day, Hämsterviel was in no mood for conversation. “Squirrel!? You must be as moronic as you look! Who dares call the great Dr. Jacques Von-” Realizing that he was completely surrounded, the hamster's temper froze solid. Cold, heart-stopping fear rushed through his veins as more and more of Rezna’s horde crawled out from the surrounding swamplands, leering and cackling as they faded in and out of view like ghosts in a mist. 

“My mistake,” the head stoat grinned, drawing ever closer with a predatory gait. Feeling unusually merciful, Rezna decided to extend the unfortunate creature the last bit of courtesy it would ever receive. “Any last words, rabbit?”

Hämsterviel swelled with fury. And in that brief, glorious moment of outrage he forgot all fear and shed his dread. “Rabbit!? You illiterate plague! Hamster! Can't you see that I am clearly a hamst-”

The fist barreling into his gut cut off the rest of his sentence, but Rezna had gotten the picture. 

"There's only one kind of beast that takes so much offence at bein' called a rabbit," the stoat chuckled, signaling the rest of her warband to back off with a pointed glare and a crack of her knuckles. Once she was sure they would not interfere, she turned her full attention towards the snarling Hämsterviel. “Come on hare, your life is on the line. Fight for it!” 

Claws as sharp as shattered glass rushed for his neck.

Though none of the Redwallers had borne witness to the battle’s decisive blow, their victory was readily apparent.

“Bless your spines, Father Abbot! Remind me to never be on the receiving end of one of your swings, wot!” Boogaloff hooted, managing to stop himself from offering his spiky friend a congratulatory clap on the back. 

“No wonder we haven't had to deal with any invading warlords- they must all be scared of you!” Gumbalo agreed, glancing from the very-dazed Rocket to the rather bashful old hedgehog in awe. 

Rufus raised a hesitant paw. “I’m a little scared too.”

“I-I’m really not sure what came over me,” Bimbondo stammered, equal parts bewildered and embarrassed by his inexplicable martial prowess. “I really didn't mean to hit them so hard.” Beginning to feel horribly guilt-ridden, the hedgehog waved a paw in front of the raccoon’s face. “H-hello? Excuse me sir? Are you alright?” 

When this prompted no response, Boogaloff rolled back his sleeves and cleared his throat. “I’ll handle this, Father Abbot.” 

Stepping to the side, Bimbondo could only watch in horror as the hare proceeded to deliver the single greatest smack in the history of Mossflower.

It was followed by a howl of pain. “Blinking blistery beetroots!” Boogaloff hissed, waving around a throbbing paw. “It’s skull must be made of iron! ‘Tis like punching a boulder!” 

“I’ll remember your methods the next time I catch you having a nap,” the abbot chided. “Though they don't seem to be particularly effective.”

“I was sure that would work!” Boogaloff whined. “It's never failed me before, don'tcha kno-argh it still hurts!”

Turning away from the hare’s exaggerated theatrics with a shake of his head, Bimbondo returned his full attention towards the unfamiliar creature. Finding them still unresponsive, his eyes lit up with concern, and his heart began to flutter. “Oh dear, oh dear, I hope they'll be alright…” Being a peaceable creature by both creed and nature, the thought of being responsible for any amount of harm made the old hog feel faint, and Bimbondo had to fight the urge to curl up into a ball and hide.

“Well they're still breathing,” Lyles reassured him, placing a wet paw an inch or two from the creature’s nose to make sure. “And the heartbeat doesn't seem to be irregular- at least erm-” The otter scratched the back of his head. “I don't actually know what's regular for a… wolverine?” 

“Don’t worry about that right now, come take a look at my paw!” Boogaloff pleaded. “‘Tis surely broken!”

As Lyles got to work reassuring the hare that his paw was not, in fact, broken, Holyberry felt obligated to point out what was quickly becoming apparent to all of them. 

“It’s not a wolverine, is it?” 

The Abbot shook his head. “No, not quite. But I-I couldn't tell you what it is either. I’ve never seen anything like it! The tail tells me fox, the colouration suggests- maybe a ferret?” He scratched at his quills uncertainly. “But they don't tend to be so broadly built.”

“Oooh, is this a wearet?” asked Gumbalo, nose twitching as he struggled to make sense of the creature's unusual scent. “You know, like the eagle? Or that one Matthias fought?” 

“I think that’s unlikely- though I suppose it could be some sort of half-breed. Not that I’ve ever heard of a… ferret-fox? What would you even call something like that?”

“A ferrox?” offered Scofferton.

“A foxet!” suggested Gumbalo in the same breath.

The two stared each other down, until finally the mouse could no longer hold his silence.

“Ferrox sounds ridiculous.”

“Well it’s not like your name’s any better! A foxet,” Scofferton smirked, completely forgetting that he and Gumbalo had always been alike in both temperament and cluelessness. “Is a word that already exists. It’s what you call a lady fox.”

“Vixen,” muttered Rufus.

“Why would you call it a vixen?” demanded Gumbalo, rounding on the dormouse.

“That doesn’t sound like ferret or fox!” Scofferton agreed, doing the same.

Sighing, Rufus resolved to hold his silence in the future.

“Don’t half-breeds tend to come out wrong?” interjected Lyles, turning the party’s collective attention back towards the mysterious creature. “You know, furless, earless and the like?”

Bimbondo nodded sagely. “Right you are Lyles, but there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with this fellow- ahem aside from their being unconscious, that is.” He hesitated a moment, before taking a curious sniff. “And maybe their smell,” he added as an afterthought.

Horace, who had been unusually quiet throughout the entire exchange, finally spoke. “But it's definitely vermin, right?”

“Indisputably,” Boogaloff nodded, gesturing at the creature's claws and fangs. “We don't tend to have them that sharp, wot.”

The rat nodded, a strange far off-look in his eyes as he stared intently at the creature. “Yeah, that makes sense…”

“Urm... Is everything alright?” asked Bimbondo, rather unnerved by the rat's vacant expression.

Seeming not to have heard, Horace made no effort to reply.

Before the Abbot could press the matter, Holyberry cleared her throat and jabbed a claw in Rocket’s direction. “So, what do we do with ‘Sir Prize’ over here?”

“Well, er- we were going to run them off,” Boogaloff sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But that doesn't seem appropriate now, wot.”

“Right,” said Bimbondo, adjusting his spectacles and making a mental note to check up on the rat later. “We’ll have to take them back to Redwall. Poor thing. The least we can do is entrust them with Sister Carraway.” 

Marching up to the raccoon, Boogaloff wrestled one of their arms over his shoulder, and made to heave the creature to it’s feet.

Now, Rocket was firmly on the larger end of ‘creature’, so the old hare hadn't expected this to be easy, but he was still surprised to find himself unable to lift them more than an inch above the ground.

“Kiss my tail and smack my bottom, wot!” Boogaloff swore. “This one’s heavier than they look! Lyles, Scoffer, lend a paw will you? You too, Holly, go on. One on every limb!” 

A short while later, half-dragging the raccoon along, the Redwallers shuffled back through the shrubbery in a haphazard frog march. 

Once again faced with the horrible scene of his ravaged garden, and recalling the earlier discussion about the falling star, Horace failed to hold back a sigh. “I wish you’d all seen it yesterday…”

While the prosperity Horace had spoken of was no longer apparent, it was clear from the sheer volume of shredded plant matter that all his garden chatter hadn't been entirely unfounded.

“I think I’ll stay a while,” the rat murmured, shuffling over to a pile of decapitated turnips as the rest of the abbeybeasts traded looks of guilt and concern.

“D-don’t be too long, now,” Bimbondo insisted, trying not to sound as worried as he was. “I-it’ll soon be time for breakfast!”

“We’ll save you a seat,” Gumbalo added. “And I’ll make sure Rufus doesn't eat all the plum puddings.”

Fiddling with a beetroot leaf, the rat made a small noise of acknowledgement and offered the party a half-hearted wave.

Dropping his share of raccoon (sending Rocket and the other three creatures struggling to hold him up tumbling to the ground) Boogaloff marched over, determined to cheer the rodent up once and for all. “Rightio! Nearly forgot. Chin up, Horace! Puff out that chest of yours and stand up straight!” 

Only paying the old hare half-a-mind, Horace did as he was told. 

With a flourish, Boogaloff tugged off one of his shiny copper medals and pinned it to the rat’s dusty old tunic. “For your bravery in bringing this matter to our attention. Who knows how many more gardens this monster would have destroyed if it weren't for you! Wear it with pride, Horace. You’ve earned it!”

Blinking stupidly, and staring cross-eyed at the medal as if it was some kind of foreign bizzarity, the rat’s ears began to turn rosy. Touched by the monumental gesture (for Boogaloff's medals were among the most precious things known to beasts of every kind), Horace’s face crinkled into a watery smile. “Th-thanks, b-but I-I I don't-”

“Just remember to keep it nice and polished, eh,” Boogaloff cut him off with a wink and a pat on the head, before making his way back to his share of the unconscious Rocket. “And be sure to wear it for the feast, everybeast ought to know who the hero of the hour is!” 

Thoroughly impressed by Boogaloff's handling of the situation, Bimbondo clapped for both the rat and the hare. “Three cheers for our Horace!” 

Spurred on by the Abbot, the remaining Redwallers raised a hearty hurrah.

Looking happier than they’d seen him in ages, the rat waved his friends a fond farewell as they disappeared round the other end of the garden.

Hämsterviel drew back enough to avoid a mortal blow, screaming at the top of his lungs as Rezna’s claws scraped against his brooch. 

While he considered himself a better fighter than most people gave him credit for, Hämsterviel had always preferred to solve problems with his mind-boggling intellect. Failing that, he preferred having a small army of underlings- or at the very least, a single very big one- to do the dirty work for him. 

Needless to say he did not feel particularly confident in a duel to the death. 

Stumbling deeper into the swamp in an effort to put some distance between him and the murder-happy stoat, Hämsterviel's foot caught on a bit of submerged root, sending him plunging face-first into the murky water.

“I’ve seen many beasts run for their lives in my time, but I ain't never seen one fall quite as impressively!” Unable to hold back a bark of wild laughter, Rezna made an exaggerated noise of surprise, rocking on the spot and flailing her arms in a mocking, but nevertheless faultless impression of the hamster. 

To her surprise, Hämsterviel resurfaced with a mad cackle of his own.

In perhaps the greatest stroke of fortune of his entire life, the paws he’d thrown out to catch himself had scraped against the familiar shape of a controller. Remembering that he’d fallen through the atmosphere while holding a laser sword, he seized it, emerging from the bog with a fresh rush of adrenaline now that he’d all but won. 

Hämsterviel's laughter spluttered and died with the same muddy squelching that followed the push of the button. 

SQUELCH! SQUELCH! SQUELCH! 

As his insides once again went into freefall, Rezna tore forwards. 

With one leg still tangled up in roots, all Hämsterviel could do was desperately try to slap the device into working condition, his voice rising in panic as the stoat drew nearer with every heartbeat. “Work you stupid, infernal machine! Work or I will have you melted down and repurposed into a toilet plunger!” 

At the last second, a semi-translucent golden shield spluttered into life in front of him, cutting short Rezna’s pounce and bringing her to an abrupt and painful halt mid-air. It wasn't the laser sword he’d been hoping for, but for once, Hämsterviel had no complaints. 

Superstitious by nature and having never seen anything like this before, the surrounding warband gasped in awe, stumbling over each other as they hurried to give this “powerful sorcerer” more space. 

Only Rezna was unphased. Rubbing a bloody nose against the back of her paw, the stoat whipped out a cruel-looking dagger, with ancient, mysterious runes carved into it's blade. “It seems these woods are as well-guarded as they say. I hope you won't mind me using this?” 

“Ha! Of course someone as intellectually stunted and medieval as you cannot even begin to comprehend what you are dealing with!” Far more confident about his odds in a ‘fair’ fight now, Hämsterviel freed his leg from the underwater trap and swung the shield at her, effortlessly batting aside Rezna’s favourite dagger- which was promptly swallowed up by the swamp and never seen again. “Did you really think your cute little anarchisms ever stood a chance against the full extent of my technological genius?” 

Growling, Rezna punched the shield, and though the strength behind her blow caught the hamster off-guard, she failed to do more than make him stumble. 

“As amusing as watching you pathetically fail to kill me is!” Hämsterviel snapped, stomping forwards and going on the offensive for the first time in their duel. “Even someone as stupid and backwards as you should realize that your persistent stubbornness is an exercise in futility!” 

While far from it's intended use, the bubble shield made for a rather effective blunt-force weapon. Rezna had no means of penetrating it, leaving the hamster perfectly defended while every swing left her more bruised than the last. 

“Sh-shut up rabbit!” Was all she could manage to growl, as a wall of hardened static smashed into her face.

“Hamster!” Hämsterviel corrected, gleefully knocking her off-balance with his most spiteful swing yet. 

Rezna fell backwards amidst gasps of shock and horror from her warband- who had never seen anybeast toy with her like this before!

Just as things seemed all but lost, the tides turned.

Though Rezna herself did not believe in fate or destiny, it was rather hard to believe that she just so happened to land on the handle of Hämsterviel’s coveted laser sword by sheer coincidence. Let alone that the impact of her landing was enough to ignite the blade.

Hämsterviel's eyes bulged out of their sockets as the swamp bubbled and hissed, copious levels of steam rising from beside the stoat, who raised a curious eyebrow and reached into the murky water to withdraw a strange, glowing red sword. 

Utterly horrified, Hämsterviel could only watch as Rezna stroked a single claw along the edge of the blade, watching in fascination as it melted into nothing. “Seems you're not the only beast who can use your sorcerous tricks…” 

“I-I think now is a good time to start negotiations!” 

In frank disagreement, Rezna leapt to her feet, swinging downwards with all her might. 

The shield held, but barely. 

Hämsterviel was now once again on the backfoot, desperately retreating from Rezna’s vicious swings as the surrounding hordebeasts whooped and cheered for their leader. 

With every blow the shield seemed to shrink, losing more and more of itself to the shower of sparks scattering across the bog. 

“I-I see no reason to extend hostilities!” Hämsterviel screeched, trying and failing to talk his way out of a death sentence. “W-we are not savages! W-we don't have to behave like animals!” 

The irony of his words were not lost on him, though he had little time to contemplate his poor choice of phrasing. 

Rezna struck the shield a final time, shattering it in a blinding flash that flung the pair to opposite ends of the swamp.

The stoat landed on her feet, blinking sparks out of her eyes as her warband howled in victory. 

Hämsterviel landed on his bottom, whimpering pitifully as the shield’s generator spluttered out a final pawful of sparks. In a final desperate effort to defend himself, he threw it at the charging stoat. 

Out of instinct, Rezna deflected it, only realizing the implications of passing rubber and metal through a plasma-blade when it hit her like a faceful of white-hot magma.

Screams of pain echoed across the swamp as Rezna tore bloody chunks off her face in an effort to wipe off the molten remains of the generator.

“Ch-chief!” a diminutive stoat stepped forward, eyes wide with concern.

Rezna snarled them back into place, forcing open one of her eyes with a feral growl.

Hämsterviel, who by now had only just managed to get to his feet, stumbled backwards; a bottomless pit opening inside of him as he realized all he’d managed to do was ensure his own death would be excruciatingly long and torturous. 

“Wait! Waitwaitwaitwait! W-we can still talk this over! I-I can be useful to you!” 

“How… So?” Rezna snarled, barely pretending to consider. There was no question of sparing his life of course, but she wanted to see him beg for it all the same.

“I-I graduated with honours, t-top of my class at Evil Genius University! I could give you excellent advice on everything from p-political machination t-to ruthless conquest! Failing that you could turn me into the Intergalactic Council for a massive p-payday! Gold, silver, copper wire- you would be gratuitously rewarded for your services! In any currency of your choice! P-provided I am returned a-alive and in good health, of course!” Hämsterviel crawled backwards through the swamp, almost hoping it would swallow him at this point- a rather undignified fate for a wannabe intergalactic ruler like himself, but one that was certainly less painful than whatever the stoat had in mind for him. 

Rezna stalked forward, leering at him from behind one bloody eye as she dragged the glowing blade behind her, it's tip hissing hungrily as it sizzled against the top of the marshwater.

She was almost upon him when Hämsterviel's paw locked onto something that could only be a trigger. 

He promptly burst into laughter. 

“You brainless, bloodthirsty barbarian! YOU LOSE!” 

The stoat bore her fangs and pounced. 

In one swift motion, Hämsterviel tore the ship’s Magnetic-Field-Piercing flare gun out of the water, pointed it at her chest, and fired.

It was the finest shot of his life. 

Before Rezna could even give voice to it, her cry of alarm was rapidly fading into a distant echo.

“W-where’d the Ch-chief go?” asked the same diminutive stoat who’d spoken up earlier, blinking stupidly along with the rest of the warband. 

There was no answer but silence, until with a thunderous boom the flare shattered into a million pieces, scattering white lightning across a red sky. 

“She's dead!” cried a ferret near the front of the pack. 

Realizing that he was still surrounded, and that he’d only eliminated a single opponent (and that too, at great personal toil), Hämsterviel was about to start begging for his life again, when to his surprise the warband spontaneously fell to pieces. 

Tears of joy burst from every eye as the surrounding vermin whooped and cheered and embraced one another in a shower of relief and merriment. A particularly large rat joined paws with a pair of smaller ones and swung them both in circles, while the assorted ferrets, stoats and weasels flung themselves around in happy tangles.  

Almost offended that he was being completely ignored, and stupified by their sudden shift in behaviour, Hämsterviel could only watch in open-mouthed disbelief. A thousand questions rushed to the front of his mind, though one in particular stood out amongst all the rest.

Where the hell am I?

One moment Rezna was a single sword stroke from victory, the next something sharp and hard had latched onto her chest. Rezna’s eyes bulged and watered as the air rushed from her lungs and the swamp vanished beneath her feet. 

Many a young sparrow-chick watched her ascent with open beak, and many a reasonable sparrow-parent scoffed at the bizarre case of mass-imagination that seemed to grip the fledglings of every flock.

Everybirdy knew that beasts did not fly. 

Yet fly Rezna did, higher and higher until the tree-tops resembled heads of broccoli. In the distance, she caught a glimpse of a great red structure- the abbey she had come to conquer- but it rapidly faded into a distant blur upon the expanding canvas of green and blue.

A thunderous boom tore open her chest and turned the sky a bloody shade of red. Barely clinging onto life, Rezna was propelled higher still. Her lungs burning and her flesh sizzling, until at last she burst through the thin threshold between space and sky and saw the world in its entirety.

It was so beautiful. 

And yet as her thoughts began to fade into a cold unknown, Rezna could only think to curse it, and wish death upon everybeast on it. She had no strength left for words but she spat at the unfairness of it all. So many who had been weak and undeserving of life would now outlive her…

A spacerock no larger than her fist floated within reach. Desperate for one last pawful of control, Rezna reached out to grab it.

Something as black as her heart oozed out to meet her. Rezna could not even begin to scream as it slowly enveloped her in an embrace as soft and as warm as freshly-drawn blood. It soothed her wounds, filled her lungs with air and whispered sweet cruelties into her ear.

Rezna fell back towards the world below with a smile.

Even as she hurtled towards a set of jagged rocks, faster than a diving falcon but with none of the grace, she knew she would not die. 

She could not die.

In fact, by the time Rezna clambered out of the stoat-shaped crater she’d smashed into a distant mountainside, she had never felt more alive.

Footnote: I know I promised Groot but plans change and I actually had a better idea for what to do with him later down the line so changed my plans a little. Instead of the Treenager we get the Redwallers being goofy and Hämsterviel in all his villainous glory making life harder for everyone involved without even trying! 

Speaking of changing plans! I was originally going to have Hämsterviel retrieve one of Rocket's guns from the bits of wreckage in the swamp and blow her head off by accident- Buuuuut her original scene promised a lot more from her, and another fic I read gave me an idea I thought was really fun so... Very conveniently drifting symbiote to the rescue! 

Next time! Rocket makes it to Redwall Abbey. Will he wake up in time for the feast or will be unconscious for the entirety of the fic???

Chapter Text

Not wanting to cause a stir, Bimbondo’s party snuck in through the abbey’s south gate. By virtue of being unconscious the mysterious creature was not yet a cause for alarm, but there was no telling what they would be like after waking up, and being a considerate old hog, the Abbot did not want to ruin anybeast’s morning with that kind of worrying; He was already doing a little bit too much of it for his own liking!

Huffing and puffing, Boogaloff and the novices managed to haul Rocket into Cavern Hole without being detected (it was still early in the day, and most sensible beasts had gone back to bed after the false alarm) and proceeded to dump him onto the nearest table.

“We did it!” cheered Gumbalo, who had done by far the least. 

At Boogaloff’s behest, they had then drawn lots to see who would have to rouse Sister Carraway; Redwall’s Healer and the abbey’s most terrifying resident (very few beasts got ill on her watch, for most of Mossflower feared her too much to catch more than the occasional cold). Rufus had drawn the shortest straw, but had bumped into Foremole Raker on the way and had seen fit to entrust him with this most unenviable task. 

Though only in the early summer of his life, Foremole Raker was perhaps the most over-qualified beast to ever step footpaw in Mossflower Wood. He currently served as Redwall Abbey’s:

• a) Foremole, of course, which meant he was in charge of general construction, maintenance and renovations in and around the Abbey. 
• b) Recorder, which meant he was in charge of all manners of illumination; both in the metaphorical preservation of old records and the documentation of new ones, as well as very literal illumination in the form of firewood and candlelight. 
• c) Friar, which meant he was responsible for providing ample nourishment in the form of breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner and supper- he was a thoughtful creature by nature and also made a point to keep a well-stocked larder of snacks in case anybeast was still feeling peckish.
• d) Cellarhog, which meant he was responsible for brewing and distilling and bottling the truly vast assortment of syrups and cordials Redwall Abbey was known for (it would have been too much of a chore to list them all), as well as making sure they were always well-stocked with plenty of warm drinking water (it was a bizarre habit of his, but Foremole Raker insisted water had to be boiled before drinking it and nobeast was bothered to argue the matter).
• e) Badgermum, which meant he was responsible for the care and upbringing of the Abbey dibbuns.
• f) Skipper of the Otters, which meant he was in charge of nautical expeditions of any kind, in addition to holding sway among the various holts across the land and sea. 
• g) Abbey Warrior, which meant he was in charge of Redwall’s defenses and the general well-being of the creatures of Mossflower Wood; in his experience this usually amounted to resolving petty disputes.

He had also served brief stints as the King of Southward, Badgerlord of Salamandastron, and Taggerung of the Juska (each had been it’s own separate adventure, though all three were tales better suited for their own telling), and was rumoured to be running for the position of Log-a-log in the fall. 

In his spare time he officiated weddings, sewed fabric and crafted everything from toys to furniture. If anybeast had a bother or a complaint or needed something done, Foremole Raker usually had and often was the solution.

All this was to say there was nobeast in the abbey with more lived-in world experience and thus in most matters, the Foremole’s world was law.  

Yet even Raker could only scratch his head at the sight of Rocket, and chuckle away- delighted to be sharing in the confusion of the morning. “Wull burn m’oi borrows down! Oi’ve never seen anyfink loike it. Could be a cat or a fox or am wearet-eagle for all oi knows, hurr hurr!” 

The only beast entirely uninterested in the main topic of speculation was Sister Carraway. Being a very matter-of-fact, no-nonsense kind of shrew, she knew at a glance what she was dealing with and did not find it amusing. 

“Severe concussion,” she sniffed, letting the eyelid she'd been holding open snap shut. “Really, it's a miracle he’s not dead considering how long he's been out.” Carraway turned to the Abbot with an arched brow and a more-severe-than-usual look on her face. “And this was your doing?”

“I-I didn't think I’d hurt them!” Bimbondo squeaked, holding his paws out in defense against her scrutiny. “I really- I’ve never thought of myself as particularly strong- I-I didn't think I was capable of something like this!” The hedgehog bit back a whimper and went on in a smaller voice. “W-will they erm- ‘he’ be alright?”

“Well, it’s impossible for me to assess the level of damage until- well, at this rate unless he wakes up. If-”

“Ahem! Surely you mean when?” Boogaloff cut in with a pointed cough and a subtle gesture towards the Abbot. “We just gave him a little bump, it can't be all that bad! I get knocked on the head all the time and I’m still right as rain, wot.” He knocked on the side of his head for emphasis. “Got dropped on my head as a leveret and everything!”

Pointing her glower from extravagant hare to distraught hedgehog, and back again, Sister Carraway relented with a sigh. “When he wakes up, we’ll have a better idea of how he’s feeling, though I imagine not particularly good after getting smacked across the face.”

“I was just trying to rouse him,” explained Boogaloff. “‘Twas an honest mistake, wot!”

Choosing to ignore the hare’s comment for the sake of her own sanity, Carraway rolled up the sleeves of her habit and began fussing about the mysterious creature, clucking like a hen as she took note of his pulse (not out of the ordinary for a creature of his size), breathing (seemingly regular, which was a good sign), and temperature (a little bit on the warmer side, but nothing feverish). 

Her final verdict was cautiously optimistic. “I make no promises, but I’ve fixed worse.”

All present shared a sigh of relief, though nobeast’s was felt more than Abbot Bimbondo’s; The shrew’s words had lifted a terrible weight off his chest. 

Carraway went on in her usual waspish tone. “Now, unless you lot fancy hauling him upstairs I think I’ll be working in here, so I'm going to need my things.” A quick, sharp glance in his direction sent Scofferton racing for the infirmary (to pick up her things; while certainly very intimidating, her sharp glances were not yet capable of causing corporeal harm). “I’d rather not be interrupted if it’s alright with you, Foremole, so I reckon you ought to serve breakfast in the orchard today.”

“Oo ar! A splundid oidea, Zister Carroway, zurr!” 

“It’s probably for the best too, I don’t have many beds that’d fit a creature of this size and I just replaced all the linen. Wouldn’t want this scent to linger.”

Among his many accomplishments, the Foremole had by far the most sensitive nose in the abbey. Strangely enough, he did not find the mysterious creature’s scent all that unpleasant, and took some offense to the molehill being built around it. “Burr, et just remoinds oi o’ greasers, loobricants and the loike. Moibe a tad too much, but b’ain’t as turrible as all you’m be makings it out t’be.” 

“I don’t know Mister Raker, sir, I’d rather take a whiff of Horace’s sit-upon,” said Gumbalo, with absolute sincerity. 

Noises of agreement followed from the other novices, until they realised what they were agreeing to, at which point the noises turned into ones of reluctant consideration (from Rufus, for he was rather familiar with both scents), disagreement (from Holly, who would rather do anything but), and exasperation (from Lyles, who was far too polite to dignify this kind of discussion).

Before Gumbalo could begin to argue his point, the tremors of an approaching thundercloud turned his attention skywards.

“Awww, can we still have breakfast in the orchard if it rains?” he asked, dragging himself towards the window for a quick (and in this case literal) rain-check.

“Summer’s the worst month to catch a cold in,” Bimbondo pointed out from around a hearty chuckle. “But if it’s a light enough drizzle I don’t think it should be a problem.” Patting the mouse on the back, the doddery old hog joined him in peering out the window.

The Abbot’s spectacles nearly fell off his face at the sight that met his eyes. Struck dumb by the impossibility before him, the hedgehog felt a shiver run through his quills. His first instinct was to bolt and seek shelter under his bed, or else curl up into a ball, yet he could not find the strength to look away from something so mesmerizing and so terrible. 

It was Boogaloff who put it most succinctly. 

“Blasted bloomin’ blazes! The sky’s turned red!”

The remaining abbeybeasts soon crowded around the window, for really this was something that had to be seen to be believed. As far as the eye could see, lightning had cracked open the horizon and painted it the colour of a ripe watermelon.

“Burr, Oi’ve never zeen an eclipser bufore!” 

“I didn’t know we were due for one,” muttered Carraway, who could vividly recall being dragged off to see one in her youth.

“We’re not,” said Bimbondo, shaking his spiky head with conviction. Having been obsessed with the heavens for longer than anybeast present had been alive, he’d seen virtually every shade of eclipse or aurora borealis at some point, and it was nothing at all like the image rapidly fading back into a pleasant summer morning. “I’m not sure what that was, but I’m willing to bet teapots and teacups it has something to do with what we saw last night! The shooting star!”

“Sorry to bother, but where should I put these?” asked Scofferton, returning from the infirmary, his paws laden with supplies. Sister Carraway’s sharp glance had not been generous with specifics so the young hare had seen fit to bring every herb, poultice, bandage, utensil, mortar and pestle he could find.

Noting the copious amounts of medicine in his paws, the shrew made a noise that could have meant approval (that he’d been so thoughtful in bringing everything she’d need) or annoyance (that he’d ruined her intricate arrangement of vials and jars) but was likely a mix of both.

Bimbondo cut his tale short with a clap of his paws. “Right everybeast, let’s give Sister Carraway all the space she needs to work her magic! We can worry about the star later and, in the meantime, start getting the orchard ready for breakfast!”

Despite the promise of a sumptuous feast on the horizon, the novices could not help but share a collective groan; like most of the abbey they had been looking forward to taking it easy over the course of the summer months, an ambition that had so far been thwarted at every turn.

“Alroight, Master Gumbalo, ‘ee got yurr wish!” Foremole Raker chuckled, ruffling the mouse’s fur. “An’ iffen ‘ee doan’t moind a bit o’ eggzoarsoize, ‘ee cin ‘elps oi with this yurr table! You too, Father Abbot! Toime t’put that formidable strength o’yours t’ gudd use.” 

“We’ve got two teams of four between us,” Boogaloff noted, a wily grin beginning to spread across his face as he twirled a moustache. “Anybeast fancy a race?”

“Hoo arr, it’d be yore fooneral, Jadwick!” declared the Foremole, as the Redwallers exchanged competitive boasts. 

“Swap Holly for Rufus and it’ll be yours!” 

“Ho-ho! Go on Holly, the ol’ Corporal needs all the help ‘ee can get. Rufus, walcim t’ the winning soide!”

“The winner gets the loser’s share of breakfast!” yelled Scofferton, already tasting victory.

“And the loser gets the winner’s share of chores!” Gumbalo shot back, with just as much zeal. 

“Call it Father Abbot!” Boogaloff hooted, as both teams got into position and every paw found it’s place on the corner of a table. “And, begging your pardon, but prepare to eat my dust!”

Raising a paw, Bimbondo (who was not much of a runner and feared his team, all of whom being on the smaller side of creature, were in for a particularly resounding defeat) prepared to do just that. “On your marks! Get set!” 

Before he could give the signal to go, a rather pointed ‘ahem’ returned everybeast’s attention to the perpetually unamused Sister Carraway.

“In the event that a large and confused vermin suffering from a concussion were to suddenly wake up in an unfamiliar environment, I would prefer not being left to fend for myself, if possible!” she said, in a voice as sweet as poisoned honey.

Seeing that he was the most fitting beast for the job (and that the shrewmaid was currently glaring into his soul), Boogaloff was forced to put on a brave face and pull out of the race. “Ah yes, rightio then! Guard duty, wot! Best of luck without me, laddie-bucks! Don’t let that overachieving young burrower win without a fight!”

Foremole Raker, the overachieving young burrower in question, let out a hearty guffaw. “Ho-ho! Still feelin’ loike betting yore brekkist, young Scoffer?”

“Waitwaitwaitwait!” the young hare pleaded, not nearly as sure of his odds now that his team was down a beast. “I’ve changed my mind!”

Shaking with fits of laughter, Abbot Bimbondo lowered his paw. “Go!”  

Without Boogaloff to lead them, and with Lyles having to man an entire half of the table by himself, Holyberry, Lyles and Scofferton were quickly overtaken by their smaller friends, and had to endure all sorts of good-natured mockery when they eventually hobbled into the orchard after them.

“It’s a good thing I’m hungry!” Gumbalo quipped. “Scofferton likes to have biiiig breakfasts!”

Even Rufus, who was normally too lazy for this kind of thing, felt obliged to list (from around a yawn) the rather large amount of chores they had won off of him.

“I think we’ll need one more table,” Bimbondo added, with a playful wink. 

“And a bench or two each,” Gumbalo added, leaping onto the table they had brought to better shoo them away. “The pillowed-ones, mind you! Some of us have rather sensitive rumps!” 

It was all in good fun, of course, and Lyles, never one to complain about chores, took his defeat in stride. The same could not be said of Holyberry, who grumbled something about being made to swap teams, and Scofferton, who’s appetite now lay at the mercy of Gumbalo’s relentless teasing.

Still, the sun was shining brightly over what promised to be a beautiful nameday, and as more and more of the abbey crawled out of the depths of slumber and wished them a good morning, it was impossible to remain dispirited.

The sight of breakfast was especially heartening. 

Foremole Raker, seemingly in an effort to outdo his own feast, had prepared a sumptuous banquet. 

Loaves of Great Aunt Lollery’s teabread were stacked high atop a bed of sliced strawberries. Mounds of glistening meadowcream flowed from between stacks of chestnut pancakes. Fat bowls of porridge were topped with an assortment of candied nuts and cinnamon. 

“Looks like my wish came true!” Scofferton squealed, licking his lips in anticipation as they ferried vittles from the kitchen to the orchard; taking increasingly less-subtle samples from every platter. 

“Huh… now that you mention it… mine did too…” Holyberry noted, nearly dropping a muffin she had been about to stealthily stuff into her mouth.

“Oooh! Did you wish for an unlimited supply of vittles too?”

“Not quite…” The squirrel swallowed with a guilt that had nothing to do with the treat she’d almost swiped. “Promise you’ll keep this to yourselves?”

Once they had all shook pinkies, the squirrel went on. 

“Well… I may have… sort of…”

‘Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight;

I wish I may, I wish I might

Have Horace’s stupid garden completely destroyed tonight.’

Lyles and Scofferton gasped in identical, unified horror.

“I know, I know!” Hollyberry whined, not daring to meet their eyes. “But I was sick and tired of hearing about- he wouldn’t shut up about that stupid garden! It was driving me into the trees!”

Lyles shook his head as Scofferton tutted in disapproval. “Well, I betcha feel real guilty about that now, eh?”

“What do you think? I didn’t want him to get upset, but it’s not like the star had anything to do with that,” Hollyberry growled somewhat defensively. “I know I shouldn’t have- but it’s just- Just don’t tell anybeast, please? Especially Gumbalo-” 

“This Gumbalo sounds like a right and proper fiend if you’re keeping secrets from him!” chirped the mouse in question, seemingly materialising out of thin air beside them.

“It’s not a secret!” snapped Hollyberry, so startled she nearly dropped three platters worth of breakfast onto the floor. “R-right guys?”

Being too good-natured to outright lie (and not very good at it anyways), Lyles made a non-committal noise and turned to Scofferton. 

“That’s right, it’s not a secret!” After a lengthy pause, and a none-too-gentle elbow-to-the-ribs, the hare added. “It’s a surprise!”

“I love surprises!” said Gumbalo, clapping his paws excitedly. “Funny you should mention that, actually, me and Rufus are working on one too!”

“What is it?” asked Lyles.

“A surprise!” The mouse needed a full minute to laugh at his own joke before he could make further conversation, by which time Hollyberry and Scofferton had both joined him in snickering at the otter’s expense.

“Aaaaanyways! Since you asked, me and Rufus are off to ease Horace’s gardening woes,” explained Gumbalo, swaggering towards the waiting dormouse. “Do drop by if we’re hunting down that falling star later. I was just supposed to tell one of you to make sure Sister Carraway and the Corporal get some breakfast too.” 

As was usually the case, the extra chore soon fell upon Lyles. So, while Holyberry and Scofferton set their sights on an excessive bit of indulgence, the otter made his way back to Cavern Hole. Having no idea what Sister Carraway liked, and knowing that the Corporal liked everything, Lyles had piled two platters high with as many vittles as he could reasonably fit, and because everybeast had their own opinion on what Carraway liked (and because Lyles had made the mistake of asking) a third platter had been prepared especially for the shrew and placed atop his head. 

An exceedingly long, but thankfully uneventful, balancing act later, Lyles rapped his tail smartly against the doors of Cavern Hole. “Breakfast!” he announced, knowing that nothing else would seize the Corporal’s attention quite as fast. 

Instead of an overly-enthusiastic old hare to open the door for him, however, Lyles was met with the surprisingly shrill voice of Sister Carraway. “Help! Lyles, is that you? Come quickly! Boogaloff’s fainted!” 

Having never heard the shrew sound so distressed before, Lyles rammed the door open and bolted to her side, where he found her trying and failing to wake the Corporal up with his preferred methodology. 

“Well don’t just gawp at me, you’re an otter not a fish!” the fierce little infirmary keeper snapped between slaps. “Help me get him off the floor!”

Before Lyles could make any endeavour to do so, or even attempt to set down the platters he was still burdened with, however, the hare’s nose twitched in his direction.

“A-are those buttered turnips I smell? Toasted shrewbread with farlnut cheese? Sesame conkers and marmalade frenzies?” Several more twitches followed, and a moment later, Boogaloff sat up, his eyes wide open and his face lit up like a dibbun’s at dinnertime. “Sweet mother of rabbits! I must have died and gone to heaven!”

“Not bloody likely on my watch,” Carraway grumbled, nevertheless relieved to see that the hare had returned to what little remained of his senses. 

“What happened?” asked Lyles, continuing his poorly thought out balancing act and offering the Corporal a leg up. 

“Well, Sister Carraway here wanted to do a proper, thorough check-up wot,” explained Boogaloff, as he pulled himself to his feet. “So we removed the poor blighter’s vest but- wait no! Lyles, don’t look!”

Though obedient by nature, the Corporal’s warning had come too late to be heeded, and it was Lyles who now found himself growing faint.

It was the most grizzly wound he had ever seen. The wolverine’s back was raw, red and furless, with several hard lumps of blunt metal punching through his skin like oversized ticks. 

“Martin’s whiskers…”

“Poor thing,” Boogaloff agreed, giving the otter a sympathetic pat on the back and helping him avert his gaze. “No wonder he was so ravenous- Horace’s garden was probably the first decent meal he’s had in a decade!”

“He’s horrifically scarred, Corporal, not starving to death,” Carraway corrected, tapping at the centermost bit of metal and squinting at it’s echo. “Having said that, malnutrition might be the only thing he isn’t suffering from at this rate. Open wound like this is just asking for an infection. I’ll have to see about removing these, but it will be incredibly painful.”

“Not like that’s ever stopped you before,” the vermin muttered with a dry little chuckle. 

The next thing anybeast knew, the wolverine had shot to it’s feet and backhanded Carraway clear across Cavern Hole.

With a noise somewhere between a squeak and a scream, Lyles rushed over to make sure the shrew was alright.

“You’ve got some nerve to treat our healer like that!” Boogaloff barked, forgetting for a moment how hard-headed Rocket was and bringing his fist into the side of the raccoon’s head. 

The hare was rewarded with a metallic CLANG! and a paw that wasn’t quite broken but certainly felt like it. 

“You’re an ungrateful swine and you smell like it too, wot!” Boogaloff hissed through gritted teeth, shaking life back into his paw while Rocket clutched at his face with a groan. 

Not one to be deterred, the hare leapt into action with the one limb he had that couldn’t feel pain, and rammed his peg leg into the wolverine’s gut. 

“Don’t worry old chap, I’ve got plenty more manners to teach you where that came from!” he hooted, following up the first blow with an impressive kick to the chin.

By the third kick, however, the wolverine was ready for him. Slashing through the strap holding Boogaloff’s wooden leg in place, Rocket wrenched it off and watched with some satisfaction as the old hare teetered on the spot for a moment, before falling to the floor.

“Wait, wait, stop!” cried Lyles. Having found Carraway stunned but unharmed, the otter rushed back to Boogaloff’s side in an effort to shield him from further harm. “W-we’re trying to help you!” he squeaked, desperately holding out a placating pair of breakfast platters.

The wolverine froze mid-snarl, his eyes growing wide as he stared right through the otter, almost as if he’d seen a ghost. “Lylla?”

“Well, Lyles actually,” said Lyles, without really thinking. A moment later, realizing he did not know this beast, he blinked in confusion and cocked his head to the side. “Wait, how do you know my name?”

And then, for reasons beyond Lyles’ comprehension, the wolverine finished off the rest of his snarl and swung Boogaloff’s foot into his face.

Blissfully unaware that his backside was quickly becoming the subject of a heated debate, Horace fussed and fretted over his new medal. Rubbing it against the side of his pants, he turned it over and over again in his paw, staring at his reflection on its coppery surface with all the wonder in the world.

He was already imagining the fervent cheering and enthusiastic applause he would no doubt receive (with all the appropriate humility of course) when the entire Mossflower community assembled for the feast and heard his tale of valour. It had come at great cost, but Horace’s courage had saved countless gardens, and maybe even a few lives! It wasn’t quite as impressive as his harvest would have been, but he was probably the first vermin in Mossflower’s history to ever receive a medal! Well, he supposed most vermin in Mossflower’s history had not really been medal-earning material so that wasn’t saying much…

Between fanciful daydreams, the rat’s thoughts kept straying towards the mysterious, masked creature, presumably in Sister Carraway’s care by now and likely regretting every minute of it. Though the infirmary keeper had the best interests of everybeast at heart, her kindness usually came in the form of needles and bitter tea and in truth Horace had always been a little bit scared of her. 

He could think of no fate more fitting for the terrible garden-smashing vermin!

“Anyhow, speaking of gardens!” The rat pocketed the medal, clapped his paws, and dusted himself off, turning his attention to what had yesterday been the greatest garden in Mossflower’s entire history. “It’s time we put you back into shape!” 

And so he began picking up all the stray bits and bobs that lay about the clearing; the tools and furniture the others had chosen for their ambush, various large-ish and perhaps still use-able bits of plant matter, and of course, the terrible garden-smashing vermin’s music box. 

Five minutes later, the monumental workload ahead of him chipped away at Horace’s resolve until it crumpled to dust and the rat sat back down in defeat. It was the first day of what promised to be a long summer, there would be plenty of time for work later…

Pulling the medal back into his paw, Horace wondered if there was any particular way he should wear it. Boogaloff hadn’t mentioned anything, but in Horace’s experience there was always some unspoken rule or another he was breaking; more often than not simply by not knowing better. 

Growing up, a small part of Horace had always been ashamed of being vermin. He had lost count of the number of times he’d been assured that it did not really matter and that he was just as much of a Redwaller as anybeast else, and that he had a good heart and was nothing at all like the vermin of Mossflower’s storied history. For the most part everybeast had done their best to treat him the same as anybeast else, he’d never wanted for food or warmth or a kind word. Yet there always seemed to be something that kept him apart from the rest.

He chewed too loudly, he didn’t look where he was going, he was tardy with his chores…

Being vermin had always been an inescapable fact of his existence, yet the more Horace stared at his reflection, the more he realised he had no idea what that even meant! 

And the only other reference he had for what a vermin was, was nothing like him at all. 

“We don’t have ‘em that sharp.”

Horace had never given his claws a second thought, but now considering them, he found that they were no sharper than any other rodent’s. He was sure Holyberry’s were sharper. And though not as certain for Lyle’s claws, the otter had the most impressive fangs of their generation (and he never forgot to brush them either, besting the rat both by edge and cleanliness). 

Horace had never smashed anybeast’s garden to bits, nor did he brag about the (very few) acts of villainy under his belt and make songs about them. He didn’t lie (a few minor exaggerations aside), or cheat or steal. He wasn’t greedy or mean and even on his worst days he never found joy in somebeast else’s misery. He was a bit on the pungent side, but mostly what that meant was that he smelled like a rat.

Not a particularly clean rat, but still.

Before he could contemplate a mid-morning bath, Horace was overwhelmed with the wonderful aroma of breakfast, wafting from a haversack dangling in front of his nose. 

“Hullo, Horace!” said Gumbalo, with all his usual cheer. “Raker sends his condolences, and breakfast, but mostly his condolences. He knows how hard you worked on this beautiful garden, and to have it torn away before it’s time is truly the worst thing that has happened in our lifetimes.” 

“And to make sure it never happens again,” declared Rufus, plunging what looked like a bulky, oversized umbrella into the center of Horace’s garden. “We present you with the most fearsome scarecrow known to beast.”

“The next warlord to lay eyes on this will need a fresh new pair of pantaloons!” declared Gumbalo, with utter conviction. “Behold! Sir-Sticks-A-Lot!”

Frankly the most terrifying thing about Sir-Sticks-A-Lot was how quickly he’d been put together. A long pole held together a set of old barrels that made up the scarecrow’s ridiculously large biceps and broad chest. A smirk was painted onto a block of wood carved with some urgency and decorated with a snail-shell helmet and oversized spectacles. Haphazardly attached to his back were the surviving splinters of last winter’s firewood, in a rough approximation of a hedgehog’s quills.

“We tried to make it look like Father Abbot,” explained Rufus, in perfect deadpan. “To strike fear into the hearts of all who wish us harm.”

“It’s a little rough, we only spent the morning on it,” added Gumbalo, somewhat bashfully scratching the back of his head. “But we figured we could always add to it later.”

Setting his breakfast aside, Horace pulled both rodents into an almost-teary embrace. “I-I think it’s amazing!” 

“Well I’m glad you like it,” Gumbalo wheeze-chuckled as he tried and failed to tap himself free of the rat’s arms. “It’s Rufus you ought to be thanking really, it was all his idea.”

The dormouse made a noise of protest that was drowned beneath the rat’s sniffle-heavy laughter.

“You know, I thought this was going to be the worst day of my life, b-but it’s turned out alright so far!”

“Don’t jinx it! Your two best friends might still get squeezed to death at this rate!”

Once they could all breathe again, and a rather embarrassed Horace had apologized profusely, the three sat down in the shade of the rat’s garden- underneath the large branch he’d pulled down and tied to the base of another tree.

There they proceeded to gorge themselves silly on a stack of pancakes, while laughing and joking about their experiences of the day so far, and their expectations of the summer.  

Rufus was in the middle of trying to guess what Abbot Bimbondo would name the summer, only for Gumbalo to cut him off with a wide-eyed ‘Oooooh!’

“Is this the music box?” he asked, racing over to the Zune and staring with dibbun-like glee at the wonder in his paws. Until he realised he had no idea how it worked. “Awww, Scofferton must have broken it! There’s no pins to turn!”

“Well actually for this one I think you push on the triangle,” explained Horace, making his way to the mouse’s side and flipping the music player screen-side up.

Gently pushing down on the Play Button filled the clearing with… noise.

‘Mi nah kree so slo in to has of meh!

Hoo ni mo than they geh

Day lah dee a ba ha to woo ma

Hoo ha laid too meh nee bets!’

“What… are they saying?” asked Rufus, who had never encountered a song with quite as much gibberish before.

“Do you think there’s like… a little beast inside?” whispered Horace, as if scared to disturb them.

“Who cares?” demanded Gumbalo, wedging himself between the pair and grabbing both by the elbows. “The song’s only ever as good as the dance that goes with it!”

‘Dance, Boogie Wonderland, hey, hey

Dance, Boogie Wonderland!’

At the mouse’s insistence the rat and dormouse dragged their feet along, swinging their tails and grooving along this way and that, slowly gaining momentum until, a song or two later, the three were prancing and dancing and kicking the air in something that could generously be called a jig.

Several songs later, Rufus managed to hit the pause button and the three collapsed into a hot and breathless heap. 

“We should play some musical chairs with this!” chittered Gumbalo, clapping his paws with excitement. 

Rufus made a noise of disagreement, having won the last round of musical chairs they had played at great personal cost (Scofferton had sat on him).

“And musical statues,” added Horace, stealing a glance at his medal and sighing with contentment. 

For one glorious moment, the world was as it should be, and there was nothing else the rat would have wished for. 

The moment passed, and the wind began to shift as an otherworldly air seemed to fall upon them. They had never felt it before, but it spoke to the deepest and most natural instinct in the heart of every rodent. The one that told them to fear the passing shadow and to scurry when danger was present.

“D-do you guys feel that too?” Horace dared to whisper, sitting up as a cold prickle of fear set his fur on edge. 

Without pausing to question it further, they shot off in search of cover. 

Horace only just managed to clear the clearing, as the forest behind him began to shift and shimmer.

Most people of a space faring nature were smart enough to stay well away from Yautja. Intergalactic laws and general decency alike did little to keep the over-teched trophy hunters at bay once they had deemed someone ‘worthy prey’, and damn near every attempt to reason or bargain with them was doomed from the start.

A culture built entirely around murder did little for reason, and bargaining was weakness.

While little more than a scary campfire story on more advanced systems like Xandar or Hala, they were a nightmare to anyone who strayed too far from the edge of civilization.

Having never ventured deep beyond the comforts of hearth and home, let alone their star-system, the three young rodents were woefully unprepared for the sight of not one Yautja, but three.

For one thing, they were giant. As tall as three badgers, and wider than even Scofferton, they towered over the terrified trio and everybeast they’d ever known. Armoured in black and silver metal that still shimmered with the after-effects of their camouflage, they growled and roared in a tongue as foreign to Mossflower Woods as French or English was to Martian. 

Most horrifying of all were the rows of dead, freshly-bleeding birds that hung from their belts.

While none of the Redwallers present could speak Yautja, or knew much of their culture, later events (and many crude impressions) would make the meaning of their words clear enough for later recordings, such as this one, to feature them. 

“We all saw the flair!” growled the nearest hunter. “Stranded spacefarers are easy prey this side of the galaxy.”

“Too easy,” grunted the tallest and most fearsome of the three. It was a common enough set up for Yautja tribes, for an older, more experienced hunter to guide a pair of far more reckless and bloodthirsty youngsters in the lead-up to their first solo-hunt; a traditional right of passage for their kind.

“They’ll give us more of a challenge than birds!” the first one snarled back, rounding on the second and spitting on the ground between them.  

“Say that again!” demanded the elder, matching the younger hunter growl for growl. (The exact translation would have been closer to ‘What did you say!?’, though this is often contested among the Recorders of Redwall)

Scared witless, and unable to make heads or tails of what was being said, Horace continued to back away, disappointed that for once, the monsters he was facing were not figments of his impressive imagination or childish cries for attention. Slowly, carefully, so as not to step on a stray branch or make too much noise, the rat inched away, desperate for the safety of home (and knowing that whatever these birdkillers were they would be no match for Foremole Raker).

Gumbalo was already a short ways ahead of him, and making steady progress, when suddenly the mouse stopped, his eyes growing wide in horror. 

Dreading what he would find, Horace followed his gaze to where it fell upon Rufus.

In his initial scramble for cover, the dormouse had taken shelter behind Sir-Sticks-A-Lot. Though he lay within bolting distance of the edge of the clearing, he had next to no cover, and having never been in such grave peril before, poor Rufus had panicked and curled himself up into a tight ball, where he now lay shaking and quivering.

"Rufus!" Gumbalo whisper-hissed, as Horace felt his insides drop. "Now's not the time for a nap!"

The dormouse only whimpered in response, as the birdkillers continued to argue around him. 

Seeing that Rufus was in no position to save himself, and knowing it was only a matter of time until he was discovered and likely killed, Gumbalo drew a sharp breath, gestured once from Horace to the dormouse, and then at himself to the birdkillers. 

“N-n-no, wait-!” the rat pleaded, but if the mouse heard him, he made no effort to listen.

Horace knew he was right of course. They had to do something! Steeling his courage, and feeling very little like a heroic hero worthy of the medal pinned to his chest, and every inch a gutless coward, the rat shimmied his way over to the scarecrow. Remembering to breathe, he spluttered for breath as silently as he could, while trying to ignore the part of his brain screaming at him to head the other way.

“Rufus,” Horace called out as loud as he dared. “Gumbalo’s got a plan! W-when he gives the signal, j-just make it to me and I’ll get us out of here.”

The terrified dormouse met his eye, and the rat did his best to quell his own rising panic as he reached a paw towards Rufus’ outstretched tail.

The Yautja argument seemed to be grinding to a halt, and just when it looked like the first punk would back down, the second saw fit to join in. 

"I can't believe I used to look up to you! I always thought you were a daredevil! Sneaking off to the harshest, most hostile corners of the galaxy in search of worthy prey!” 

"Hold your tongue! I already told you both, there are things on this planet you’re not equipped to deal with!"

“What, like this?” Having always been aware of the dormouse’s presence, (heat vision made hide and seek far easier and a lot more unfair than it had any right to be) the first hunter reached behind Sir-Sticks-A-Lot and plucked Rufus clear off of the ground. “This your monster, Frank?” he demanded, thrusting the screaming, terrified dormouse into the disgruntled elder’s face.  

Having been a mere whisker away from reaching Rufus’ tail a moment ago, Horace could not believe his eyes. Not Rufus. It couldn’t be Rufus. Rufus never screamed. Rufus never complained. Rufus was always nice to him. 

With a strangled sob, the rat screwed his eyes shut and threw his paws over his face in a desperate attempt to drown out what would surely be his friend’s final moments. 

Rufus couldn’t die. Rufus was too deadpan and too exhausted to die! It didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t do it now. Not on the first day of summer, not in his garden- 

Instead of screams of agony that would haunt him for the rest of his life, or the horrible finality of silence, however, the rats ears pricked towards the sound of an old circus-ditty.

“Huckle shuffle spockle trip! Twenty candied chestnuts roasting on a spit!” sang Gumbalo, utterly terrified, yet feeling strangely fearless as he dropped onto a branch on eye-level with the Yautja, and danced his heart away. “Bramble scramble scamper hum! Nineteen dibbuns on the run!”

This, Horace guessed, was the signal. And it would have been the perfect distraction too, if only they’d been a little bit quicker. The rat bit back a whimper, unable to hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat. It was up to him now. He had to do something! Anything! Rufus couldn’t die! Not on his watch!

“You’re right Frank, I’m not equipped to deal with this,” grunted the second Yautja punk, gesturing at the dancing mouse with utter contempt. “It’s beneath me!”

“Grumpy frumpy lumpy punt! Eighteen Friars on the hunt!”

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Frank raised an arm and in the blink of an eye the branch Gumbalo had been standing on shattered beneath his feet, dropping the mouse to the forest floor below. 

“What a pair of old trousers you are!” Gumbalo sniffled, struggling to pull himself back to his feet. “You wouldn’t know good music if it knocked on your door and offered you tea!”

“Suit yourselves. I think this one will make an excellent coin purse.”

“What am I saying, you probably don’t even drink tea! I bet you all have yellow teeth and kidney stones!” The mouse tossed a pinecone at them as hard as he could, and blew a raspberry for good measure. 

It was a mocking gesture that transcended the intergalactic language barrier, and deciding he didn’t really need a coin purse, Frank grunted irritably and trained his blaster on the mouse.

Before he could utterly eviscerate every last trace of the mocking rodent, however, the creaking of a tree branch turned his and the other Yautja’s attention towards where Horace was hastily undoing the last of his knots.

Seeing he’d finally been noticed, and knowing that all hell would break loose after this, Horace found himself brave enough to attempt a warcry. 

“G-get off my garden y-you- AAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

No longer held in place, the overhanging branch he’d hauled for shade all those weeks ago whipped back into place, sending a medley of items, Horace himself and Sir-Sticks-A-Lot flying towards the Yautja with extreme prejudice. 

‘Dance, Boogie Wonderland, hey, hey

Dance, Boogie Wonderland!’

Several things happened in quick succession.

The branch itself sent the first of the birdkillers reeling with a Willhelm Scream.

Seizing the only chance of escape he would get, Rufus bit the fingers of the one holding him and leapt onto Frank’s mask. This completely threw off the hunter’s aim, so the rain of plasma that would have been Gumbalo’s death sentence missed the mouse by a country mile. 

Narrowly avoiding the snarling Yautja’s attempts to swat him away, Rufus leapt off his shoulder- only just managing to grab onto Horace’s tail as the rat flew past. 

In an effort to slow their descent, Horace shot open his rickety-umbrella, which proceeded to invert itself and unceremoniously dump him on top of the beast he was trying to save. 

“Horace?” groaned Rufus, his voice returning to it’s characteristic deadpan as the dust cleared. “You’re my hero.” 

It was Sir-Sticks-A-Lot, however, who fought the most valiantly. Plunging quill-first into the face of the third Yautja hunter, the scarecrow came within inches of permanently blinding them.

“Take that, you rotten conkers!” Gumbalo cheered, delighted by the success so-far of their rescue mission. “Rufus, Horace, I’ll see you at the feast!” he shouted, saluting the pair before making a mad dash for the woods as the ground around him began to shatter and burst. 

Grabbing Rufus by the tail, Horace set off in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding a pair of silver spears that would have otherwise skewered them both. 

Not sure if he was being pursued, and not trusting himself to outrun the birdkillers over any great measure of distance, Horace made like hell for the safety of his cottage.

Hoping that perhaps Gumbalo had had the same idea, the rat chanced a quick glance in search of his friend but found neither hair nor hide of the mouse. Unsure if this was a good thing, but not daring to stay out in the open any longer, Horace raced into the mushroom, slammed the door shut and pulled the blinds over the windows.

Still shaking from the adrenaline, he slid to the ground, shivering and panting as quietly as he could. Realizing he no longer held a dormouse in his paws, the rat sat up with a fresh spike of panic.

Luckily, Rufus was sitting on the floor in front of him, roughed up and quivering, but alive.

“I’m sorry I panicked,” the dormouse whispered, after what felt like an eternity of silence. “Y-you guys shouldn’t have had to save me.”

“D-don’t be silly, I’m the hero of the hour, remember?” Horace gestured towards his medal with a half-hearted chuckle and was surprised to find that somewhere in all the commotion a dart had punched right through it and lightly grazed his chest. 

Seeing how close he’d come to the claws of death, the rat’s bravado faltered and his blood ran cold. 

A dozen terrified heartbeats later, Horace dared to ask another question. “D-did Gumbalo-?” 

“I-I don’t know…” Rufus whimpered, cradling his face in his paws and shaking with a fresh wave of fear. “I really hope so…”

Footnote: For reasons that I feel are fairly apparent, I was really excited to get to this chapter. Plenty of Redwall fluff and we get some fairly meaningful developments like Rocket Finally Waking Up, and more Alien Invaders. 

As is probably apparent from my delay in getting this out though, I also had a fair bit of difficulty putting this chapter together. 

The challenge with Rocket was less me not knowing how it would play out, and more not being sure when and from who’s perspective. In the end I settled for Lyles as I felt it was more consistent with the chapter. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say Rocket is more of the focus next time around though, so we might still see this bit play out from his perspective a little.

And then we get to The Predators. Now the Predator is a rather cool and iconic alien, and I feel like most people don’t really need an introduction to them, but at the same time I didn’t really know how to make it clear to the reader that These Are The Predators and I wasn’t really sure how to introduce them in-story- I wanted it to be a Big Surprise, but at the same time didn’t want to just dump them onto the readers (which is what I ended up doing anyways lol)- I feel I could have proooobably built them up a bit more beforehand, but also wasn’t sure how to do it in a way that still preserved the surprise.

My other struggle with them was the tone. I think that canonically the Yautja tend to be played a bit more straight and in some versions of the chapter I leaned into that a bit more- but whenever I did it tended to warp things far too drastically for my liking. 

I think I struck a good balance between light-hearted adventure and Genuine Peril in the end- I had a version without the Yautja dialogue that was probably a bit more nerve-wracking, but I decided to keep the dialogue because I felt the scene flowed better with it, and it gives these mini-bosses a bit more personality than if they were just Big, Mean and Scary, but I think there iiiiiiiiis a little bit of tonal whiplash in the last couple of scenes. 

In any case, thanks for reading and I hope you all enjoyed it! 

Next time, Rocket tries to figure out where the flark he is.