With a hundred vermin warriors at his command, Gulo took up the chase in his big ship—though, in reality, he needed none to protect him. Strongest of the strong and wildest of the wild, Gulo could face daunting odds and emerge victorious. All his foes had fallen victim to his maniacal rage and awesome strength. He had but one remaining enemy in the world—his own brother. Gulo would not rest until he had sent Askor to Hellgates and had seized the all-important symbol of power, the Walking Stone!
Leaping and rearing like a wild stallion, the vessel plunged onwards. It would journey, untamed, running in sync with the surging currents—away from the land of ice and snow to warmer, more temperate coasts. Down to its fearless navigator’s final destination . . . the very shores on the borders of Mossflower Country, where creatures dwelt who knew nought of what lies beyond the cold Northern Sea but were soon to witness the sight, the might and the ferocity of the beast known as Gulo the Savage!
2
In the course of a single night, winter folded the land into its earth-numbing embrace. Snow, that silent invader, fell deep and soft upon Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country. Abbot Humble rose early from his bed in the cellars, as he always did, no matter what the season. The old hedgehog had ruled as Father Abbot for a long time. It still bemused him that he was the one chosen by all Redwallers as their leader. Humble had been a Cellarhog, born to the task, with an unsurpassed knowledge of ales, wines and cordials. Nobeast was more surprised than he, when two seasons after the passing of Abbess Furtila, the Council of Elders, backed by unanimous approval, had elevated Humble to the lofty position—Father Abbot of Redwall.
It had taken lengthy persuasion before the modest old Cellarhog accepted his new role and, even then, only under his personal conditions. He would never forsake his beloved cellars—all those barrels, kegs, casks and firkins filled with the good beverages. Having created, nurtured and cared for them, Humble would not hear of coming to live upstairs. The saying at Redwall was “Humble is as Humble does.” By choice, the cellars remained his home. Old habits die hard, they say. This was clearly the case with Humble. Even to this day, his first chore on rising was to check his cellars before tending to his business as Abbot.
Raking out the ashes from his little forge, Humble stoked up the burning embers with judicious amounts of broken barrel staves, seacoal and charcoal. He ambled around his cellarstock—tapping, wedging and checking the barrels. Satisfied, Humble looked in on Burlop, the present Cellarhog, whom he had trained up for the job. The stout young Cellarhog was still sleeping peacefully in a truckle bed tucked beneath an alcove. Humble smiled as he covered Burlop’s footpaws with the eiderdown. Burlop was a good beast—trustworthy, diligent and strong as an oak. The Abbot took comfort in knowing that the cellars were safe in his care. Instinct told Humble that snow had fallen outside. He took a warm homespun cloak from the peg behind the door and left to make his way upstairs.
Friar Glisum was another early riser. The fat dormouse looked up from his work as the Abbot entered the kitchens. He waved a floury paw. “G’morning, Father. Snow’s thick on the ground outside.”
Humble returned the greeting as he stirred a cauldron of steaming oatmeal and began ladling out two bowlfuls. “Morning, Glis. I’ll take a spot of breakfast up to the east nightwatch, with your permission.”
The friar spooned honey over one bowl for Humble. He gave the other bowl a generous dash of hotroot pepper from a gourd shaker, murmuring half to himself, “Carry on by all means, Abbot. I’ve put hotroot on Skipper’s oatmeal; he sprinkles it on everything. Oh, wait a moment, I’ll add some nutmeg to it.”
He grated the sweet, pungent spice over the bowl and stirred it in, winking mischievously. “There, that’ll keep the plank-ruddered rogue guessing!”
Humble left the kitchens, carrying a tray loaded with both oatmeal bowls, a small basket of hot hazelnut toast and two beakers of steaming coltsfoot and comfrey tea.
It was snowing heavily and still dark outdoors. Humble’s sandalled paw printed tracks into the pristine surface of the white carpet as he rounded the south gable. Chuckling, he recalled his Dibbun days. (“Dibbun” is the name conferred upon all Abbeybabes.) He remembered dashing out into the first snow, with his little pals, to see who could make the first pawprints.
On top of the east wall’s broad ramparts, Skipper of Otters stood cloaked, warming his paws at a fire in a strapped iron brazier. Turning, he spotted the figure with the tray, illuminated in a shaft of golden light from one of the rear Abbey windows. Blowing snowflakes from his lips, the burly otter shouted, “Ahoy, who goes there—friend, foe or food?”
Abbot Humble’s cheery reply rang back at him. “ ’Tis a friend, and bearing breakfast. Permission to come up?”
Skipper stamped his paws, chortling happily. “Come on aboard, matey, afore I perish from ’unger!”
Bounding down the wallsteps, he took the tray from Humble, cautioning him, “Mind yore step, Father. ’Tis slippy underpaw.”
The two friends stood on the ramparts of the Abbey, facing the snow-wreathed trees of Mossflower Wood. They warmed their backs on the fire and took breakfast together, watching the rising sun make scarlet flame patterns through the leafless branches.
Skipper spooned oatmeal down at an alarming rate, nodding toward the rising light. “Here comes the good ole sun, what’d we do without it! Hmm, somethin’ in this oatmeal, aside from ’otroot. An odd taste, wonder wot it is?”
The Abbot could not resist telling him. “Friar Glisum said you wouldn’t guess. Actually, it’s nutmeg.”
Skipper wolfed it energetically. “Very nice, I like it!”
The rising sun came up swiftly, bearded in a pinky fawn cloud. It shone like a ruby dipped in molten gold.
Skipper paused. “Mother Nature’s miracle. Ain’t it a pretty sight?”
Shielding his bowl from the whirling snowflakes, the Abbot turned his gaze upon the beautiful Abbey. He shook his head in wonder. “Redwall takes on a different face with each season, my friend. See how the light catches the stones?”
They both stood silent, viewing the ancient building through the falling snow. In the newborn day, its normally dusty red sandstone was turned to a pale roseate hue, reflecting sunlight from the belltower to the weathervane. Buttresses and arches stood out in deeper-shaded relief. Rear dormitory and hall windows blazed light from the risen orb of the sun, causing snowladen windowsills to twinkle like powdered silver. Beyond the south lawns and the orchard, Redwall Abbey’s pond was smooth under a thick sheet of ice. The entire scene was bordered by the walkways and battlements of the Abbey’s broad outer walls.
Skipper placed a paw on his friend’s shoulder, smiling. “Aye, mate, ’tis a wonder to behold! An’ to think that yore the great Father Abbot over it all!”
Humble blinked and put aside his bowl. Then he and Skipper began taking a leisurely stroll around to the west wall and the main gate. “I was quite happy as a Cellarhog, you know.”
Chuckling, the burly otter replied, “An’ so ye still are. But you were the best beast for the job, an’ you deserve it!”
When they reached the southwest walkway, a cry rang out from the path beyond the outer wall. “Any brekkist to be had fer two pore beasts a-wanderin’ pawloose in the freezin’ winter?”
Abbot Humble beamed from ear to spiketip. “Cousin Jem, I’d know that voice anywhere!”
Sheltering their eyes, they peered down to the path. Two aged creatures, towing a small cart, were trudging up from the south, the tracks behind them being obliterated by the downfall of white. One was a hedgehog, the other a mole, both cloaked and hooded.