A chill autumn breeze blew over the former battlefield, carrying the odd leaf from the nearby forest as if heralding the fact that winter was on its way. No bird passed over the field but for the crows and ravens that circled overhead, waiting for the field to clear before they descended to eat their fill of the dead bodies.

Though the field was covered in bodies, most of the still-living vermin were gathered in one place, the winners surrounding the losers in a great crowd of hundreds. They were gathered around a hundred other vermin, all kneeling on the ground with their paws tied. Everywhere they turned, swords, spears, and bows were pointed at them. The place was a riot of laughter and taunting, the defeated group shying away from each weapon.

"What's the matter, filth? You scared?"

"Come on, I haven't killed enough of you today! One of you stand up!"

"We warned you before that you couldn't stand against our chieftain! You'll be lucky if he doesn't kill you!"

"Hush, all of you! He's coming!" The horde fell silent as the back rows began parting, though many of them looked down at the rat that sat in front of the rest of the enemy tribe as they stepped away.

The rat in question tried his best not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of death and blood that hung in the air around him. The previously idyllic plain that he knelt on was covered in the bodies of other vermin, their fur decorated with all manner of different tattoos. The rest of his tribe, around fivescore left after the battle, knelt behind him, surrounded by the victors of the battle.

The rat looked up at the fox that stood over him, and more specifically the hilt of the sword that the fox's paw rested on. The fox's face, emblazoned with two red stripes that ran down his muzzle and a collection of red dots that sprinkled his cheeks, was twisted in a smug smile. "The Juskator," he said, looking away from the rat and up at the rest of the Juska tribe that knelt behind Tor. "That's what you called yourselves, yes?"

Tor simply spat. "Aye, and we'll remain Juskator whether or not we're part of your horde, Shaga Zann!"

Zann laughed, drawing his sword. It was a curved blade, wickedly sharp and shining in the half-light of the overcast day. He began to stride around Tor and his tribe of Juska, his green eyes sweeping across the battlefield, at the arrows and tattered banners that stuck out of the ground. "You truly think that you're the first Juska to say that to me? Look around you, Tor. I have every Juska tribe at my beck and call."

Tor looked around at the Juska tribes that stood around him. Each with a different tribe's tattoos, but all with the red muzzle stripes of the Juskahorde—Zann's army, formed from the various Juska tribes. He turned around to face Zann. "Just because the rest of these tribes were too weak to see how much of a fool you are doesn't mean that the Juskator are the same, fox! None of them will join you as long as I'm alive!"

"Truly?" Zann raised an eyebrow and turned to the remaining Juskator. "Juska! For many seasons you've had Tor as your chieftain! Yet here he has led you to defeat against my Juskahorde, and now refuses to admit defeat! Who will you follow? This fool of a chieftain? Or me? The Taggerung of the Juska?"

Tor's eyes widened as Zann extended his left paw, showing a birthmark on each of his pads. Altogether the dark marks formed the shape of an asphodel. While many of the Juskator gasped at the sight of it, Tor spat again. "And what beast says that that's the mark of a Taggerung?"

"I do, fool!" The wizened voice of another fox broke the silence of the surrounding Juskahorde, and the crowd parted to allow a male fox, his fur silver with age and covered with a grey cloak, to go through. He leaned heavily on an oaken staff, which he pointed at Tor. "Do you not know the legend of the Taggerung? They will hold a birthmark on their paw, and Shaga Zann holds that mark!" The fox gestured around him to the other Juskahorde vermin. "Do you not trust the word of a seer, rat?"

Tor spat for a third time. "What makes you think that I ever trusted the word of a seer to begin with? The Juskator have never had a seer, and we never will! All that matters in this life is what we make of it! Your insane mutterings are why our seer is strung up from a tree branch, as you undoubtedly saw!"

"Then without a seer you are no Juska at all!" Zann shouted. He turned to the rest of the Juskator. "If you all truly claim to be Juska, then can you not see that I am the Taggerung? Look around you! All of the Juska tribes are at my command! Their chieftains dead, their seers slain, all defeated in battle by me! Your tribe, your Juskator, is the last to fall!" He knelt down, looking all of them, from the smallest rat to the slimmest stoat to the tallest fox, in the eye. "Would you rather not be under a true Taggerung, rather than your failure of a chieftain?" He swept a paw out towards the rest of his tribe. "If you truly wish to be a part of the Juskahorde…you need only stand."

Tor watched, aghast, as the Juskator began to stand. Other members of the Juskahorde slit their bonds, and they joined with the crowd surrounding him. "Cowards!" he shouted. "Traitors! You'll all die for this, I swear it!"

"And tell me, rat, how will you swear their deaths if you are not alive to see it?" Zann asked as he swung his sword in a few testing swipes. "If you truly call yourself a Juska and wish to retain your tribe…you need only to best me in a duel." He flourished his blade and gave a mocking bow. "If you win, the horde is yours."

Tor snarled and started to struggle. "Cut my bonds and I'll cut your throat, fox!"

"Very well." Zann stepped backwards and motioned to one of the horde. The stoat in question slit Tor's bonds with a knife. The rat spun immediately, pulling the stoat's sword from its sheath and charging at Zann as he screamed in rage. Zann pulled to the side, dodging around the rat's outstretched blade. Tor had enough time to realize his error before Zann's sword swung back around.

The Juskahorde raised a cheer as Tor's head rolled on the ground, the rat's body following it a few seconds later. "Shaga Zann Taggerung! Tagggerung! Juskaaaaaaa!"

Zann wiped his sword clean of blood on Tor's tunic, then sheathed it. He raised a paw, quieting the horde. "My Juskahorde!" he said, his voice carrying across the silent plains. "With the Juskator joining us, our grand mission is nearly complete! For many seasons we have fought across the western shores, conquering other Juska tribes! Now, with the Juskator, we can move on to our real goal: Mossflower!" He paused as the Juska cheered. "There lies the crown jewel of that forest, Redwall Abbey. When we take it, we will rule Mossflower Woods as we have been destined to do! On this, I swear as your Taggerung!"

"Taggerung! Taggerung! Taggerung!" the Juskahorde shouted, thrusting their weapons in the air.

"We are nearly ready, my lord," the fox seer said as he watched Shaga Zann come into his tent. "Now that you have united the Juska, we need only to march to Mossflower this spring."

"I'm aware of this, Gorus," Zann replied. He sat down before the fire that the old fox had started, looking up at him. "Have you had any more visions? Do you see what we must do?"

"I only see visions of our victory, my lord," Gorus said. He reached into his cloak and tossed a pawful of powder onto the fire. It flared bright green, bathing both foxes in a baleful glow. "I see your sword leading us against Redwall, and only a few opposing us. Even the stripedogs of Salamandastron, that accursed fortress, will arrive too late to help them."

"Salamandastron will be next after Redwall Abbey is ours," Zann said, beginning to sharpen his sword with a whetstone. "The woods are full of creatures that would join us for a chance at revenge against the abbey and the mountain. With them on our side we will break them over our knees like a rotten stick."

"Indeed, my lord," Gorus said, grinning. "After all, who can stand against the Taggerung? Your name, Zann, means 'mighty one' in the old Juska tongue. And who can stand against the Taggerung, especially one that has brought all of the Juska under their rule?" Gorus reached out and put a paw on his chieftain's shoulder. "You know that I have been with this tribe ever since it was the Juskagor, under your father's rule. He was content to sit on his laurels and grow fat, but not you. That is why you killed him, and took the tribe for your own. Before then I had watched you grow into the great warrior you are now. And by the end of this, I hope to see you as king of all Mossflower, and undisputed ruler of the Juska. One of those has already come to pass."

Zann gently swept Gorus's paw away from him. "Your words have always given me reassurance, Gorus. And I will rely heavily on your visions in the days to come. I trust that you will not disappoint me."

"I will do what the fates wish, my lord," Gorus said. "And the fates say that it is your destiny as the Taggerung to rule Mossflower, and dominate these lands."

"Yes, I know." Zann waved a paw. "Enough for now, Gorus. Autumn is coming to an end, and we must prepare for winner." He rose. "Our conquest will begin in the spring. Be sure that you're ready."

Gorus nodded as Zann left the tent. As Zann closed the tent flap behind him, Gorus took more powder out of his cloak and threw it on the fire. The green flames turned purple, and Gorus shut his eyes. He breathed in the smoke, allowing his sight to dissolve into visions. He once again saw Zann at the head of a mighty army of Juska, with the sandstone of Redwall Abbey before them. In front of them were woodlanders, fools that were resisting the Juskahorde, but only a few. The rest were inside, cowering before Zann's might.

Gorus opened his eyebrows, pulling his cloak closer in for himself as a cold autumn breeze blew in through the tent flap. It would take a long time before the Juskahorde was ready to march on Redwall Abbey, and it would take even longer for the horde to arrive at the place. But for as long as the life remained in him, Gorus would support Zann in his dreams.

"Juskahorde!" Gorus's thoughts were interrupted by Zann bellowing the word across the camp. No small feat, as the hundreds of tents that made up the horde's camp stretched far across the plains. Gorus heard the various sounds of the camp come to a halt. Whetstones were sharpening no swords; no Juska gambled or squabbled over trinkets or food, and all chatter stopped as Zann stepped onto a small rock outcropping in front of his tent.

"I have already said that with this victory over the former Juskator, we have united the Juska tribes under one rule. My rule." From the tent flap, Gorus could see some of the former Juskator vermin already with Juskahorde tattoos fresh on their fur, the red stripes and cheek dots melding with the blue lightning bolts on the Juskator's cheeks and brows.

"Soon, as I have often told you, we will march for Mossflower and Redwall Abbey. The journey will be long, but do not fear. We have all of winter to prepare, and even longer to get to Redwall itself. Many legends surround that place, yes, and many warlords have met their end attempting to take it…but not me. Not us. The Juskahorde will win this time. We will break Redwall's gates, we will destroy its orchards, burn its crops, and tear down its vaunted abbey brick by brick!"

The Juskahorde cheered, thrusting their weapons into the air as Zann continued to speak.

"And once the Abby is ours, and all of Mossflower is ours, no longer will the hares of the Long Patrol and their badger mountain thwart us! We will reign supreme over these woodlands, with me as your Warlord! For who, I ask you, can stand against the Taggerung? What foolish beast would dare even try?"

Gorus nodded approvingly as the Juska cheered again, chanting his name as he continued.

"Shaga Zann! Shaga Zann! Taggerung! Taggerung! Juskaaaaaaa!"

"Let the woodlanders tremble!" Zann shouted, as the Juska began slamming their swords on their shields, filling the camp with the sounds of clashing weaponry and more shouting. "Let the hares try and stop us! They will break on our new fortress like water on rock! The birds that even now feast on those former Juska that dared to oppose us will feast on the flesh of fallen woodlanders and hares, and those that live will only live to serve us!"

Zann thrust his sword to the air, the Juska punctuating each shouted word with a bang of their shields while they echoed the word back to him. "Juskahorde!"

"Juskahorde!"

"Taggarung!"

"Taggarung!"

"Shagga Zann!"

"SHAGGA ZANN!"

Zann let a feral grin cross his lips as his chest heaved for breath while the Juska began chanting his name again, beating on their shields and roaring with bloodlust. He waited until the noise had died down, and smiled down on them once again. "Prepare yourselves for the winter, Juska. For when Spring finally arrives, we will march on Mossflower, and the woodlanders will tremble at our coming."

With that, the Juska split apart. Many went back to sharpening weapons, cooking meals, or squabbling and gambling with their comrades. Others left the camp, shouldering bows or axes to hunt and look for firewood in the nearby forest.

"Can you see him, I wonder, Chief Gor, from Hellgates?" Gorus muttered to himself as Zann began to make his way through the camp, offering the odd bit of encouragement here, a word of advice there, swordplay advice somewhere else. "Can you see your son, who you were content to ignore and use simply as a trophy? He has surpassed you in every way, as any chieftain would want. And soon he will become the greatest Juska chieftain to ever walk this world."