Hey guys and gals, hope everyone's having a good day. Well, finals week is here, but I got to school about an hour early today and decided I'd get this chapter up before my brain turned into muck. I had considered splitting this chapter into two parts and leaving everyone with a cliffhanger, but in the end I decided otherwise. So this one's a tad bit long, but the moment you've all been waiting for has arrived! The Siege of Redwall, in all its bloody glory. Anyway, hope ya'll enjoy, and as always R&R!

A council was quickly assembled and ordered to gather in the abbey gatehouse. About ten beasts in all including Shiloh, Rothgarr, and Eleyna stood awkwardly about while arguments and opinions flew thicker than an arrow storm.

"We can't win against a force that size! Our only option is to leave the abbey and retreat, maybe warn Salamandastron."

"Abandon Redwall? I can't believe I'm even hearing this! We have to stay, we have to fight! I won't see this Abbey fall while there's still somebeast left alive to defend it!"

"Oh, wonderful plan! 'tis, until you get everybeast slain by that horde out there. 'Ave ye seen it, there's thousands of the monsters!"

"Hurr burr, what'n if we..."

"...No, that'll never..."

"Dunerheaded rotface!"

"Jellyspine!"

"Coward!"

"Dunce!"

A bang! loud enough to shake the whole gatehouse silenced the yelling without protest. Everybeast turned to see Roebak holding a broken chair leg, the rest of the chair lying in splinters around the now-dented table. The otter used the stick like a cane, jabbing it in the air and pointing at specific creatures.

"You bunch of fat-brained ninnies, can't ye see what's happenin' here? At this rate, that army outside our gates won't have t' do a thing. We'll just kill each other off one by one like the idiots you are!"

Father Michael placed a calming paw on his shoulder. "That's enough, friend. Just calm down, I'll get things settled here."

Roebak restrained himself and sat down, still looking for anybeast foolish enough to speak out of turn while the Abbot spoke.

"There is no more time for preparation, friends. Both Shiloh and Rothgarr have informed me that this army will be at our gates by nightfall. Sentries will be posted around the clock, and I expect to see every one of them alert and awake. Are we clear on that point?" The Abbot had forsaken his kind and sensitive words, slipping back into the form of strict military commander.

"Secondly, there will be no fires on the walls at night. Tell all the Redwallers to keep as many of the lights out as possible. I don't want to give these vagabonds a chance to pick off our guards when they silhouette themselves against a lit window. Have somebeast stationed at the bell-ropes at all times, to sound the alarm if they are needed." Michael looked out over the tense gathering. "That is all. Make ready the defenses."

As the crowd began to disperse, Michael motioned for Shiloh and Thorben to step forward. He spoke in hushed tones as they did so. "Thorben, do you know the mountain of Salamandastron?"

The squirrel tried to hide a small wince. "Aye, m'lord, I know it. Not on terribly good terms with that Long Patrol lot, though."

That seemed of little concern to the Abbot. "You are to leave the Abbey at once and make for the mountain fortress. Lord Redstripe will come to our aid, I am sure of it. Take Eleyna with you, she will be able to support your claims. If we can hold Redwall long enough for the Long Patrol to arrive, this fight may swing in our favor."

Thorben rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, the Long Patrol, right. Er...ye know when I said me an' those hares weren't exactly chums, yer honor? Well, I may or may not've...well, I slew one o' their commanders."

For the first time since he had met him, Shiloh saw the Abbot's eyes go dark. "When, and whom?"

"About four seasons back, a hare by th' name of Colonel Hamilton. We got inta a little spat with one o' their border posts."

Michael restrained the tremor in his voice. "It doesn't matter now, just take Eleyna and go. No matter what quarrel you might have with them, Redwall's safety is paramount. Go, send for the Long Patrol."

Shiloh and Thorben hurried out of the gatehouse, the squirrel letting out a sigh of relief when the door had closed behind them. "Did ye see the look on his face, mate? I thought the Abbot might jus' kill me 'imself."

"I don't think so, but he's got a point. Eleyna will be able to vouch for you. Just be careful, Thorben. Those hares don't forget a grudge like that one easily." Shiloh watched his friend nod sincerely. He had seen the fight that erupted between just six of the Salamandastron hares and at least a full score of mercenary fighters. The hares had eventually retreated back to their mountain, while the eight remaining vermin had slunk away to lick their wounds. Shiloh hadn't joined in the fray until he realized the roaring squirrel wielding a broken claymore had been his friend. He was personally responsible for wounding two of the hares, but didn't know if they had died or not.

But at that moment, all he was concerned about was making sure Redwall's defenses held. There would be no mercy shown if Macepaw succeeded in breaching the walls. The deranged weasel saw no difference between a fully-armed knight and cowering babe; if it could stand on two paws, Macepaw was eager to kill it.

A chilling thought ran through Shiloh's head. What if the Long Patrol didn't come? What if they considered it a trap just meant to lure them into a killing field ready-made by an enemy who knew the gallant hares' weakness: The desire to help their friends in a time of need.

They had reached the southern wall gate, where Eleyna was already waiting for their departure. Her father was standing close by, obviously displeased by the whole affair. He glared daggers at Thorben for a few tense moments before turning to Eleyna. "Are you sure you want t' go through with this?"

She nodded curtly, eyes almost set in stone. "Yes, I'm sure. Without Salamandastron, the Abbey won't last more than a few days. It's the right thing to do."

Rothgarr crossed his arms. "Aye, it might be right, but it isn't the smart thing."

"Sometimes we have to make dangerous choices," Eleyna said, motioning for two nearby otters to open the door. "And it's...it's what mother would have wanted."

The seemingly rock-solid squirrel actually flinched, a reply wavering on his lips. But eventually, he sighed deeply and embraced his daughter, holding her close. "Be careful," He said quietly. "Watch out for any patrols circling the Abbey, and keep to the trees as much as you can."

She smiled and tweaked his ear playfully. "I know. You taught me, after all. Those vermin won't be able to even catch our shadows."

Shiloh shook Thorben's paw, clapping him on the shoulder. "Be safe, got it? I don't want you coming back here full of holes."

"Oh, I'll try. Not shore how those longears are gonna take seein' my old face around those parts, but only one way t' find out, eh?"

"Thorben, are you ready?" They both turned to Eleyna, who was buckling on her sword belt and preparing to leave.

"Aye, as I'll ever be." Thorben embraced his friend one last time. "Keep yoreself safe, bushtail. Kill Macepaw for me, will ye? I want t' see his head on a pike when I get back."

Shiloh grinned. "I'll do my best. Now get going, we're wasting time. Good luck!"

With one final wave to their friends, the two squirrels vanished out the door and into Mossflower woods without a sound. The gate was shut and barred, and the small gathering dispersed. Shiloh made his way up the steps leading to the walltops, leaning against one of the battlements.

Macepaw's army was clearly visible in the distance. The setting sun gave just enough light to make out the glint of armor and weapons, while the rising smoke from hundreds of fires turned the normally orange sky into scarlet. He could see beasts moving about in the treeline, no doubt gathering materials for the upcoming battle. They were far too distant for any bowshot, but close enough for his gut to shrink into a leaden ball.

The sound of pawsteps on stone made him look up. Michael stood next to the fox, staring at the enemy camp with a similar expression. "I had hoped I would not see a sight such as this again." He shook his head sadly. "Evidently my prayers went unanswered."

Shiloh rested his arms on the cool sandstone. "Answers come in different forms, Abbot. Sometimes they just aren't the ones we were hoping for."

Even as the sun began to dip below the horizon it became clear that more and more troops were beginning to congregate not only on the northern and eastern edges of the forest, but across the path as well, to Redwall's east. Their campfires were dangerously close to the Abbey, but not close enough to afford a shot with a bow. "We need catapults," Shiloh murmured out loud, though it was mostly to himself. "And cannon."

Michael glanced at him with a perplexed look. "Cannon?" It was obvious that the mouse was confused by the term.

Shiloh kept glaring at the tree line far ahead, as though his evil looks would send the army retreating back to whence it came. "When I lived on the northeast coasts, our tribes would get attacked by pirates; raiding parties, trying to lay paws on whatever was worth stealing. One day, we saw a ship in the distance and got ready to defend the village. But before we even had a chance to gather the militia there was a massive explosion, like thunder. Next thing we knew, two of the houses were smoking wrecks. Those pirates never even had to lift a paw. They just shot at us and left."

Michael folded his paws inside the wide sleeves of his robe. "But what are they?"

"We had a traveler come through the village later that summer, he told us. It's a metal tube, filled with a powder that explodes when ignited. Imagine a spark landing in a tub of the strongest liquor you can imagine, only ten times as powerful. The whole lot is capped with an iron ball that fragments into hundreds of shards on impact." The fox shook his head. "Terrible bloody things, they are. Useful, though. What I wouldn't give to send a few of Macepaw's troops to hellgates with one of those. Sure would put the fear of the devil into them, eh?"

Michael hummed to himself quietly, obviously still intrigued by what Shiloh had described. "When did this occur? The attack on your village, that is?"

A hint of a sneer crossed his face. "Not to disappoint you, father, but this wasn't the kind of place that kept a daily journal of what was sold in the local markets. We had more important things to worry about, like surviving." But the snarky grin faded. "I'd guess...fifteen, sixteen seasons back. I was just a kit then, could hardly lift a sword."

He turned to offer another joke about killing searats while still in diapers, but Abbot Michael was gone. Sighing in resignation, he cast one last look of derision towards the enemy camped to tantalizingly close to the Abbey. Night was truly fallen, leaving a blanket of black velvet where the amber sky had been before. He spat once and shouted loud enough for those in the forest to hear. "Rot ja kuolla, sikojen!"

"What's that mean?" Shiloh jumped at the sudden voice, which belonged to Harsk. The ferret stood nearby, clutching a flask that smelled suspiciously of cognac.

"What?" He asked, glancing at the container. "'s just some...well, ner'mind. Wot's that rubbish you was yellin'?"

"It's from the old northern tongue," Shiloh said after he had taken his eyes off the flask. "Literally, it means 'rot and die, you pigs'. Thought it might be appropriate for the situation. Here," He said, motioning with a paw. Harsk gave him the flagon, a smarmy look on his face.

"I thought you didn't drink on sentry," he said with a smirk.

Shiloh slugged back a short draught, grimacing as the liquid burned like molten lead down to his stomach. He coughed a bit, returning the look. "And I thought you were a little young to be doing it anyways. Besides, it's cold out here." That wasn't entirely true. For such a season it was unusually warm, even during night. The chill that Shiloh felt had little to do with the weather.

"Ye think we kin win? Hold 'em off, that is?" Harsk rushed through the question, as though he was afraid to ask it.

Shiloh shook his head dourly. "I don't know, lad. I just don't know. Macepaw's got us outnumbered, we can count on that. If the bastard decides to hold us under siege, we'll be able to stick it out. But if he assaults tomorrow..." He sighed darkly. "It's going to be a bloody awful fight."

The ferret leant against the battlement and rested his head in the crux of both arms. "Coulda chosen a worse place t' die, I s'pose. Jus' hope its quick, is all."

Shiloh glanced over at the ferret, who was staring forlornly at the flickering light of a thousand fires. Oddly enough, he noticed, there was no fear in those eyes. No terror, not even a hint of apprehension. Just a shadow of sorrow and disappointment, as if the young fighter realized that their struggle was almost certainly a vain one.

He let out a breath, clasping a paw over Harsk's shoulder before turning towards the steps. "Keep watch for me, lad. It'll be over soon enough."

Fire.

It was all Shiloh could think before he was thrown off the bed, as if the frame had been tossed about like a giant's plaything. He had just enough sense, in his terror-gripped mind, to throw both arms over his head as the windowpanes of the dormitory shattered into millions of crystalline shards. The air around him was engulfed in a ear-splitting roar, like the bellows of hell itself had opened themselves upon the land of the living. Even through his clenched eyelids, Shiloh could make out a bright orange glow starting to swallow the darkness. Smoke was already starting to suck the air from his lungs, so Shiloh did the only thing his fevered mind could conjure. He got up and ran.

There was just enough momentum in his awkward stumble to send the dormitory door careening off its hinges. Coughing and hacking up soot, Shiloh staggered down the hallway while using both paws to feel along the wall. Oddly enough, the torches that usually lit the Abbey passages were extinguished. The only light came from the amber illumination growing steadily outside. Through the haze of smoke, he could see Redwallers rushing about, though they appeared only as silhouettes through the smog.

He flinched as the entire building shook under his footpaws, a feeling which was shortly followed by another sound of rushing air and burst of light. Screams and shouts were beginning to cut through the buzzing sound in his ears. Most were indistinguishable, but cries for help and the groans of wounded beasts were clear enough even to the dazed fox.

Suddenly, he found himself at the entrance to Great Hall. The air seemed clearer, and Shiloh was able to shake off some of the sluggishness that had been creeping in at the edges of his mind. It was only when he had recovered enough to look outside that true fear struck him like a hammer blow.

It seemed, at first glance, that the entire Abbey was alight with flames. Fires danced like specters in the night, while sparks and smoke drifted into the sky with ferocious volume. There seemed to be strange bundles lying about on the lawns, blazing fiercely where they stood. It only took Shiloh a moment to realize what they were, and his gut shrunk into a frigid ball when the truth struck him.

His eyes caught movement on the horizon. It seemed like a shooting star zipping across the skies, only it was angled directly at the Abbey and growing rapidly with each passing second. The trail of fire followed the missile's arc, right until it clipped the top of a battlement with a distinctive whump! Sparks fell like raindrops onto the grass below.

"Shiloh!" His head snapped towards the direction of the yell. It was Harsk, a petrified expression frozen onto his face, which was blackened by smoke and dust. "Wot's happenin'?"

The fox jumped slightly as another projectile screeched in overhead, narrowly missing the top of Great Hall. "Bastards have a trebuchet," He shouted over the screams of injured beasts and roaring flames. "Get water from the pond! Start putting out these fires!"

They both dashed off in opposite directions, Shiloh towards the bell tower. He passed more than one creature lying motionless on the grass, horribly burnt or crushed by falling debris. Forcing himself not to look at the grotesque sight, Shiloh continued on.

A mouse was standing at the base of the tower, dumbstruck in his horror. All around him, the night sky seemed filled with sparks and smoke and fire. He was only shaken out of the trance-like state when a fox clutching a bow and with a scorched pelt grabbed him by both shoulders.

"Ring the bells!" Shiloh said, almost roaring the command. "Ring them, I said! Alert the Abbey, alert everyone!"

The fox had moved on before getting a response, dashing between piles of burning rubble and trying to keep as low as he could to keep away from the acrid, lung-searing smoke. Through the constant haze, it was almost impossible to navigate even the simplest of paths through the Abbey lawn. Redwallers and some of Rothgarr's squirrels were rushing frantically about, throwing pale after pale of water onto the growing flames. The red sandstone walls of the Abbey glowed like the gates of hell in the blistering firelight.

"Shiloh!" He turned to see Rothgarr crouched next to the gatehouse, along with a few of his squirrels. "We're going out to stop those missiles, keep things under control!"

Shiloh was ready to launch into a tirade against the apparently foolish mission, but as his military mind began to take over, the plan made sense. It would be impossible for the Abbey to hold out under this onslaught until dawn, when they had a chance of rallying against the weapons threatening their safety at the moment. And even then, Macepaw would be expecting a retaliatory strike at first light, and would have his army prepared for such a sortie. But to attack so suddenly, in the middle of the night, it might just give them the scarcest of advantages.

He nodded shortly. "Be quick about it, and be careful! We can't afford to lose any more than we have."

Rothgarr gave him the curtest of nods before disappearing in the direction of one of the wall gates. The squirrels were like shadows on the wind, experts in stealth and woodcraft. If there were any creatures alive better suited for the job, they certainly weren't showing themselves.

Flinching as another projectile soared overhead to thump into the side of the bell tower, Shiloh set off towards Cavern Hole, where many of the young, old, and infirm Redwallers were being led into. The air inside the chamber was hot dry, and the cries of fear were louder even than the roaring flames outside, but it was shelter. So long as the main building didn't catch alight, this was most likely the safest place in all of Redwall right now.

He grabbed a vole by the sleeve of his habit. "Where's Michael?"

The young creature could only point towards the end of the hall with a shaking paw, too dumb-founded to speak. Shiloh waded through the crowd of terrified beasts, shouting over the screams and moans of fear. "Michael! Michael! Father Abbot!"

Michael stepped out of the crowd, his expression surprisingly calm and collected. "What is it?"

"Macepaw has trebuchets, at least six by my best guess. Rothgarr and some of his squirrels went out to deal with them, maybe buy us some time. What's the situation down here?"

The mouse helped usher a mother and her frightened child towards the back of Cavern Hole. "We're bringing down anybeast who can't help fight the fires, they'll be safer here. Did you see Roebak up there?"

He gestured with a paw after Shiloh shook his head. "Go back and tell him to send the maids and young ones down. If he's fighting the fires, take over and tell him to meet me. Understand?"

"Yes," He said, letting a small crowd of Redwallers pass. "I understand. Good luck, Michael."

Shiloh finally managed to make his way out of the building, pushing and shoving past the tide of creatures seeking shelter. Outside, the situation hadn't changed much for the better. In fact, it looked worse if that was at all possible. The smoke was choking now, no matter how low he ducked in an attempt to find fresh oxygen. The Abbey beasts' attempts to fight the fires had created even more haze as bucket after bucket was thrown onto the flames to create a monstrous plume of smoke and steam.

He started yelling out into the haze. "Roebak, Skipper Roebak!"

"What the bloody 'ellgates do ye want, vermin?" The otter's gruff voice sliced through the din of burning timber and screams. He was standing near the pond, desperately filling up large pails and giving them to the next beast in line. The message on his face was clear enough: There's not enough water in the whole pond to fight a blaze like this. Shiloh pushed the thought to the back of his head and pushed on.

"Abbot Michael wants you to gather up as many Redwallers as you can and send them down into Cavern Hole, if they're not working at the fire," He said, having to lean close to the otter and almost shout over the noise. "He said to meet him with the others, I'll take over here!"

Without another word, Roebak tossed the empty pail into Shiloh's paws and sprinted for the Abbey building. Shiloh quickly waded ankle-deep into the water and filled the pail up to its brim.

It became monotonous and boring, and at the same time terribly fearful. All he could do was stand there and listen as the world seemed to be coming to an end. The night sky above was tinged scarlet by the glowing fires and eerie red light, cast off from the Abbey's walls. The whoosh and following explosions caused by the incoming fireballs was enough to make him twitch involuntarily with each impact. All he could do was shut his eyes, keep baling water, and pray for it all to end soon.

And amazingly, as dawn's first light began to cut amber-yellow rays through the thick haze, the incessant hail of fire stopped as quickly as it had began so many hours before. Suddenly, there were no more trails of smoke coursing through the air, no more of the awful screeching noise that accompanied each meteor. All that remained was the crackle of dying flames and the moans of the wounded and dying. Shiloh fell onto his haunches, sucking in breath after breath of stinging, pungent air.

"Shiloh!" Abbot Michael's voice cut through the fog of confusion starting to creep into the edges of his mind. The mouse was covered from head to foot in black, sooty ash, and there was more than one obvious burn mark on his tattered habit. "What's going on?"

"Rothgarr's sortie must have worked," Shiloh said, forcing himself to stand and address the Abbot properly. "The trebuchets are out of commission, for now that is."

"Err, not exactly."

He spun around to face a blood-spattered Rothgarr, who had seemed to have sprung up out of the ground for all the noise he made. The squirrel leant on his sword, still breathing heavily. "We couldn't get to the bastards," He spat, "Ran into one of their patrols guardin' the camp. Kept us busy all night, tryin' to find a way around 'em."

"So then why did they stop shooting?"

"Ran outta tar. Turd-sucking frogs were coating bales of hay in the stuff, kept it burnin' brighter an' longer. I saw a few of 'em tryin' to scrape what was left outta the barrel, so I'm guessin' their supplies was low."

Shiloh's heart sank. "So the trebuchets...they still work?"

Rothgarr nodded tiredly. "'fraid so."

He fumed for a few moments, desperately thinking of any new ways to destroy the weapons, but eventually sighed and nodded shortly. "Go get some rest while you can, I've got a bad feeling about today."

After Rothgarr dismissed himself, Michael turned to the fox. "How could today be any worse than what we've already suffered?"

Shiloh's eyes were dark, only partially from soot, as he started walking to the battlements. "Macepaw isn't going to wait around for a fresh supply of oil; he's going to attack as soon as possible to try and catch us off guard. Get every able-bodied fighter up to the walls, father. I don't want to get caught with my trousers down while Macepaw scales the walls."

While Abbot Michael turned away to gather as many of the Redwallers as he could, Shiloh strung the bow that had been hanging across his back since that morning. With the powerful yew bent into its signature arc, he dashed towards the wall stairs and up onto the battlements.

Through the thick smoke and early morning fog, he could make out the distant movement of an army assembling for battle. Orders were being shouted, troops arranged into their appropriate positions, and flamboyant pennants hoisted on long poles. Seven trebuchets, now visible in the pale yellow light, had been backed up against the tree line and now sat empty and unbraced, save for one solitary weapon in the very center of their line.

Shiloh narrowed his eyes at the contraption. From this distance, it was difficult to tell what Macepaw's fighters were doing. They were loading the weapon, that much was obvious, but with what he wasn't certain. Instead of rolling heavy stones or oiled bundles of straw into the loading tray, the vermin were pouring something out of buckets into the wicker trough.

"Could be there filth." Harsk appeared nearby, leaning nonchalantly against his bowstave. "Want'a demoralize us, make it that much harder t' fight."

Shiloh swore under his breath as he heard the sudden whump of the trebuchet's counterweight striking the earth. "We're about to find out. Cover!" He shouted the last word, ducking next to the sandstone wall as whatever-it-was came whistling through the air. Suddenly, he felt something strike his back; small and weightless, like a soft hail. It was only when one of the projectiles landed at his paws did Shiloh grimace with disgust.

It was a finger: Hundreds of them were still falling as the fighters arrayed on the wall groaned and retched at the grotesque sight. Shiloh was about to kick the offending digit over the wall's edge when he noticed something. Ignoring the queasy feeling in his gut, he picked it up and stared at the tips; they were calloused, in the same way his own bow-fingers were from drawing the hemp cord so many thousands of times.

Those fingers had come from archers.

He swore out loud this time, dropping the finger as if it were on fire. "Bastard," he spat, "God damn the sludge-sucking, murdering, spineless bastard."

Harsk went pale and tried to repress a gagging noise. "Wot...wot'd he..."

"He killed them," Shiloh hissed. "Macepaw killed our archers, to make an example." He leant over the wall and spat derisively. "I'm going to gut the spavined curr."

Everybeast flinched as the deep thrum of drumbeats suddenly echoed across the fields. It was a slow, deliberate rhythm, so loud that it seemed as if the instruments were inside the abbey itself. Soon, another sound joined the cacophony. It was the crashing of swords and spears on shields accompanied by the deep, guttural shout of innumerable warcries. The ground seemed to shake and tremble under the tremendous clamor, and more than one Redwaller shifted nervously in their spots. Shiloh dared risk a glance over the walls. Immediately, he wished he hadn't.

The span of the horizon was clouded with the smoke of hundreds of fires. Underneath the bleary haze stood even more soldiers, each growling and roaring their bloodlust at the Abbey before them. Armor and weapons glinted in the ruddy light as the sound of drumbeats coursed through the ground. Weasels, rats, ferrets, foxes, martens, raccoons, it seemed as though every vermin soldier from the Northlands to Southsward was bearing down on them. Even from here, Shiloh could see the desire to kill in the thousands of dark eyes staring back at him.

Harsk looked up at Shiloh. "How many?"

Shiloh glanced between the mass of soldiers and his friend before replying. "Two hundred."

Rothgarr pulled him down by the ear and hissed. "What're you sayin'? There's at least five times as many of the bastards."

The fox shrugged. "The lad can't count, what difference does it make?"

Grumbling under his breath, Rothgarr went back to securing the steel helmet over his head.

The bone-chilling call of a war horn sounded deep across the short distance between the woods and the Abbey. Shiloh glanced over the wall and spotted the instrument's owner, but the range was far too long to plant an iron-tipped arrow into his throat. Around him, the vermin soldiers continued to beat out a steady rhythm of clashing metal, the sound growing to a dissonance that cut straight into their gullets. Shiloh, however, forced the eerie sound to the back of his mind and began to search for a set of evil, merciless eyes among the crowd. If Macepaw was there, it went without saying that the fox was looking for any chance to spit the weasel on a shaft like a fish on a stake. But despite his best efforts, there were simply too many beasts to pick out any sort of detail. He settled back down behind the wall, plucking an arrow from the linen bag at his side. "Get ready, lads!" He shouted above the noise, trying to keep the gut-wrenching fear out of his voice. "Bastards want a fight, so we're going to give it to 'em. Prepare to draw!"

Scratt, though small in stature and suffering from a crippled forepaw, considered himself a crafty weasel. As one of Macepaw's sergeants-at-arms, he had known from the start that he would be placed in the thick of the fighting when it came time to breach the fortress walls. Already, he was staring up at those towering red sandstone battlements, his gut starting to turn to ice.

But being as clever as he considered himself, Scratt had devised a plan. He had paw-picked a score of massive, hulking ferrets and rats to stand as his squad. Most had the intelligence of a well-trained fish and an atrocious vocabulary, but with arms the size of a full-grown oak, none of that mattered to the scheming weasel. With these veritable walls of flesh and muscle ahead of him, he could sit back and let them do the dirty work until it came time to take over and assert his leadership, and therefore claim the prizes of victory.

Now he was following the rest of the army in striking weapon against shield. In truth, there were hundreds of places Scratt would have rather been at that particular moment, but the insurance of twenty monstrous beasts covering him, it was easier to forget the true circumstances of their assembly.

And then the signal arrived. Three short, ringing blasts from the massive horns placed behind the ranks. With a cry like demons being released from the chains of hell to wreak havoc on the living creatures of the earth, the army moved.

Scratt struggled to keep up with the tidal wave of fur and metal. Holding his blade high above his head and screeching like a banshee, he charged along with a ring of iron-clad monsters arrayed about him. Even as his paws dug into the earth, heaving him forward, he could already see the riches awaiting him inside the castle's walls. Gold and silver to please a thousand kings, Macepaw had said, and it would all be theirs. Exquisite food, slaves to do their every bidding, and the power to rule these lands was all theirs, so long as they could get past the walls.

It was a combination of the thunderous roar the army made, along with the mental fantasy running through his mind, that deafened Scratt's ears to the strange, quiet sound that suddenly filled the air. It was a sharp twanging sound, like hundreds of deep harp strings being plucked at once, followed shortly thereafter by the strange sound of air being cloven into millions of pieces. But even their roars were drowned out as the arrows struck.

The survivors of the first volley would have equated it to thousands of blacksmiths' hammers striking armor, the pattering and banging of metal on metal. But then, like a ghostly choir, the screams and cries of the wounded and dying filled the air. Beasts tumbled like wheat under the scythe, some falling to their knees and skidding to a halt, while others simply went as limp as a cloth doll and dropped to the earth with a wet thud. A red mist sprang up above the heads of the army, coating the ground with the slain.

Scratt suddenly found himself alone. The only beasts left were writhing on the ground about him, clutching arrow shafts impaled through their arms and legs and chest, others already limp and silent as their blood drained into the grass. He slowed to a stop, mouth agape and limbs trembling like a sapling in a windstorm. Such was his horror that he hardly seemed to notice when an ash arrow, tipped with a murderous bodkin, punched through the thin armor over his torso and drove deep into his heart. Scratt died alone, eyes fixed on the sky with the same expression of terror that had led to his demise.

"Keep it up! Keep it up!"

Shiloh had to yell in order to be heard above the dissonance of battle. The thrum of bowstrings striking bracers may have been distracting, and the sound of arrows striking metal armor was audible from their positions on the walls, but it was the horrendous screaming coming from the dying soldiers almost two hundred paces out that jabbed into his skull like a dull knife. Even from such a distance, he could hear beasts pleading for mercy, crying for their mothers, or just keening with an unearthly dirge that seemed to rent the air in two.

Plucking another heavy-tipped arrow from the bag, Shiloh laid it across the bow's handle and nocked it onto the string without looking, searching for threats while drawing the feathers to his ear. He had already picked a single target by the time he let the string leap off his calloused fingers. It was another fox; adorned with a bright red sash around his middle and clutching two sabers. The shaft leapt from the bow without thought on Shiloh's part; even without noticing he had twitched his paw just slightly to adjust for the wind and distance. He didn't even need to look to know that it had struck true. By the time the vermin fell, thrown to the ground as if a massive fist had caught him mid-stride, Shiloh was already searching for another victim.

All the while, he was looking for a gleaming set of studded armor and a colossal mace raised into the air. So far, though, all he could see was wave after wave of advancing soldiers, each screaming their derision at the defenders. He drew again, letting the cord slip off his fingers and send the arrow spinning into the air, with the soft hiss of air over feathers. Shortly thereafter, the shaft buried itself into the small space between a rat's chest armor and chain hood. The vermin coughed and sputtered, blood pouring out from between his rotting teeth. He slumped to the ground, twitching and gargling as his throat filled with blood.

One of Rothgarr's squirrels, only a few paces to Shiloh's right, suddenly jerked and fell without a sound, a crossbow bolt sticking out from between his eyes. More of the stubby arrows began soaring over the battlements and clacking on the sandstone walls as the crossbow troops finally came into range. Shiloh cursed as one of the shafts hissed past his ear, just a paw's breadth from his head.

A field mouse screeched suddenly, dropping his bow and clutching at the bolt protruding from his gut. He sobbed pitifully, rolling and bleeding on the floor as two healers tried desperately to move him. But by the time they managed to peel his blood-stained paws away from the wound, he was dead. Face frozen in agony, he was carried off the wall top and placed on the abbey lawn where a growing number of corpses was gathering.

"Shift fire! Rear guard, rear guard! Two hundred paces!" Shiloh's orders, shouted above the clangor of battle, managed to reach the ears of the assembled archers. Almost immediately, nearly two hundred arrows were nocked, raised, and loosed towards the rear of the enemy line, where lines of crossbow-armed soldiers were slowly cranking back cords and firing with an unnerving speed.

But they were no match for the powerful yew bows. Vermin twitched and screamed and fell as the needle-tipped arrows fell on them like a hellish rain. A rat keened as his footpaw was pinned to the ground, then stopped with a brutal swiftness when two more arrows drove through the thin, rusted chainmail vest he wore. Once more, the deep thunk of arrows biting deep into flesh and bone rose above the army. The ground was littered with corpses and wounded, one sometimes stacked upon the other. Beasts died quickly, shafts embedded in their skulls or hearts, while others floundered and shrieked, clutching at agonizing wounds in their bellies or choked to death as their lungs filled with blood.

But the tide was not turning. Hundreds of vermin still moved steadily towards Redwall's gates, crouched behind shields or simply pushing through the maelstrom of steel-shod lightning. One massive ferret, heads taller than his comrades and twice as broad, seemed to ignore the three arrows jutting from his abdomen and charged forward, spewing spittle and blood from between his jagged teeth.

Shiloh could sense the fear growing inside him, a ball of molten lead twisting and expanding in his stomach. He plucked an arrow from the bag at his side and nocked without looking, sending the shaft into the face of a screaming fox not a hundred paces from the walls. The beast collapsed and was subsequently trampled by the footpaws of the advancing horde.

He had just drawn to release another arrow when he spotted the ladders. They were being carried over the heads of the vermin, shields placed like scales over its top to protect the beasts beneath it. Shiloh swore, loosed his arrow and shouted above the noise. "Ladders, ladders! Get ready!"

Fear was etched like fissures in stone on the faces of the Redwallers. Some scrambled out of the way as two heavy iron pots, filled with steaming oil, were placed on trusses just behind the battlements and braziers lit underneath to keep the liquid scalding hot. He tried not to think about what would happen when those huge containers will spilled onto the heads of the onrushing attackers; the reek of burning fur and flesh, the piteous screeching of the victims as they were drenched with the hellish stuff.

And suddenly, they were there. The ladders were pushed forward, lower end sunk into the soft ground just below the abbey walls, while the tops were heaved forward and landed with a huge crash against the sandstone. Huge lead weights, hanging from the rungs of the ladders, made it impossible to push them off. And even if they had managed to send one toppling back, the crossbows would have picked them off mercilessly. Shiloh loosed one last arrow, sinking the head deep into the thigh of an approaching rat, before cupping both paws around his mouth and screaming as loudly as his scorched, stinging lungs would allow. "Now! Do it now!"

It was nothing he hadn't witnessed before, but Shiloh still cringed and had to fight back a retch as the scalding oil was dumped onto the heads of the beasts climbing the ladders. Fur was scorched away, lungs were filled with the wretched smoke, and flesh bubbled and fell away from bones like wet eels. Shiloh had to stop himself from putting arrow to string and ending their suffering. Save them for the real threats, he told himself as the ladders were suddenly emptied of beasts.

But the horrific tactic had only slowed the attackers. Aaws the liquid fire cooled, turning to a thick sludge on the ladder rungs, paws wrapped in cloth were already reaching up towards the walls. Shiloh loosed one final arrow, dropped his bow onto the soft grass of the Abbey garden below, and grasped the hilt of the falchion at his side. "Drop bows! Swords, draw your swords!"

The arrow fire stopped almost immediately after. Macepaw's forces, suddenly relieved from the hail of arrows, roared their defiance and rushed onward, determined to annihilate the impudent creatures that had caused them so much pain.

A scrawny, crooked-snouted ferret rushed up a ladder, wielding a short hammer in one paw and grasping at the slick rungs with the other. Tongue hanging out between his broken teeth and screaming his bloodlust into the mid-morning air, he clamored over the last step in the ladder and brought his weapon to bear. Too late, he spotted a fox swinging a short, broad-bladed sword at his throat. The keen edge ripped open the unprotected flesh there, followed by a spraying torrent of blood from the gaping wound. Such was the ferret's shock at the deadly blow that he hardly noticed when the weapon came back and down, cleaving him from neck to ribs in a single stroke.

Shiloh kicked the dying ferret off the walltop, turning just in time to block a lunge at his mid-section. He parried once more, punched the beast in the snout with a sickening crunch of breaking bone, and then plunged his own blade into the soldier's mid-section. Ripping the weapon free before the flesh could latch onto the steel, he batted away another foe and charged, screaming his war cry. "Haake Paale!"

It was carnage on the battlements. Brutal paw-to-paw combat, with nary a flashy duelist blow to be found amongst the stabbing, cutting, skull-crunching madness. It was the fighting seen in taverns and wild brawls, not the calm and smooth sword fighting celebrated in song and verse. Beasts drew their long, elegant blades only to be cornered by pole-arms and then hacked to pieces by axes or hammers. Blood flowed over the sandstone bricks like water in a downpour. The sounds of smashing metal and crunching limbs was drowned out by the screams of the wounded and dying.

Shiloh cut at an advancing rat with a swift blow, laying open its leg like a filleted fish. Before the rat could draw breath to unleash a wail, his leather helm and skull underneath was split down its center. The fox took a shuddering breath, finding himself suddenly in the midst of a strange calmness. It was one of the paradoxes of this sort of combat; beasts would hack and slash at each other like demons for what seemed like hours, and then stop almost simultaneously to catch their breath, lick their wounds, and ready themselves for another bout.

He spotted Rothgarr and a few of his squirrels on the opposite end of the wall, who had formed a small barrier between the battlements and stairs leading down to the Abbey lawn. They stabbed and cut at the feet of approaching vermin, only four or so beasts holding back at least fifteen enemies. Harsk was wielding a pole-axe he had undoubtedly taken from a fallen soldier, and was lunging at visors or cleaving in throats with an odd calmness.

But the Redwallers had not gone without casualties. The first wave of attackers had taken some of the less experienced Abbey-dwellers by surprise, and they were hacked down before even getting the chance to draw their weapons. An otter, armored only by a cheap metal helmet, wailed and sobbed as he clutched at a gaping stomach wound, trying with an increasing feebleness to staunch the ever-slowing flow of blood. A mouse choked as his throat was cut open, his tan fur stained scarlet as he stumbled backwards and fell off the wall and into the sea of vermin below.

Shiloh beat down a weasel, using his heavy blade as a club to stun the vermin, and then finished him with a short stab just under the unprotected ribs. As he straightened, Rothgarr's strained, almost panicked shout reached his ears. "Shiloh! There's nowt for it, we have to pull back!" The squirrel swept at his adversary, sending him down with a half-severed neck. "We need to get back into the Abbey!"

"Not yet!" Shiloh shouted above the clangor, "We can still hold! Just a few more minutes!"

But even he realized that they didn't have a few minutes. More ladders were being planted and rested on the walls, and the flow of enemy soldiers was getting stronger and stronger. And with every defender engaged with the vermin already at their throats, it was impossible for them to face the new threat. Hacking at a pair of unarmored legs and finishing the beast with an overpaw chop, Shiloh took a precious moment to scan the Abbey lawn below. He felt a wave of relief fall over him; the lawns and buildings were still clear, all the vermin were still occupied with the outer walls. Cutting down two more vermin, he whistled sharply and waved a paw over his head. "Back to Great Hall! Cover your retreats!"

He had been fearing a mass, unorganized stampede back to the Abbey, leaving the defenders' backs exposed. But the Redwallers surprised him yet again. They slowly backed off the walls and across the short grass field below, never once turning away from the threat at their front. The vermin had seized the walls, but now the Abbey-dwellers were in a far more effective defensive posture. They had a solid building behind them, weapons in their paws and an enemy at their front.

Shiloh plucked his bow off the ground and jogged ten paces, turned, and drew, looking for any target that presented itself. But what made his eyes snap into focus like those of a hawk was the flag waving above the newly-captured battlements: A white paw, clutching a hammer, on a black and blue-striped field.

Macepaw's flag.

But the weasel himself wasn't there. Shiloh swore under his breath, and consoled himself of the bad luck by shooting the standard-bearer in the throat with a rusty broadhead. He felt a surge of dark joy as the pennant fell with a sudden limpness.

"Fox!"

He spun around to see Roebak, armed with a blood and gore-stained battleaxe, at the doors of Great Hall and gesturing wildly with a paw. "Move your stupid arse, vermin! We ain't waitin' all day!"

Sprinting like a mad-beast, Shiloh tried to ignore the sudden twang of crossbow strings and the gut-wrenching sound of bolts striking the grass just behind his paws. As he ducked behind the massive oaken doors of Great Hall, at least half a dozen of the projectiles struck the beams, punching almost cleanly through.

Inside, it was chaos. The screaming of the wounded, shouted orders, and wailing of terrified infants rose into a dreadful clamor. The stained glass windowpanes high above their heads had already been shattered by the previous trebuchet assault, and dozens after dozens of bolts were being shot through the gaps. Seconds after a heavy wooden bar was placed across the doors, the sounds of axes and hammers biting into the wood rang throughout the hall.

"They'll never get through," He told Roebak, who stood panting nearby. "They're too thick."

The otter looked up at him. "The doors, or the beasts behind it?"

They glanced at each other, and for the first time each cracked a genuine smile. "I'll leave that decision up to you," he said, taking a swig from the canteen at his belt and savoring the clean, fresh water. "But we've got bigger things to worry about. How many did we lose?"

The otter spat derisively. "Twenty-two dead, forty eight wounded, and six missing."

Shiloh almost winced. That cut their entire force by a good third, if not more. "We'll just have to hold Great Hall until..." He couldn't finish the sentence. Nobeast wanted to state the obvious.

Rothgarr found the pair, a bandage wrapped around his arm and a slight hitch in his step, probably from the sword cut on the top of his footpaw. "I lost three fighters dead, another six wounded, and we've got less than a hundred arrows left 'twixt the lot of us."

Shiloh's heart sank lower each time the thunk of the axe crunching into the timbers of the gates resounded. He looked at the crowd of Redwallers, some clutching babes or their loved ones, while others wept in fear or stared blankly with the look of desperation that only a doomed creature could have. They were cornered, bloody and beaten, and they all knew it. There was only one option left. "Somebeast find me a white rag, anything'll do."

Eyes narrowing, Roebak stared at Shiloh. "You ain't thinkin' of givin' up, are ye? I knew it, all you vermin cads are jus' cowards at 'eart."

"This isn't cowardice!" he roared, catching the otter off-guard. "This is common bloody sense! Do you think we'd last ten seconds when that door comes down? We'd be lucky to get five. No, this is saving our skins, if it's at all possible. For all I know, Macepaw'll just kill me the second I walk out that door with a flag in my paw, and then rush in to slaughter the rest of you, but I have to try."

"Which is why I should be the one to offer our surrender."

Shiloh turned to see Abbot Michael, still scorched and singed from the firefighting efforts earlier, with both paws and habit speckled with blood. None of it his, Shiloh gathered.

"I don't think so, father." He said, "You lot can get along if I get my stupid head lopped off, but these beasts won't last a moment longer if you're killed. Even if they do get in, if you're between Macepaw and your flock, maybe that will stop them long enough to talk terms."

"And you can guarantee this?" Michael smiled wryly at Shiloh's expression. "No, I thought not. You're right, though. If they see you coming, it won't be three seconds before you're a pincushion for crossbow bolts. But an Abbot might give them pause, just enough pause to negotiate a surrender."

Shiloh tried to think of something against the mouse's words, but nothing came. Roebak nodded grimly. "As much as I don't like it, father, I think yore right. Mayhap I should come along, just in case..."

"No," Michael said, laying a paw on the otter's shoulder. "I need you here, just in case the worst happens. Shiloh, I would be honored if you would cover me from the second story, though it may not do any good. I would still feel better knowing that I have a set of friendly eyes watching."

He nodded. "It'd be my pleasure, father."

A/N: The first bit of jibber-jabber Shiloh yells is Finnish. It boils down to "Rot and die, you pigs!" The second one, Haake Paale, is an old Finn/Norsk war cry, which translated comes out to "Hack them down", though the literal transcription just means "Kill!" Little tidbits for those interested in what Shiloh was ranting about. w