Corbann's arm shot across Hexlor's chest. The entire small column halted smartly. Corbann's dark nose was in the air, sniffing something suspiciously. He twisted around and looked at the others. "D'yew smell thayt?"

Reamer, a common soldier who'd been lured by Corbann's promises of glory and heat squinted, and sniffed too. "Yeh, Ah do. Smills lahk a ded summat t'me."

"No ded critter smills lahk thayt," Baktus disagreed. " 'Tis lahk a brith frum uh tomb!" Others were beginning to wrinkle their noses.

Lindisfarne came up from the back. He caught a whiff of the oppressive odor, and began waving a paw in front of his nose. "Hooooooo-weee! Thayt's sumthin'! Whut's up there, Corb'n, a rottin' whale?"

Corbann pushed Reamer forward. "Go look an' see whut's up there!" he snarled disgustedly. Reluctantly, Reamer limped forward, not daring to glare back over his shoulder. He was soon back, the scent clinging to him like he'd rolled in it.

" 'Tis a beast so horrible Ah cain't describe et!" he declared. "Also, et's so decayed there ent much left t'identify."

"Hell's teeth, Reamer, that godawful smill's hangin' on yeh like a vix'n!" Corbann cursed, holding his nose. "Y'all go an' wash et off somewhere. Ah thanks we's near th'Dartmouth Riv'r. Wi'll set up a caymp heyuh fer naow."

* * *

Reamer was dripping wet when he came back, but at least the odor had dissipated somewhat. He was quite excited by something. "Hey, Corb'n! Yeh won't 'ave t'set up caymp here, nor ennymore! There's a big ole buildin' within sight o'here! Lemme show yer: looks lahk sum sort o' castle er summat, only part-built!"

Corbann's eyes lit up greedily. "This is whut we bin waitin' fer! C'mon, boys, le's go see 'bout thas 'un!"

* * *

Tori's eyes narrowed in despair as she watched Branwen fearlessly confronting the huge--thing standing before them. The short little wolf was baring her teeth menacingly, frantic with anger, and nearly jumping up and down. The monstrosity standing in the middle of the road stared down his thick muzzle curiously at her. He was calm and confident, shouldering his equally enormous, double-headed battleaxe with no apparent effort. Tori leaned over to Aelfwald, whispering nervously,

"What is that, Rampek?"

Aelfwald struggled helplessly. "Brave little mite, that Branwen. I haven't th'slightest idea, child. 'Tisn't native, that's fer sure." He shifted positions, ready to bolt towards the creature at a second's notice.

"Oh yes?" Branwen's voice carried angrily through the woods. "And just what were you battling with your big scary battleaxe up north? Mice? Hares? Ptarmigans?"

"Nay, missie. I'm on my way home after combatin' them wolv--"

"Wolves! I knew it!" Branwen leapt at the alien animal. Suddenly, he roared a battlecry that literally shook the leaves on the trees.

"DAAAAANELAAAAAAAAAAAAND!"

"Jun fler af naddag!" Ossian shrieked involuntarily. "Stop it, Branwen, stop!"

Liam and Paul grappled the smokey-gray wolf to the ground as she struggled wildly against them, screeching, "Lemme go! I'll flay that dirty, rot-nosed--!!" Liam thought quickly, grabbing a branch and shoving it in her mouth to silence her. Branwen's eyes rolled wildly, still in a rage. Tori nimbly stepped out from behind John and Tamga.

"A Northdog, you say?" she repeated curiously. "What's your name, friend?"

The Northdog, a towering, tan-colored giant of a canine, readjusted his curious helmet, shaking his head. "What a fiery one, her! Wouldn't care t'go 'gainst her in battle, no sir!" He seemed to hear Tori's question in a delayed reaction, and turned towards her. "Mah name? Sarthe Brindlefur Magnusson, simply called Sarthe the Danehearted by mah en'mies!"

"Danehearted? Fates'n'seasons, I don't believe you have many enemies left alive to call you that!" Taiga exclaimed in awe.

Sarthe nodded proudly. "Not after mah last escapade. I was tryin' t'explain t'yon blazin' soul o'er there that Ah'd been decimatin' th'scourges of th'tundra with some friends o' mine. Wolverines, lads! Never did you see such slobberin' eedjits! Dreadful fearsome they c'n be to the ordinary eye. But us Danes don't 'ave no fear o' nothing, we do! Fightin's an ideal paradise fer us, and 'tis great glory to die in battle!"

"Will you join us for some more fighting, then, Sarthe?" Tori asked, smiling. "A minor diversion for a warrior like you, I'm sure. By next moon we'll have met Shang Widowmaker in Leedsdown."

"Shang Widowmaker?" Sarthe snarled loathsomely. "Shang Widowmaker?! Ah'm with ye in an instant! A more wretched villain ain't never slithered across our fair North!" He began swinging the axe in anger: wolves leapt away from the whirring metal. "Onwards to the sea, men!" he roared ferociously, "Sarthe the Danehearted is comin' t'get you!"

* * *

Brother Neil sat puzzling over the second of Tryffen's scrolls from Salamandastron. Pounding his head and grinding his teeth in frustration, he poured over the translated text furiously, trying to discover a meaning in it.

The gatehouse soon became dark, and when Leith and Skipper made their rounds around the wall, he was refurbished with a hearty supply of candles, wicks, and oil lamps. Bare patches were beginning to emerge on the knuckles of his paws from writing too hard. What did the dratted poem mean?!

"Eclipsed in the north, but the sun shines southerly.
Despair not in your morning, listen to me:
One day, you too, Brother Neil, will grow old.
Paws all a-tremble: writing makes them fold.
A fire burns in a hospital bed.
You will give to him your assumed stead.
Like a snowdrop he will bloom,
Ushering in the past like a groom.
I warn you of his curse, he does forever endure
Knowing what lies behind that last closed door.
Tolerate his frailty, 'tis no fault of poor boy's own.
When he leaves you, this abbey will have grown."

Leith scratched his head. "Wow, that's a thinker, Brother. I don't even think there is head or tail in this'n."

Skipper took the heavily scrawled-on paper from his companion. "There's a couple sickbeasts in the Infirmary right now, I think, though what this has t'do with you an' any of 'em is beyond me." He nudged Leith. "Ye could go an' check. T'would be a prime excuse t'see pretty liddle Merril an' Fiona, all trapped alone up there with Sister Joan!" Leith blushed, and lightly shoved Skipper, trying to look the other way.

The mouse retrieved the translation from the senior otter. "I wonder if slumber will aid in my deciphering of this foul thing. What can it mean?!" He yawned, his eyes beginning to glaze over. "Blasted...Antisle..."

Skipper glanced at Leith, an expression of confusion printed upon his features. "What in shrimps' name did he jus' say?"

"He's gonna sleep on it, Skip," Leith replied with a small smile. "An' if he were smart atall, he'd go ask my mum fer help in th'mornin' when he wakens up. She's a genius at these infernal perplexities." Skipper gave Leith a look of despair.

"What did you just say?!" Leith laughed, and slapped Skipper heartily on the back.

"I said we'd best continue onwards 'round th'wall agin, 'cause dusty ol' Brother Neil's gone fast asleep!"

* * *

"Oops a daisy! Watch it there, George, don't push yerself."

Neil drowsily lifted his head off the desk. Glancing out the window, he saw Waterback and Tryffen supporting the Leedsdown wolf on their shoulders. He was gripping a hastily-made cane with fierce determination.

"Y'don't 'ave t'be walkin' be'ind me like I'll topple at a breeze! I'll be fine, trust me!" he protested. The hare was pessimistic, and chided him in exaggeration.

"Georgey, boy, I've never eard a bigger whoppin' fib in me whole born days! Tsk tsk tut tut an' all that ballyhoo. I'm surprised that the Infirmary keepers let you out!"

George was grinning evilly. "I didn't let 'em alone the whole while I been able t'talk! They were glad t'get rid o' me, they were!"

Neil waddled out of the gatehouse, rubbing his eyes. The trio turned at the opening of the door. George smiled, and waved, full of good cheer.

"Hi, Brother! Nice sunshiney day, eh?" He overbalanced, and was barely caught by Waterback. She patted him on the back gingerly.

"Listen, why don't you two go an' sit somewhere an' argue. I've got some bizness t'attend to."

Tryffen drew himself up grandly. "With pleasure, madame! C'mon, y'old Flantyr, you. Let me tell you about what pretty really is!"

George clutched his paws over nicked ears. "Y'won't start jabberin' on 'bout yer precious liddle haremaid Moonpebble or whatever again, are you?" he groaned in high agony. "Drat you, Waterback! Come back 'ere an' save me!"

Waterback approached Neil with a slightly shaken look on her face. "I been listenin' t'George tell me 'is life story. He was an accidental birth, and he worked in a paper mill since he was a mere pup! The place 'e lived in weren't no bigger'n one of the closets in the abbey, and he 'ad a fam'ly of eight fit in there." She shook her head in shock and amazement. "Hell's teeth, Brother, I never knew Leedsdown could be like that! It was our city of gold, you know?"

"He seems happy enough here, though," Neil remarked, nodding. "I daresay, he's better off here in Redwall than up north any day!"

"Yeah, like th'sun's fin'ly shinin' down on 'im fer once, eh, Brother?" The mouse stopped dead. He turned slowly.

"Say that again, Waterback?"

The otter repeated her observation. "Well, 'is life was so stinky in Leedsdown, 'tis like he ain't overshadowed enny more--"

"That's it! The answer to the second scroll!" Neil shrieked. "George is the key! George is the key!"

The wolf's ears pricked up at the mention of his name. "Hmm, what? Tryffen, what's 'e shoutin' my name for?"

The hare also turned his head to look at the brother, holding a surprised Waterback by her paws and dancing in circles around her joyfully. "Y'want me t'slap 'im upside the 'ead for yeh, Georgey?"

George chuckled, wobbling his cane with a lightly-bandaged paw. "Naahh, just tell 'im if 'e don't shut it pronto, he's forfeitin' 'is meals fer a week's t'me, which'll go to you." Tryffen's face lit up.

"Oh, can I? Are you serious!? You're me very best pal, George, a real chap you are!"

The wolf nudged his companion. "Listen, mate, I'm as 'ungry as you are. Let's go t'the kitchens, there's somethin' I wanna see if these Redwallers 'ave."

* * *

Friaress Elena was a bit surprised to see George as he tottled into the abbey kitchens, but she immediately set about to berating Tryffen for no good reason other than to keep up their playful love-hate relationship.

"Tryffen Alneday, I'm shocked at you, taking advantage of poor George just for an excuse t'see your friends in the oven!" she chided, lifting a pan from one of the oven interiors. The hare grinned, and waggled a paw in one of his ears.

"Y'caught me, Friaress! I've gotta get me 'ead checked: Georgey-porgey here told me 'e wanted t'see fellows. I heard bellows an' I thought of you!"

Elena slapped one of his long ears lightly. "Well, there's plenty of room for defects in those great things! Here, have a strawberry tart, it's an ugly. Careful, it's hot."

George held a wry half-grin to his face as he watched his friend bounce the hot, misshapen pastry between his paws, talking the entire time. "Yowch! Hot liddle bugger, this'n! Oh yes, I think I might go deaf one o' these days! As one of my great ancestors is credited with gettin' a carrot stuck in 'is lug, it is entirely possible th'flaw actually made its way to perfect little me!" With a neat flip, he tossed the tart into the air. He closed his eyes, expecting to be soon eating the treat. Instead, his teeth clamped down on nothing, and he was left with a ringing sensation in his mouth. He opened his eyes to see George contentedly chewing, making pleased little noises the whole time.

"Mm-mm! Oh, Elena, perfection! I can't wait t'ave more o' these later!" He winked at the amazed Tryffen. "Y'learn t'be quick in a fam'ly of eight."

The hare and the mouse were both agape. Elena began to laugh, and clapped. "George, I think you're probably the first person to ever successfully steal food from a hare! Here, Tryffen," she chortled, handing the stunned hare another tart, "you can eat this one! Be sure yon wolf doesn't catch that 'un too!" When her guffaws subsided, she wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron, and turned to the odd pair. "So, what is it that y'want, buckoes?"

* * *

Redwallers and woodlanders had been randomly milling around Cavern Hole for about half an hour. Now they filed into the great dining hall and sat down, awaiting the evening meal. Abbot Daniel, seated at the head of the huge table, leaned to his right and whispered to George, "D'you think they'll like it?"

George nodded, clacking his cane against the floor. "Yeah, I think they will. It's a staple with th'tomato sauce during th'summer in Tundralake, and in th'winter they'll take it with cheese or milk sauce. It's pretty versatile, Father."

Daniel arose, clearing his throat mildly. The hall silenced, and turned their heads towards him expectantly. "Tonight, along with the usual choices, we are now offering a type of cuisine which our friend George Flantyr just introduced to us. I hope you find it just as tasty as I did this afternoon. It's called--um--it's called--" He turned to the wolf. "What's it called again, George?"

"Spaghetti, Father," he replied. "And you can eat it with just about anythin'."

Daniel nodded. "Spaghetti, yes. Well, it's coming around now. Enjoy your meal." The spaghetti was a rousing success, especially with Dibbuns, who delighted in not only eating it: it proved a plaything of great fun too.

* * *

Gandreth brushed aside the foliage, murmuring to himself, "Not long now. Shouldn't be far ahead..."

The Gaels, Sheryl, and a few of them cele veltryns who had decided to accompany them to battle the Widowmaker were, in single file, marching wearily through the thick growth of the hardwood forest known as Dale. Wiping sweat from her brow, Sheryl asked Foltren, "So what exactly is this place you're taking us to?"

"It's a mill, to give it its full name," the stoat replied. "Corbridge Mill, and I'll bet you an apple to an acorn you've never seen so many otters in one place at a time."

Only about six or seven cele veltryns had chosen to go and fight, but they were all prominent in their community. Foltren, the mayor, Sablesen, Gandreth the village doctor, they all came: so did the youthful Larkspur and his friend O'Rielle. It was now that one of them smiled and pointed up ahead.

"There it is! Corbridge, straight ahead!"

What greeted Sheryl and her Gaels could only be described as fantastic.

The summer sun glinted off the water in the lazily flowing Dartmouth River. All around it, strange apparatus for drawing the water away from its source to other parts of the mill in irregularly angled wooden sluices. The mill itself was beautifully picturesque: a large, whitewashed stone building, it was in the very center of the surrounding village. Otters were everywhere: they seemed to be overflowing from the stone huts that they lived in. They skillfully raced around and ducked the suspended sluices, attending to their individual chores cheerfully, calling out jokes and insults to each other as they passed. One took the time to stop for a drink. Upon looking up, she beamed, and yelled over her shoulder, "Hey! Someone get Percy, cele veltryns with guests!"

The crowd was ushered into a small wooden hall, where Sheryl and Rivenna found a brawny male otter looking over some blueprints for a bridge. "Persimmon, you great fat guppy!" Foltren called good-naturedly. The otter looked up, and grinned.

"Foltren, y'oddball mean-eared flounder! How's things at th'village?"

The peculiar duo thumped each other on the backs heartily, and bantered back and forth with old, longstanding jokes. Finally, the otter put away the blueprints and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Leisurely, he leaned into a chair, gesturing for Foltren and his friends to do the same. "Sooo, friend, what is it I c'n do for yeh?" he asked finally.

"We needs some o'you t'ferry us up to the abbey at the end of the river, at the Cliffs," the stoat said simply. Percy bit his lip in thought.

"That might be a bit of a problem, there. There's been reports of real nasty vermin in the area--coyotes, rogues from this fox Shang Widowmaker's band. Then, as y'might know, poor ole Gosa Felf was killed not half a moon ago..."

Foltren nodded his head understandingly. "Yes, I heard about that. I was afraid to offer condolences to Bryn myself. I'm the last type o'beast she wants t'see now, I'm sure."

"That's something else I'm worried about," Percy agreed. "We have to go through Bryn to get to Mohaercrest, and she has to know exactly who's going through her turf."

"Bryn?" Caerleon repeated curiously. "Hmm, Bryn....Mawr?" he asked himself, pondering the strange familiarity of the name.

"Excuse me, sir, but...wouldn't B..Br...she know Foltren and all the others?" Sheryl put forward, what she thought was reasonably. "And anyway, they're wearing their blue necklaces. Those're pretty hard to miss." Percy seemed to see her for the first time, and leaned towards the young mouse.

"Lemme ask you somethin', miss," he said. "Imagine that the most important creature in your whole world, that special someone you'd spent most of your seasons alone with, in solitude, hermitage--and then imagine that through some screechy coyote's bad temper, he was slain in a skirmish. Then, one o'them cele veltryns comes through, an' one o' th'foxes --say young Larkspur over there-- looks an awful lot like th'one who killed your loved one. You wouldn't exactly treat 'im like cherries an' cream: ye'd prob'ly rush at 'em with the nearest available weapon at first instinct! So this is our problem, ma'am. Bryn Mawr is the key to gettin' to th'cliffs, an' if she don't let you through, y'gotta take a huge detour around her territory, and then travel all the way along the coastline. And, as I understand it, you're in a bit of a hurry."

"Oh," Sheryl whispered. She slumped back down into her chair slightly, and listened to the Gaels offer ideas.

"Is there any way we could coax her with somethin', per'aps? I mean, if say we Gaels come out first when she asks t'see ev'ryone, and talk to 'er about it?" Samhain narrowed her eyes. "What is Bryn Mawr, anyway? Now I'm imaginin' her as some sort of waterhog--"

Percy's face was so surprised that anyone could not have heard of the river matriarch he seemed about to burst into laughter. "No no no, lady, y'got it all wrong! She's a wolf, just like your good self, an' a prettier filly for her age I ain't never seen! Present company excepted, of course," he added tactfully.

Rivenna put her paws akimbo indignantly and arched her neck. "Oh, so we're that old, are we?" The circle laughed, and they moved on.

* * *

Tall Dysart ducked from the branches of the trees he was named for. "Awfully thick, these, eh?" he tried joking with a stolid-faced otter controlling the rudder on the stout ferryboat. She looked at him blankly.

"Yer too tall: what y'need here is a brick on yer head."

Dysart nodded. "Yeah, I've 'ad many a beast tell me that--will be int'restin' when I marry some short, sweet, bonny liddle lass--whoa!" The smooth, languid flow of the river was interrupted by a dull thud. Dysart, who'd been sitting on the side of the boat, was pitched overboard. Moments later, he felt himself being pulled out of the water by a strong, confident paw.

"Those trees're a killer in your position, lad," a female voice said, a hint of an amused smile on her lips. "Best keep amidship in my woods."

Dysart looked up awkwardly, and scrambled to his feet. "Many thanks, tainefe--riverlady."

"Y'okay down there, Dysart?" Percy yelled from the deck.

"Y-yeah, I'm fine," he replied. "She pull--" He began to turn around, ready to point over his shoulder as his rescuer, but she had vanished. Confused, the Gael glanced around for the sight of her, but at the sound of her voice further away, he ceased. Looking to its source, he was met by a stately she-wolf, wielding a walking stick, standing on the banks, talking to the otters. Rubbing his head, he stumbled over the pebbles and caught up with the boat. The new-comer was narrowing her eyes.

"Cele veltryns, ye say? You sure? They've come with you all the way?"

Percy nodded fervently. "They've no connections with Gosa's bunch, I assure you, Bryn."

"You're Bryn Mawr?" Dysart interrupted.

"Bryn Mawr? Bryn Mawr!" Caerleon yelped triumphantly. "That's it!"

The wolf looked about her. "What's your fuss about, lad? Is there somethin' on my face?"

Caerleon leapt over the railing and landed expertly on his feet. With a swift, single movement, he knelt before the she-wolf and murmured, "Onwn nef tan ferdia, Gnodefengrefa."

Bryn Mawr stood silently before him, staring at him with a wistful pain Sheryl had never seen in a creature's eyes.

"Tourmaline," she remembered softly. "I haven't been called that in long seasons. Long, long seasons..."

"What's all this, shipmates?" an otter asked, confusion in her voice. "What's goin' on down there that I should know about?"

"Ever hear tell of Tourmaline and Peppertand?" Caerleon asked, still facing Bryn respectfully. "She was all set t'rule the Alsatian peoples, far to th'north in Aiyar. But he came along and swept 'er off her feet. He won 'er hand in marriage after single-pawedly fightin' 'gainst a strange cat, and winning."

"That was my Gosa," Bryn whispered, paws shaking. "And yes, he slew the tiger Aftrad in battle. That was what convinced my father to let me go with him. He knew Gosa could take care of me as well as I could." She paused to wipe away a solitary tear, and then squinted at Dysart, shaking her head. "You look so much like him, you know. It's very uncanny. Like the son I never had." She smiled sadly.

Samhain and Rivenna stood open-mouthed, in awe. "You're the Tourmaline that we grew up hearin' about?" Rivenna managed to gape. "Princess Tourmaline of Negalsace?"

"Ohhh, I'm just Bryn Mawr now," she replied softly. "Princess Tourmaline was a very different girl." She seemed to shake herself, and the vulnerable widow they'd witnessed a moment ago vanished. "You'll have to wait to pass through my lands, lads," she stated flatly. She looked piercingly at Sheryl. "I'll need some time to pack my things. I've a feeling we'll meet my trouble somewhere along the way."

* * *

Corbann gazed at the distant cliffside abbey in a morning ritual, full of greed. At the horizon, the sun shone down upon the peaceful scene like a content nursemaid. He sat lazily on a large rock, half-watching his nimblest coyotes repair the rope bridge spanning the monstrous waterfall over the cliffs. The pack had followed the river to its end: now they found themselves confronted with the Elgin Drop, the highest waterfall in the whole continent. Its thundering roar echoed around the strange open land at the edge of the Eastern Cliffs, a harbinger of the area's majesty and importance.

"Whawch it theyuh, Reamuh, that's a long way t'fall," he called to his underman. The coyote smiled, raised a claw to signal he was okay, and clumsily continued tying the intricate sailor's knots to the posts. Corbann again looked to the abbey, the view hazy in the mist from the Drop. Who knew what untold riches lay within these great stone houses? He sniggered confidently. He also knew another thing: the building was only partially finished. The Abbey lacked one wall. How hard would it be to take an incomplete abbey, full of peaceful mice?

"Stawp et, men, stawp et!" he yelled. The constructors immediately ceased their work and looked at their leader. Corbann leapt easily off the rock and walked into the midst of them. "Would yeh say th'bridge is finished, Hexlor?" he questioned, examining the hastily built rope and plank bridge they'd been constructing for four days straight now.

The overseer looked over his shoulder, wiping his sweaty forehead. "Ah'd thank so, Corb'n. She's fairly steddy naow. Ah'd say we cud git o'er et presently."

"We's movin' owt!" Corbann ordered, glee in his charcoal face. "Git yaw thangs tugethuh! We'll be living lahk kangs by moonfall!"