Dawn broke again, as it always did. And the vermin camp came to life. Lackfoot hobbled about. Skunksnot yawned, itching himself here and there. Harlapple lay, huddled and quivering beneath his blankets as battles raged on inside him.

Sulan's corpse came roaring to life, claws outstretched and reaching for him. The mouse snarled and beheaded the seer a second time. Sulan made to get up again, and swiftly found a tail-spike in his chest.

"This time stay down!" It was much the same wherever he went. A nameless monster here, a beast he vaguely recognized there. He fought and he fought and he fought until he stood in a creek of blood that reached up to his belt. Barley Mae, feathered and wearing a borrowed mask slashed at him with a wooden spoon.

"I STILL WANT MY SOAP SCUT-STAIN!"

Harlapple backed away desperately, wading through the thick red waters.

"Boss I-" Before they could finish their sentence, one of his rats was pulled beneath the waters with a squeal, leaving nothing but a trail of crimson bubbles as proof of their existence.

Snowbelle struck from behind, her eyes a crimson red. "I hate ye, Harl! I hate ye, I hate ye!" she roared, her voice dripping with loathing.

He caught her blade with his own, like he always had, and always would. The force behind her blows was strong enough to send him skidding through the mud.

"Snowball please!"

"Er Boss yer mummy wants yew te eat brekkfist wiv us." Dung walked into his Master's tent, and found the mouse in his night clothes, standing on the bed with his back to him.

"I love you... You're my friend." Harlapple whined, the Sword of Martin growing heavier with every parry.

The big rat felt blood rush to his face and his ears go rosy. He scratched the back of his head. "Sh-shucks boss! I-I dunno wot ter say."

"B-but you hate me," his ears drooped. His face fell. His tail grew heavy and sunk beneath the red.

"N-naw! I-I don't hate yer boss! I-I think yer a great warlord!" And to show that he meant his words he came forwards and wrapped his meaty arms around the mouse and squeezed. "An' yer me matey too!"

Harlapple was suddenly brought into reality, finding his ribs crushed by the iron grip of his bodyguard and his nose assaulted by the stench of unwashed rat. He blinked, and looked up to meet Dung's goofy grin with a glare. "...Get. Off."

Following the second worst wake up call of his life, Harlapple stormed off towards where breakfast was being served, a very confused Dung following at a safe distance behind him.

"She's a Redwaller," Bill was saying, glad that the warlord and his infernal mother were out of earshot. It made discussions of mutiny easier. "Which makes her son a Redwaller. And if there's one thing a Redwaller likes to do, it's kill vermin." He jabbed a claw at his hideously burnt face. "This was the work of your warlord! Don't you see? He's just trying to get us all killed! Then there'll be one less vermin in the world and he'll be happy!"

Wrackfur grabbed a roll from a distracted rat and munched on it. "Hey, d'yew know where weel be headed nex' after th' boss is done wi' this dump?" he asked a nearby ferret, eyeing the apple in it's paw.

"E-er not a clue," the ferret replied, tentatively raising the apple to his mouth.

"Aren't you paying attention!" Bill snarled. "There won't be a next time because that mouse is going to get all of us killed!"

"I assure you." The fox froze on the spot, his eyes bulging in terror at the sound of the warlord's voice. "That is not my intention." He payed the fox no further mind, instead addressing the horde as a whole. "Good morning."

"Good morning Master Boss Sir," the vermin chirruped in response.

"Today," Harlapple helped himself to the nearest pastry, spearing it on his tail spike. "We will discuss my plan of attack. Our war with Redwall begins anew." He twirled a whisker. "But before we get to that, there are a few things I ought to sort out. For one," he pointed at the slaver weasel who had let the dormouse slave escape- indirectly causing his plan with the abbot to crumble to shreds. "You still need to be punished."

Meadowblossum swallowed hard. He had almost done a Milo when Harlapple pointed at him.

"And you," Harlapple turned his claw upon Bill. "Need to be taught a lesson."

"I'm not scared of you, mouse!" The fox snapped out of his panic-induced coma, and raised his fists.

"You should be." Harlapple's eyes narrowed dangerously. They darted left and right, thinking up possibilities. He smiled, spotting one, and raised the pastry to his mouth. "Wrackfur? Beat this backstabber up a bit, will you?" Remembering how the weasel worked, he added. "You can have his rations after."

The contract brought a smile to Wrackfur's face, and he rose, chuckling at Bill. "Boss's orders, flufftail. Le's go outsahde; wouldn't wanta muss up yer vittles." After this eloquent threat, the large weasel went to the other side of the table and grabbed the fox by the arm, dragging him, protesting, out of the tent.

"What are you waiting for?" Harlapple gestured for the rest of the group to head outside. "Breakfast and a show." He took another bite out of his pastry, before snatching a retreating Meadowblossum by the ear. "Not you. You're coming with me."

Meadowblossum went into a complete meltdown. His time had come and he was not ready.

Wrackfur dragged the fox away from the main group and tossed Bill onto the ground, before drawing his axe. Chuckling again at the fox's horrified face, Wrackfur tossed the weapon aside, grabbing a small log meant for the campfires and poking Bill in the gut. "Betcher scared o' the mouse naow, eh?"

"I am not!" The fox howled, scrambling backwards in an effort to get up and reclaim his dignity. "He's only strong because fools like you let him be! He's too scared to fight me himself!"

"Heh, yew think, 'fter challenging Redwall-Blazin' Abbey, e'd be scared of a li'l foxey?" Wrackfur accentuated the point with a swing to the fox's ribs.

Winded on impact the fox found himself at a loss for words. He bared his teeth into a snarl, drew back his fist and swung for the weasel's face.

His smile faded just in time for the punch to impact, sending Wrackfur off balance and giving him a smarting jaw. The glee knocked out of him, he swung his club at the fox's face, intent on sending Bill onto the ground.

With an audible CR-AAACK! Bill's nose exploded like an overripe tomatoe. The assembled vermin winced and cheered in equal measure.

Inspecting the blood on the edge of the log reinstated Wrackfur's lazy grin, and he chuckled cruelly at the fox. "No, yew're not so cocky, are ya?" glancing at the peanut gallery gathered, he tossed aside the club and crossed his paws.

"Ah'm a fair beast." he told Bill. "I don'need anythin' but m'paws t'take yew on. Yer move, flufftail."

Durge caught the club mid-air and cheered all the louder at his success. Clearly it meant he would have the next shot at the annoying fox!

"You shouldn't have done that," Bill snarled, wiping away the red and getting to his feet. He straightened up, fists raised. "I can do this all day."

"Aye, yew c'n talk, and threat'n, and yew c'n pose all day, but figh'in's another matter" Wrackfur sneered, and lunged into the most obvious punch ever. Rolling his weight onto a forward footpaw, he leaned in and struck out at the mutinous fox with all the force of his body weight.

Bill crumpled under the blow, promptly collapsing into a heap of groaning pain.

The assembled horde cheered wildly. Durge took a step forwards, wearing agrin to match Wrackfur's. "Now iss my turn!" He shouted gleefully, brandishing the club.

Wrackfur stumbled forward to break his fall and stood over the unconscious body of the fox. "Now iss my turn!" The weasel spun around and balled up his paw. "'Less yew wan' wot happened t'him, get back to wot the mouse told ye t'do! 'Less, o'course," he grinned evilly, "it's yer turn."

Durge made to step back into the crowd, his tail tucked firmly between his legs, but the jeering horde would have none of it, and refused to let him pass.

"Go on Durge, it's yer turn!"

"Aye Durge, show 'im wot ye've got!"

Milo was cheering while perched atop Slopgut's shoulder enjoying the fight and a pastry. "Knock the lights out of him, Durge!" he shouted as he swung his arms to mimic punches, nearly hitting Slopgut's eye.

Sufficiently encouraged, his ego boosted, Durge stood up straight and tossed the club into the crowd. "Hold dat f' me mates, while I teaches this newbie wot's wot round 'ere!" He cracked his knuckles, and then his neck.

Wrackfur snickered. "Newbie? Ah guess weel see aboot that." He took a step back and crossed his paws, daring the vermin to strike first.

"Ladies firs', 's only fair," Durge snickered, his own ego taking hold and overriding both his fear and his common sense.

It was a good retort, and Wrackfur struggled with a response for a moment. Ultimately his comeback was charging forward and driving his shoulder into Durge's gut. "'Ows 'boot firs' t'be hit?!"

Durge stumbled back, wincing from the force applied. "Ach, ah let yew 'it me sunshine. Wanted ter test yer strength." The rat rolled his shoulders, before drawing his fist back. "My turn now!" He swung hard.

The fist hit true, and Wrackfur stumbled back, throwing out his arms to keep himself upright... and walloped Slopgut on the chin. But he was still on his feet!

Slopgut grimaced. His eyebrows lowered. His eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath, picked Milo up by the scruff and set him down gently on a nearby log. "That wasn't very nice." He said simply,before leaping into the fray!

Harlapple watched, one eye twitching, at the cloud of dust the frantically roving feetpaws and the swinging fists of his horde managed to kick up. "I leave them... for five... five bloody minutes..."

Milo was watching the fray, munching with glee on his almost finished pastry.

With two beasts on top of him, Wrackfur decided it was best to deal with the freshest one, and lifted Durge off his footpaws and launched him over to where Bill lay.

"STOP! RIGHT! NOW!" The warlord exploded (thankfully- or not depending on who you asked- not literally). "I leave for five minutes! FIVE! And you are all trying to kill each other!"

Awkwardly, the vermin came to a halt.

"'e started i'!" Wrackfur exclaimed pointing at the groaning form of Durge.

Harlapple held up a paw for silence. And though the weasel never held his tongue, Wrackfur decided to mumble his thoughts rather than say them out loud. "I don't care who started it." The mouse sighed. "Is anybeast hurt?"

"I am," Bill moaned, raising a feeble paw off of the ground.

"Nobeast? Good! Now follow me." He smirked a little. "We shouldn't keep Meadowblossum waiting."

A short walk later the bruised and sore vermin came across the weasel, hanging by his feetpaw from a large tree. "Meet!" Harlapple announced. "Your new punching dummy! I want everybeast here to give Meadow two solid punches." He stroked his whiskers. "And a kick!" He added.

The weasel had his eyes closed and paws shakily folded, frantically mumbling prayers.

"Not too hard of course," Harlapple smiled, gesturing an eager Skunksnot forwards. "We need him in one piece."

A short while later, the vermin had all had their go (some more than one even) and Harlapple generously let the weasel down. (He cut the rope so that Meadowblossum landed on his face). "There, fair punishment for an honest mistake. Justice is served." All present (except the victim of said justice) cheered and scattered to their various duties. "Dung, please bring Meadow to mother. We wouldn't want him staying a hideously-bruised bag of flesh forever, now would we?"

Bill, being shown no such kindness, was left to his own devices. He stumbled around the camp, half-blind from a swollen eye, cursing and spitting up a storm and wishing a plague upon Harlapple. The mouse's mother was a skilled healer, but they were the last creature Bill would trust with his face. In any case he knew the camp had another. He barged into Snowbelle's tent without fanfare. "You a healer?" he demanded with a growl.

The squirrelmaid - who had been carefully distilling nightshade berries with an empty glass bottle - nearly jumped out of her fur. On instinct, she reached for the piece of shale she had been using to chop up herbs, brandishing it, before her eyes fell upon the fox's wounds. "Great seasons, ye poor beast!" she placed the makeshift weapon aside, hesitantly moving towards him. "What happened?"

"Hell squirrel," he spat, noticing that she herself was a squirrel. "And then the horde."

She cocked her head at the first comment, realization dawning on her as she hid a chuckled behind a paw. "Ye must mean Phyllis, she's quite the loose canon." Helping the fox to sit on the bed she had made from piled up flour sacks, the squirrelmaid began inspecting his injuries. "Hmm...doesn't look like anything tae bad, nothing life-threatening at least," her touch was surprisingly gentle, despite handling one of the beasts who held her prisoner. "Your right footpaw is sprained, ye have a few displaced ribs, and most likely a concussion." She held up two fingers in front of Bill's eyes. "Count how many claws I'm holding up."

"Don't think you'd find it as funny if I incinerated your face." Bill spat. He glared at her claws. "Three. I'm not blind."

Wiping the fox's rancid spittle from her face coolly, Snow replied. "Actually, 'twas two claws. Ye definitely are concussed." She gently laid him down. "I'll have tae find something tae use as bandages..." glancing down at her borrowed tunic, she sighed. "Sorry, Foremole..."

"Just make it quick." Bill sneered. "I haven't got all day."

Snow glared at him. "Ye know I could make this take much longer," as she tore strips from her tunic to bind his wounds, she muttered darkly. "I could poison ye if I wanted, I know plenty of ways tae do it too!"

"I'm so scared," Bill sneered. "First the mouse, then you. You woodlanders think you're so tough and threatening- but you always need bigger beasts to save your tails. Badgers, otters, hares. You lot are nothing without them."

She rolled her eyes. "Apparently, ye were nae there when I took on half the horde by myself," she tightened a bandage irately, tugging it a bit too tight. "See that pretty flower? The one with the creamy, speckled petals? If I put even the smallest amount of that on your tongue, ye would have violent convulsions, foaming at the mouth, and paralysis...slowly followed by death." "Just because I'm small doesn't mean I couldn't kill ye without scarcely having tae lift a claw."

"Oh I've heard about you," the fox continued to sneer. "You're that idiot that came charging into camp and tried to kill the stupid mouse with a zuchini." The fox feined terror. "I am terrified."

"I've had just about enough of ye," she snarled, purposely yanking the bandage around his footpaw viciously. "Ye expect me tae heal ye, one of the vermin scum threatening my home and holding me captive, and listen tae ye insult me while I save your worthless life?

Bill snarled back, feigning a kick with his uninjured foot. "I expect you to do as you're told. The way slaves are supposed to." He sighed. "Just don't talk. I have enough on my mind without your petty flower garbage."

At the back of her mind, Snowbelle though vindictively of actually poisoning the fox, just to prove her point, but she knew better...to kill an injured creature would make her no better than him. As demeaning as if felt, she remained silent, finishing her task with practiced efficiency. "There. Now ye can leave and get somebeast tae beat the fight out of me, eh?" She scoffed. "Big beast like ye could nae do it yourself with a paw sprain like that "

"I'm sure I'd find a way. I'd like nothing more than to crush your little woodland bones to dust." Bill growled, his paws clenched into fists. "But that damned mouse said he'd take two pieces from us for every one missing from you." The fox stood up. "Pray you never hear from me again."

"Thought ye were tougher than that little mouse," she taunted, dipping her paw into the distilled liquid in her bottle. "Pray ye never have tae find out what this does," flicking her paw, she sent the liquid splattering into the fox's face. "Oops!"

Bill stepped backwards, snarling and wiped desperately at his face. "Big mistake squirrel. I'm going to tear you limb from limb." Yet when he opened his eyes, there was not one squirrel standing before him. But three. And a singing zuchini extolling his praises.

Backstab Bill fainted clean away, and hit the ground with a cloud of dust.

"Appears tae be plenty strong enough," the maid mused, chuckling to herself. "Idiot...underestimating me, Redwall's healer and gardener." After allowing herself a moment of praise, she rolled the fox out the tent and settled back to her work, humming cheerily.

Meanwhile, Harlapple had gathered his horde in order to prepare them for the assault on Redwall. There were maps to be consulted. Plans to be explained. Secrecy to be maintained. Somewhere along the way it had turned into a musical (he found his horde remembered certain things better if sung it to them- the degenerates).

"'Everybeast before us fell short," Harlapple unrolled a map of Redwall for all to see. "Every brainy, brawny, burly warlord, Every stinky, slinky, slimy horde," he pinched his nose as he passed Skunksnot, twisted Meadowblossum into a pretzel and did not dare lay a paw on the oozing Footface. "All FAILED!" Chorused the assembled hordebeasts. "We will do it differently, "Not too harsh," his voice even, fair, considerate. "Far from gently," a wicked grin spread across his face and promised pain. "Please listen intently," he snapped, pulling Dung and Durge by the ears.

Whoever was providing the music increased the tempo. "We've been beaten, stomped and thrashed," Harlapple abruptly released the rats, letting their head bang against each other's. "Now they think of us as trash," a small growl escaped the warlord. "They've burnt down all our soap," Harlapple fell to his knees, filling his paws with ashes. "Tried to give themselves some hope," the ashes were raised to his chest, and placed over his heart. "But that won't change a thing," the villainous grin returned as Harlapple threw the ashes into the wind.

"Coz we're vermin!" Lackfoot cried, getting to his footpaw. "Vermin, vermin, vermin!" the rest of the horde agreed, standing up to cast a shadow over their minuscule leader. "Soon as they sees us they'll go a'runnin'!" Dung exclaimed, grinning brightly. "We'll throw stones, sticks and boulders," Durge hefted a massive rock above his head. "Till we're aching from the shoulders," Skunksnot wheezed, trying to do the same. "An' their wall's nothin' but smoulders!" The horde chorused.

Harlapple shook his head from side to side in disbelief. Idiots... "To conquer, the unconquerable," he explained, his tone even, controlled, gentle. "To surpass, the insurmountable," philosophical, intellectual, decisive. "To bring Redwall to the ground," a sweep of his tail scattered the rest of the ashes. "And avenge our comrades drowned," a moment of silence, in honor of the deceased. "We must think outside the box," he tapped Lackfoot hard on the side of the head. "Not just pelter it with rocks," a hard jab to Durge's prominent gut sent the rat and his boulder stumbling backwards into a cloud of dust.

"Coz we're vermin!" Lackfoot agreed, rubbing the side of his head. "Vermin, vermin, vermin," the horde chorused. "We'll build big ladders!" Skunksnot cried, as he Meadowblossum and Footface bent and twisted to form one. "That'll get us in!" Dung cried, climbing their impromptu creation. "We'll empty their bladders," Slopgut cackled, holding Milo at arm's length. "Not to mention their larders!" the vermin all shouted.

"Tried, tested, FAILED!" Harlapple exhaled. "I'll only say this once," the mouse held up a single claw. "Do not play the dunce," he trod harshly on the tail of a nose-picking stoat. "Redwall won't go down," A flick of his finger sent the 'ladder' and all on top of it tumbling into the dust to join Durge. "When faced with a clown," he frowned in disappointment at the doggy-piled doofusses. "Unless we play this smart," he tapped a claw against the side of his head. "We'll be broken, ruined, vanquished," he pulled Meadowblossum out of the pile. "Ripped limb from limb and torn apart," he growled, thankfully not providing the weasel with a visual explanation.

"Coz we're vermin!" Lackfoot cried. "Vermin, vermin…" the stoat shrunk under the force of Harlapple's narrowed eyes. "Er- sorry boss."

"Our foe is mighty," the mouse went on, unceremoniously dumping Meadowblossum. "They scare even me!" "Slightly?" Slopgut swallowed audibly.

"Not at all!" Harlapple grinned. "I was born to be a warlord," he struck an impressive pose, his cape billowing in the perfectly-timed breeze. "Wasn't my first choice," the mouse shrunk, his ears drooping, his tail slumping to the ground, his shoulders sagging. "Wasn't my last," he grinned and posed again. "But times are changing," one by one he began to pull his hordebeasts to their feetpaws. "That was all long past," a flick of his tail-spike waved away the memories. "Now there's nothing left but forwards!" "We will crush Redwall!" The hordebeasts cried, picking up their leader and tossing him into the air. "Coz we're vermin!" Lackfoot cried. "Vermin, vermin, vermin," the vermin chorused, jumping around and tumbling like the trained acrobats they were born to be. "All I ask, beloved horde," Harlapple snapped, landing safely in Dung's outstretched paws and once more drawing their undivided attention. "Do not waver," he shot Lackfoot a glare. "Do not turn traitor," his fiery gaze fell upon the impassive Bill. "Do not hesitate," he poked Dung on the snout, as the big rat let him down. "Soon we'll have those abbeybeasts in checkmate!" Harlapple grinned, a sweep of his tail sending the King of a conveniently placed chess-set skidding off the board.