Redwall Abbey has been around for decades, headed by a kindly Abbot or Abbess and protected by the sword-wielding Warrior whom Martin speaks to. Alas, the fortress-like building is often under attack by hordes of vermin hoping to claim its bounty for themselves. It has been peaceful far too long, the older and wiser beasts know, a calm before a dreadful storm, but they let the younger beasts be hopeful that the times of battle are over. Unfortunately the elders are right. The Abbess, a motherly mousemaid, spends much of her time with the Record Keeper watching out beyond the heavy gates of the abbey, staring distantly into Mossflower Woods and waiting for trouble to stir the leaves of the spring trees.
Unexpectedly, the trouble came from inside the Abbey itself. One night, lightning struck the rusted weathervane, even though there were no clouds anywhere in the sky. Beneath the light of the bright constellations and a crescent moon like the smile of a cheshire cat, the abbeydwellers gathered in Great Hall where a terrible snapping sound had awoken all the sleeping creatures, young and old, fit and infirm. The ones bearing candles formed a ring around the tapestry of Martin the great hero. Worried whispers ran among the beasts until the Abbess slowly parted the crowd and strode up to the tapestry. Above it Martin's sword had been resting on a noble functioning plaque carved by a pair of squirrels two seasons ago. Now, the sword had clattered to the floor and lay broken clean in two, and the beautifiul tapestry appeared ripped in half down the middle with frayed edges.
And staring at the broken symbols of hope, sat five young Abbeydwellers, not much older than dibbuns, and crying softly as the thin moonlight glittered on the tip of Martin's sword.
