Cluny swaggers off, barking orders to his captains. "Grimeclaw, issue proper 'tools' to these boys. Cheesethief, make sure all recruiter and forager groups are back in. Scrag, attend me in the command tent! Now!"
He marches out of sight around the church, a large, neatly-uniformed weasel hurrying to catch up.
Several rats begin doling out weapons, namely long, rusty spikes that look like they might have once been members of the segments of fencing edging the church grounds, cloth slings, and crude spears. You pick up your weapon, an ill-kept but sharp ax that looked like it had been looted or stolen from an unfortunate, now long deceased wood-worker. "Just what I am supposed to do with this? I couldn't separate a skinny limb from an oaktree with it!"
Grigtail shrugs, striking an valorous pose with his new long scythe. "Bah. Cheer up, mate! We're in the army now! A few seasons of marchin' an' fightin', and we'll all be livin' like kings 'afore you know it proper!" He punctuates the last statement by elaborately flourishing his polearm, dropping it and nearly taking off your tail. "Whoopsy. Sorry, mate. I'm not used to these things either. Dey call 'em 'pikes', just like after the streamwolves, right?"
You nod, not bothering to correct the weasel, and glumly wondering at your prospects should you get into a battle. Movement all around catches your eye, and you realize the vermin are congregating by a small dais off to the side. Captain Mangetail berates a few others into moving, and notices you standing apart from the rest.
"Ahoy, you two there! Aye, you! The Chief'll be making his address soon! Get into line! Now!" Dragging Grigtail behind you, you hurriedly saddle over to the crowd. The Warlord now bears a long pike rammed through a bleached mole skull, and his tail barb glistens with deadly venom.
"Listen up, you whelps! There's a better harbor 'ere abouts than this slimy pit. An underground fortress built by an ancient clan of magic badgers, called 'Brock Hall'. We're going to take it. From there, we can march on any target and never fear a counter attack. From there, we can maintain a war of any length with Redwall. Eventually, we will wear them down. And the greatest fortress in the land -will be ours!"
The horde cheers at the mention of hated and coveted Redwall Abbey, infamous for repulsing nearly any other conqueror. Cluny was the sole keeper of that title, and his desire to fully regain ownership of the magnificent sandstone abbey was legendary. And now he apparently felt his strength might just be great enough to re-join the war, especially with a well-supplied and easily defended base to wage it from.
More commands are issued, and soon the army is formed into rough formation and begins tramping down the dusty path, from there to cut into the woods after a ways and swing to the south and east. Drums beat out a rapid, monotonous marching rhythm, and standards and pennants topped with grisly trophies blow in the wind ominously.
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