It would only be logical to assume that when a bizarre rumor is mentioned within a densely-populated community it will spread like wildfire or disease. Nyctllr, though certainly no gossip, was counting on this effect to spread her news through Redwall. Which is why she was all the more depressed to not hear a word of it from any creature at all the next day. Apparently Amos and Gabbro hadn’t quite comprehended the warning enough to deal with it. Nuthead had obviously never trusted Nyctllr or Troyte enough to take any of their words as fact. And true to his initial actions, the Abbey Warrior had made the issue a complete non-issue.
Bransles the hare and Rohan and Gregory the otters had readily accepted Troyte into their area of the abbey—that is, joking about, eating, and generally getting in the way. If her message had actually gone anywhere, Nyctllr would have certainly been beating the hawk over the head for being a goof-off, but now that she was in need of a new idea of how to spread the news, she didn’t want to be a hypocrite and disturb the hawk from his socialization.
In a state of deep despair Nyctlltr ascended the abbey stairs on foot, her wings hanging limply at her sides. She knew not and cared not where the stairs led or how many there were. In fact, she was rather enjoying the length of the walk, as it gave her more time to think, with a little time to wallow in misery on the side.
Nyc wasn’t sure of the sobbing noises she heard as she finally reached the final tier of stairs was her own or not, but as she lightly padded into the attic room she realized she wasn’t being quite so open with her own emotions. Curled up fetally in an ancient plush armchair was a young female badger. Her eyes were screwed shut and welling tears.
Some deep instinct within Nyctllr—perhaps stemming from the interconnectedness of bat colonies—caused her to approach the badger. “Did...something happen?”
The badgermaid looked up, surprised ringed with red from crying. “Nothing happened. At least not yet.” She shuddered.
Nyc suddenly seemed oddly hopeful. “What do you mean?”
The badger convulsede again, then attempted to compose herself. “I...I had a terrible dream. There was smoke and fire throughout Redwall, and creatures were running and screaming. And there was a mouse with a sword, our Martin, and he was explaining and giving advice and nobeast would listen to him...” She paused, gulping at the air. “And so many died...”
A haunted look passed through Nyc’s eyes. “You dreamed that?” she murmured. Louder, she noted darkly, “When I spoke with your swordsmouse, he ignored my every word. Sounds like this Martin has mood swings.” 
The badger’s eyes widened. “Martin came to your dreams, too?”
“Dreams? No, I spoke to a warrior mouse in the flesh yesterday. But he seemed too thick to be a reall warrior.” Nyc was clearly bitter.
“No, that was Mattachin,” the badger explained, slightly more at ease. “He’s our current Warrior. Martin’s our founder. I’m Ustela. Who are you?”
Nyc extended a wingsail in greeting, which somewhat puzzled Ustela. “Nyctllr. Or even just Nyc. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m glad you don’t ignore me, like they did in the dream.”
Folding a sail over Ustela’s shoulder, Nyc attempted a sympathetic smile. “As much as I hate to push it, I think you need to share your dream with some other beasts more important than I...”

*****

Nuthead had been terrified of the wrong dark flying shapes. While he was still in Redwall and being suspicious of Nyctllr and Troyte, the dark shadows of a fleet of giant winged fire arrows glided over the treetops of Mossflower. 

Early mornings in autumn are an excellent time for working outdoors. The temperature and light is soothing, easy on the mind and the body. The gentle backlight illuminated the edge of the West Wall as Gabbro and Amos Stickley carefully eased the old bricks off the top of the rampart. Each ancient stone would be kept within the Abbey as an artifact. Thus their eyes focused on the preservation of said blocks, and not on what was above them.
Mole and hedgehog were never quite able to figure out what the veritable wall of flighted things that appeared above the wall that was supposed to be there was. And as they ran they did not look back to see which wall persisted.

*****

The kitchen of Redwall is always the first room to come to life in the morning. Friar Millet the dormouse had been bustling about for a good hour before any of the other abbeydwellers even stirred, so that his trademark wheat scones could be ready when the first hungry mouths showed up to be fed.
Millet nearly sliced his paw as opposed to the apple he held as a loud explosion rocked his kitchen. In a tizzy about the state of his scones the dormouse bustled to investigate. It did not take a very detailed or thorough investigation to deduce that the flames which suddenly engulfed the back of the kitchen were not caused by an oven malfunction.

*****

Otters are used to sudden alterations in watter current, and birds are accustomed to the same jostling effect from the air. Hares, however, are only acclimated to bumps caused by their own leaps. Bransles was jerked from her after-meal slumber, and as she considered it, quite rudely so. Ears twitching moodily, Bransles harrumphed and rolled back onto her side. She was fully determined to fall back asleep, but her harrumph told her more than she bargained for.
Wide awake with one twitch of her nostrils, Bransles grabbed Rohan and Gregory by the shoulders, shaking the two otters awake. “I say, do you smell bally smoke, wot?”
As if one unit, Rohan and Gregory concertedly flared their whiskers. “Uh...dunno...roight, yes, we surpose...” The twins’ words melded together as well.
“You don’t suppose it’s them bally scones again?” Bransles sniffed in irritation.
“Could be, aye, very well could be. We could split up an’ search, eh matey, y’know, an see what it is. Aye, hate ter lose a brekkist...”
The two otters started toward each other, then in opposite directions. Bransles stopped them before they could change their minds again. “But we can get a top hole bird’s eye view now, wot.” And for the third time in two days, Troyte was thwacked across the beak.
From the instant his amber eyes opened, Troyte’s pupils were the tiniest of alarmed dots. “Get out! GET OUT!”

*****

Following an unusually bad summer for nasty encounters with pikes, the Redwall Infirmary was up to its occupation limit. Beds were full and nurses were running shifts of many hours with no sleep. Perhaps that’s why when the nurse attending saw the dark airfleet out of the infirmary window she assumed it was a hallucination caused by lack of sleep.
The jarring collision that rocked the Abbey to its very foundation, as well as the sheet of flame that shot past the open Infirmary window could have been no mirage. Fire reflected in her wide eyes, the nurse summoned strength she did not know was within her to help the worst cases down the stairs. Some of the less critical patients attempted to follow her. Others, seeing less hope, made straight for the open window.

*****

Mattachin slept uneasily, in a constant cycle of falling dreams with no landing, through a tunnel of ceaseless ridicule and accusations of incompetence. The magnificent Sword of Redwall kept hovering just out of reach from his forepaws, the gleaming red pommel stone taunting him; whenever he grew even remotely close enough to stand a chance at recovering the weapon, the blade only nicked at his fingers.
It’s said that if one feels an impact in a falling dream, then that person has died in his sleep. When Mattachin awoke after the crash, he knew immediately that the final sensation had been real. The Abbey Warrior rolled off his bed and grabbed the sword, holding it between vicelike forepaws. His weapon and symbol thus secure, Mattachn ran until he was clear of the Abbey building.

*****

Nyctllr and Ustela had not been able to even attempt sleep. Their efforts to seek authority had been in vain, and the anxiety that permeated their conscious and subconscious entities prevented them from combatting their exhaustion. In the end there was simply nothing they could do. In the predawn hours bat and badger left the Abbey, watching the sky for armageddon.

The scene was like something out of fiction—horror or alternative history in particular. A sheet of flame rose up between two “endposts” of a severed stone wall. Rubble littered the ground and smoke obscured the backdrop. And through it all, the visual and audible marks of panicked creatures—silhouettes darting through the fire and anguished screams mingling with the repeated crackling of explosions. Some examples of these signs persisted, while others were clearly cut short.
Redwallers fled as they could, but entirely avoiding the inferno that raged around the western part of the Abbeywas next to impossible. In the state of physical possibility that only comes in the face of death, many of the common Abbeybeasts were able to burst through the flames with only minor singes to their fur. And others outdid even that. Old asthmatic Sister Oxalis the Recorder dashed from her gatehouse quarters to a place where the smoke could no longer asphyxiate her lungs. Badger Mother Marne was able to carry a half-dozen dibbuns at once out from the wreckage, and she kept going back in for more of them, her motherly explanation of the crisis that the kitchen was indeed the problem. The cellarkeepers were able to push any barrels of alcoholic drink to the side of the Abbey opposite the impact site to prevent the flammable liquids from igniting—all this before their own escapes.
There were some that stayed within the Abbey grounds, deliberately. The otters Rohan and Gregory showed no aspects of their light demeanors and twinnish buffoonery as they worked. They were designed to operate in an aquatic environment, but now they had to bring the water out into the terrestrial sphere; they did all in their power to bring the contents of the Abbey pond out to combat the raging flames. Bransles the hare, along with others of her species, were naturally more suited to land. Utilizing the springpower of massive muscled hindlegs, Bransles and her squadron of hares kicked showers of dirt from the ground to the wall, with the hopes that the raw earth would be stifling enough. Via air the Sparra fought as always, working with assembly-line efficiency to release clumps of moist forest subfloor from within the cloud of smoke above. To stamp out and blot out in one blow. The flames sputtered under the barrage as the firefighters sputtered from the flame. A different sort of vicious circle.
Most Redwallers, however, simply ran. After their lives are gone and their first-person tales with them, history books will undoubtedly regard them as nothing but terror-stricken, nothing but cowards while others did so much more to fight back. That’s a hypocritical recorder, right there. Most who write of history from a distance have no firstpaw part in anything interesting, and thus they have no right to be critics. Can anyone blame those poor beasts who ran? Would you not do the same if the building which was more than a mere building to you—which was the world to you—was suddenly and unexplainably ringed in flame?
They ran out into the forest, into the depths of Mossflower which were normally only traversed if there was no other option. And nobeast thought of that, of the perils well cautioned against and the warnings not to go there. The world was burning, coming down around them, inconceivable after contemplation and even more so before one has time to contemplate anything. They ran for their lives, and for denial, out into the deep, dark, and cool woods, the woods with their own wild atmosphere, out through them until the smoke no longer twinged their nostrils and a sickly bright orange glow no longer silhouetted the trees. 

In the end the weather smothered the flames. The Redwallers fought the blaze all day and into the night. As the daylight faded the weather shifted as a cold front approached. It was heralded initially by cold winds, which only stirred up the fire further. The firefighters of course felt doomed by this intervention of nature, but the whipping wind was shortly replaced by a gentle autumn rain, so contradictory in character to the rest of the day. A relieving contradiction.
Unsettling, however, was the view as the rain washed out the smoke. The entire West Wall of the Abbey had been dislodged. It had not, however, been entirely blown out. The vast section sagged downward and outward. The bricks were smashed and crumpled, the ornamented edges ripped into jagged asymmetrical rockslides. The bared edges of the wall that remained upright were burnt black, their endplanes sharp and treacherous rock faces, parts of which had even been twisted and bent by the persistant heat of the blaze. Part of the main Abbey wall had been demolished as well, its foundation and framework sticking out like a skeleton. The parts that were still standing were pitted and charred; in the dark that section maintained the illusion of being nonexistant as well, as whatever light was present caught on the diagonal heap of the former West Wall.
Redwall Abbey—a square with three sides.
Entirely robbed of their senses of humor for the time being, Bransles, Rohan, Gregory, and the other firefighters forced their red-rimmed eyes to stay open as they followed the clearly trampled route of the fleeing Redwallers through Mossflower. All were ghostly silent, and explainably so. Dark Forest Gates could not have possibly looked any more frightening than the former West Wall of Redwall Abbey did. The rain persisted as they trekked. There was no clear way to tell if the moist tracks cut through the ash caked on their fur was rainwater or tears.
The general population of the Abbey had congregated in a clearing not far from the River Moss. Though the noise of the rain did echo about and would have muffled most noises anyway, it was painfully clear that the entire group—normally a bustling community of conversation—was silent. 
The Sword of Martin the Warrior still clenched tightly in his paws, Mattachin approached the returning heroes. All stared stonefaced at each other for quite some time, knowing that they had important messages, but at the same time unable to comprehend, incapable of realizing or making sense of what needed to be said.
Mattachin finally broke the silence. “The fire...Is it out?”
Rohan nodded solemnly, his neck moving creakily. Gregory responded verbally, his voice dry and seemingly unpracticed. “Aye...But you’ll...need t’ see...” He scrunched up his forehead and averted his eyes.
Her long ears further shadowing her already half-lidded eyes, Bransles felt a duty to ask a question that in any other situation woulde only be considered morbid. “Who’s still alive? Who’s dead?”
“There’s not an exact count yet,” Mattachin explained, whiskers twitching slightly. “Nobody’s wanted to count yet. I’ll start...soon.”
Bransles bit her lower lip. “Anybeast...y’know, prominent?”
Mattachin turned his head slightly. To follow his line of sight, one’s gaze would fall upon the furred hulk of a lifeless creature on its side in the damp leaves. Badger Mother Marne had managed to clear ground zero with her full cargo of dibbuns, her strong frame fully capable of the effort. As Badgermum, Marne had carted dibbuns around constantly. She’d been built for it, practically. Her lungs, however, were not accustomed to an ashy atmosphere. The dust and smoke gradually clogged the small airsacs in the linings of her lungs. She reached camp, lay down to sleep, and the weight of the deposits prevented her lungs from reinflating. She died without ever knowing.
“Any others?” Bransles did not look up as she spoke; she was concentrating on clearing the ash from Marne’s still face.
“I haven’t seen Friar Millet,” Mattachin considered. “And...” He sighed heavily. “The kitchens were on the west side...”
“That’s all?” Bransles wasn’t able to manage even a relieved wot. “Good.” Such an ill-fitting word. “Have you spoken with the Abbot? He needs to see...”
Mattachin’s eyes widened, and he gripped the sword so tightly that his entire forepaws went white. His claws dug into the black binding of the hilt. “The Abbot!” The warrior mouse inhaled sharply and then realized what his expression looked like. His facial muscles went rigid as he attempted to control them. “I think...I know where he is.” Mattachin darted off into the woods.
The Warrior of Redwall is there to be a protector, and the Abbot is a leader, of course. It only makes sense that the quarters of the two would be essentially adjacent. Mattachin had apparently forgotten this fact as he fled the Abbey with his sword. In his terror he had left his purpose in his abandoned room, next door to the old Abbot, the mole who was reknowned for his evenpawed leadership, not to mention his snoring loudly through impenetrable sleep.
As he came upon Redwall, Mattachin fell into physical pain as he simply beheld the collapsed wall. And to contemplate the odds of survival for one still inside...
Finally sheathing the great sword, Mattachin padded up to the former wall.
There were some living creatures already present, a young bat and a small badgermaid, sifting through the rubble with mixed expressions of devastation and hope.
Mattachin placed a cold and shaking paw on Nyctllr’s wing. “I should have listened to you!” 

Excerpt from the writings of Sister Oxalis, Recorder of Redwall Abbey:

        As the rain has beaten out the smoke and the sun has returned to the skies of Mossflower, the sight that becomes clear to the citizens of Redwall is incomprehensible, inconceivable. The wall is not there.
        Two days ago, on the eleventh day of the Autumn of the Copper Beech, some unknown flying weapon struck the western wall of the Abbey. No flighted creature could inflict such damage, and there is therefore no question that this action was intentional. But why and from where? The summer was peaceful, with no vermin in sight...These things don’t make sense. I don’t know why I’m trying to make sense of it. That can’t be done.
        The outer West Wall of Redwall Abbey is entirely demolished. The inner wall has sustained considerable damage. Everything between the two has been destroyed, including the very tree for which the season was named. Thus these unknown attackers have ruined everything with this one blow, down to the name of the season. Season names don’t change; they’re untouchable. So we thought. But then again, we thought the same thing about Redwall itself...
        The extent of the casualties is yet unknown. Our moles have offered to dig through the rubble for dead, but it is perfectly understandable to our weary hearts that they cannot take care of all of this at once. We do know, however, that our Badger Mother and our Abbot are among the dead, an irreplaceable loss that requires a different sort of recovery than the physical damage does.
        Our Abbey Warrior Mattachin has taken charge of our group, heading and delegating rescue and healing effort. He has proclaimed that we should amend events, not dwell on them.
        I feel no strength to write more on this, regardless.

—Sis. Oxalis, Rec’dr