He had been only five years old the last time the carrot people had raided the village. His mother had hidden him under the floor of the hut for safety, and although he had tried to peek out through a crack in the leaf covering, he had been able to see almost nothing. But he had heard so much. The screams of his parents as they died was a sound he still held ringing in his ears, to remind him why he did the things he did.
And now he looked out over the raiding party he had assembled. Years of training, driving his fellows on with the bitter passion they all shared, had reached a pinnacle at last. Now was the appointed hour. Now was the day when the carrot people’s village would ring with cries of pain and woe. The radish tribe would live in fear no longer.