Martin woke feeling pleasantly fresh. He opened his eyes to see Boar supervising the laying of a beautiful breakfast table. Hares were wreathing flowers across the board; the food they brought had been grown in small gardens dotted about the landward side of the mountaintop. Boar had small rosebuds and sweet peas twined in his beard, and a garland of ivy leaves sat on his head. The huge badger looked like some benevolent spirit come down from the mountain, holding a green wand in his paw.

Pointing to a high arrow window that streamed down golden sunlight on him, he boomed out to the waking travelers, “Welcome to Salamandastron on the first day of a new summer!”

Young Dinny’s heart leaped at the sight of Boar and the mention of his favorite season. “Burrhoourr, oi dearly loiks summertoid, Zurr Bowar!”

During a fabulous meal in which all took part, they were introduced to the other hares who lived in the mountain. Besides Trubbs, Wother and Ffring there was also Harebell, Honeydew and Willow, three doe-eyed beauties who could render Trubbs and company speechless with a single flutter of their eyelashes. There were four others, a huge fellow named Buffheart, his wife Lupin and their two young ones, Starbuck and Breeze.

“These hares are my eyes and ears,” Boar explained. “I can stretch out my paws through them and feel what is going on for miles around. They are also fearsome fighters. Yes, every one of them. Don’t let silly talk and pretty eyes fool you. They’ll show you later. As for the present, they’ll take your friends off and show them something of this mountain we live on. Martin, will you come with me? I would talk to you alone.”

*  *  *

The warrior mouse followed the silver badger up through many caves, flights of rock stairs and long passages. High up the pair went, into the topmost cave. It was still warm from the heat of the forge. Martin looked out of a long open window to see the beach below and the waters beyond, sparkling and glinting in early summer sunlight.

“This is where you heard my voice when you were down on the shore last night,” Boar whispered to him. “I must whisper now because if I were to raise my voice, the echoes would deafen you.”

Martin nodded, fearing to speak lest his voice did the same.

Boar smiled, patting the mouse warrior lightly. “You are wise beyond your seasons. Now, do not be surprised by what I am going to show you. This is for our eyes alone, Martin—we two warriors.”

The badger went to the left wall between the entrance and the window, where there was a long, deep crack that appeared to be a natural seam in the rock. Setting his great blunt claws deep into the fissure, he began to pull.

Martin stood in awe at the frightening brute strength of Boar the Fighter. Steely sinews and giant muscles bulged and strained as the badger pulled, grunting quietly deep in his chest. Froth appeared on his jaws with the exertion; still he pulled with might and main, platelike back paws set flat on the rock floor, ponderous claws gouging at the bare stone. With a low rumble, the entire wall started to swing outward.

Martin watched wide-eyed, paws and jaws clenched tight, willing the silver badger to perform this great feat of strength. Boar set his shoulders against one side and his paws against the other. He pushed hard, and the secret doorway stood wide open. Without a word they walked inside.

*  *  *

It was a narrow hall. One side of the wall was covered in minute carvings, the other was smooth, whilst the far end was a rounded alcove. What Martin saw there stopped him in his tracks so fast that Boar stumbled on him.

A badger in full armor was seated on a throne in the alcove! Martin felt Boar’s paw upon his back. “No need to be afraid, little friend.” The badger’s voice was calm. “This is my father, Old Lord Brocktree.”

Boar padded silently forward. He touched the armored badger reverently.

“I went questing for Salamandastron, just as my father did,” he explained. “When I found this place, he was still alive and well. He ruled here, and we were happy together for many seasons. In the end he was called to the gates of Dark Forest because of his great age. Now he is part of the legend of the mountain, as he wished to be. I did this for him; this is his tomb.” Boar gave the armor a gentle rub; it glowed dimly. Walking back to the entrance, he called Martin over.

“Let us start at the beginning. See here?” Boar indicated a carved line of badger figures. “Our kind have come here since creatures first felt the sun. Only warriors, the brave of heart and strong of will, are listed here. See: Urthrun the Gripper, Spearlady Gorse, Bluestripe the Wild, Ceteruler . . . the list goes on and on. Look, here is my father, Lord Brocktree; here I am, next to him. There are the spaces for those to come after us. I see you wish to ask me a question. Carry on, Martin.

I release you from your silence.”

Martin did not need to speak; he pointed at a block of picture carvings set apart from the others.

“They are good likenesses of you, I think,” Boar whispered.

The scene was a small frieze depicting the activities of four creatures. Three were intentionally small, but the fourth was unmistakably Martin, even to the broken sword about his neck. Boar looked at Martin with a strange expression on his face. “Friend, believe me, I did not carve these pictures here, nor did my father. How long they have been here, I do not know. I accept it as part of the legend of Salamandastron; you must, too. You are the largest figure, and here are your friends. See, here you are leading them toward the mountain. Here is Salamandastron, and here are you again, emerging from it with your friends. You no longer carry the broken sword about your neck; you are holding a bright new sword. As for the rest, well, your guess is as good as mine.”

Martin studied the picture closely. “Here is the sea, there is a ship . . . Over here looks very faint. It could be a group of trees, a wood or a forest. This looks like a whip and an arrow. What does that mean, Boar?”

“Your eyes are far better than mine, Martin. The whip is the scourge of the sea rats, a sign of evil. As for the arrow, which way does it point?”

“Down the hall to where your father sits.”

Boar indicated the room of echoes. “Martin, you must go out there and wait for me.”

Without question, Martin went, glancing backward once, to see Boar stooping in the alcove behind Lord Brocktree’s throne. He was studying something carved low down on the wall.

Sometime later the badger emerged. He seemed older and tired-looking, and Martin felt concern for his friend.

“Are you all right, Boar? What was written there?”

The great silver badger whirled upon Martin, his face a mask of tragedy.

“Silence! Only Boar the Fighter must know that!”

The sudden shout caused a thousand echoes to boom and bounce off the walls with startling intensity. The sound was deafening. Martin threw himself to the floor, covering both ears with his paws as he fought against the flooding crescendo of noise, Boar’s voice reverberated like a thousand cathedral bells. Sorrow and contrition creased the big badger’s face; he swept Martin up with a single paw, bearing him swiftly from the room.

*  *  *

When the warrior mouse recovered, he was lying back in the badger’s cave. Boar was bathing his brow with cool water.

“Martin, forgive me. I forgot to keep my voice down. Are you hurt?”

Martin stuck a paw in his ear, wiggling it about.

“No, I’m all right. Honestly I am. You mustn’t blame yourself. It was my fault.”

Boar shook his head in admiration. “Spoken like a true warrior. Rise up, Martin, and follow me. Now I will give you the means to fight like one.”

*  *  *

Trubbs, Wother and Ffring met them at the forge. There were lots of giggling and winking between the hares.

“Well, does he know about you-know-what, eh, Boar?”

“I say, let’s show it to him now, Boar. Be a sport.”

“Yes, otherwise the poor old bean might keel over with suspense.”

There was a twinkle in Boar’s eye as he turned to Lupin, the wife of Buffheart.

“What d’you think, Lupin? Is he ready for this?”

Lupin waggled her long ears humorously as hares do.

“Oh, I suppose so. Anyhow, we’ll soon find out.”

Boar had moved to the edge of the forge and was toying with something wrapped in soft barkcloth.

“While you slept last night, my hares and I worked until after dawn had broken,” he said at last. “I have made something for you, Martin.”

The warrior mouse felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He gulped with excitement as Boar continued.

“One night while out on patrol, our Lupin here saw a star fall from the sky. She found the spot where it landed. A lump of hot metal was buried deep in the sand. When it cooled she dug it out and brought it back to me. Last night I put sea coal and charcoal in my forge; more than ever before, I made Salamandastron glow so hot that it could be seen in lands far across the sea. I had to—half the night had gone before the metal became soft. I hammered it out, oiled it, folded it many times against itself on my anvil, all the time reciting the names of every great warrior I had known or could think of. I spoke your name on the final hammer blow. Here, Martin. This is yours.”

Everyone gathered round, including the three travelers, who were back from their tour of the mountain. They held their breath as Martin carefully unwrapped the barkcloth, layer by layer.

It was the sword!

Double-edged, keener than a razor, it lay glittering and twinkling, a myriad of steely lights. Its tip was pointed like a mountain peak in midwinter, the deadly blade had a three-quarter blood channel. It was perfectly balanced against the hilt, which had been restrapped with hard black leather and finished with a ruby-red pommel stone and curving scrolled crosspiece where it joined the marvelous blade.

Never in his wildest dreams had Martin imagined such a thing. Since they left Mossflower on the quest, he had more or less forgotten the broken hilt that hung about his neck. Caught up in the adventures and perils they had been through, he had used whatever he had to—a sling, a piece of wood as a stave—never expecting to see his father’s sword restored to a newness that far outshone its humble beginnings. Now, suddenly, he felt the warlike blood of his ancestors rising at the sight of a fighting weapon few were chosen to look upon, let alone own. The feeling of destiny lay strong upon him as he picked up the fascinating weapon in one paw. His hackles rose and the blood gorged in his face, flashing across his eyes. Now he was the Warrior!

Everyone moved back to the walls as the warrior mouse took his sword in both paws. He held it straight out, letting the point rise slightly to feel the heft of the weapon. Suddenly Martin began sweeping it in circles, up, down, and around. The steel blade whooshed and sang eerily on its own wind, the bystanders followed its every move as if hypnotized. Martin leaped onto Boar’s anvil, still swinging his sword. There was an audible ping as he sliced the tip from the anvil horn. It ricocheted off the rock walls. They ducked instinctively as it hummed past like an angry wasp, leaving the singing blade unmarked.

“Tsarmina, can you hear me?” Martin roared out above the voice of the howling blade. “I am Martin the Warrior. I am coming back to Mossflowerrrrrrrrrr!”