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!”

An hour before dawn, Brogg was rubbing sleep from his eyes. He flopped his Thousand Eye Captain’s cloak about him and stumbled into the main billet with Ratflank. They kicked at prostrate forms, pulling tattered blankets from sleeping soldiers.

“Come on, you lot,” they ordered. “Up on your paws. It’s invasion time again.”

Grumbling and protesting, the troops sat up, scratching at their fur, wiping paws across eyes.

“Gaw! I was havin’ a lovely dream there.”

“Huh, me too. I dreamed we were getting a proper hot breakfast.”

“You’ll be lucky, bucko. Bread and water, and be glad of it.”

“Where’s this fat of the land we’re all supposed to be living off? That’s what I’d like to know.”