Urthstripe watched them from an unblocked windowspace. Resting his huge paws on the sill, his eyes locked on the shining medallion as he tried hard to recall some long-gone event.

The two weasels sat down on the sand within hailing distance of the badger Lord. Food and drink was placed before them by Migroo and Feadle, and they ate and drank noisily, slopping water into the sand and carelessly chewing on bread and a roasted fish from the sea, spitting out bones and throwing away crusts. Ferahgo’s blue eyes held a trace of mock pity as he called out to Urthstripe, “What a pity that you can’t come and join us, badger. Food and drink must be pretty scarce inside your mountain by now.”

Urthstripe tried hard to control his rising temper. “Hear me, scum! The only thing that will be scarce will be your breath if I get my paws around your miserable neck!”

Klitch threw a clay beaker. It smashed against the rocks as he shouted out contemptuously, “You talk a good fight, stripedog, but words never won wars!”

Swiftly Urthstripe brought up his longbow. Fitting a shaft to its string, he drew it full back. “Here, this is for you, little snotnose!”

Klitch leapt up. Pulling back his jerkin to expose his narrow chest, he challenged the badger. “Fire away. Go on, kill me! But the moment you loose your arrow you will slay two of your own creatures. Look out by the tideline, you great stupid beast!”

Big Oxeye and Sergeant Sapwood lay staked out upon the damp sands below the tideline, and Crabeyes and Badtooth had spears pressed to the throats of the two hares. Urthstripe had to stare long and hard before he understood what was going on. It was a fair distance away, too far for bowshot. The badger Lord slacked his bowstring and withdrew the arrow.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing, really.” Klitch sucked a fishbone and flicked it away. “We can sit out here until you all starve to death in there, and just to make things a little more interesting you can watch your two best hares get a good wash each time the tide comes in. At least they’ll die clean.”

Baffled rage was stamped on the striped features of the badger. “Then tell me what you want of me. What do you want?”

Ferahgo took out his long skinning knife and began drawing patterns in the sand. “When we first arrived here we were only after your treasure. But now things have changed, as you can see, so now we want the treasure and your mountain too.”

Urthstripe shook his head vehemently. “There is no treasure, weasel, and as for my mountain, you will never have it, no matter what evil plans your twisted minds can think up. You will never be Master of Salamandastron. Never! Do you hear me?”