The rain was warm and heavy, pouring straight down without wind or breeze to drift it. Samkim and Arula skipped across to the west wallsteps, splashing their paws in the puddles that were beginning to build up. They found the spectacles where Tudd had said they would be. Both young ones were enjoying the heavy rain, walking slowly back to the Abbey. Unafraid of thunder or lightning, they held their heads back and caught the raindrops in their open mouths. Suddenly there was a massive bang of thunder overhead, a long bright bolt of lightning struck the weathervane on the Abbey roof, and the entire scene lit up with an eerie light. Samkim and Arula stared up at the high roof in awe as they walked toward the Abbey.

“Gosh! Did you see that, Arula?”

“Boi ecky oi did. ’Twere a big un aroight, Sankin!”

There followed a whirring noise overhead. Fearing it was more lightning, Arula threw herself flat, paws covering her head. Samkim shut his eyes tight as something zipped by him.

Sssshhfffttt!

Close by his side a sword had buried itself half its bladelength in the wet lawn. He gasped with shock.

Arula risked a glimpse through her digging claws. “Wot whurr et, more lightenen?”

Samkim tugged the blade free. “It was this. Look, Arula!”

From the red pommel stone to the tight black leather-bound handle and stout silver crosstree hilt, the rain ran down the razor-sharp edges, through the runneled blood channel to a pointed tip keen as a midwinter blizzard. They stared at the sword in awe. It glittered and shone in the downpour, reflecting a lightning bolt over the threshold in a shimmering gleam of whitefire. Samkim held it flat across both his paws.

“The sword of Martin the Warrior!”

*   *   *

Mara and Pikkle heard the thunder rolling in the east as they ran staggering and panting into the twilit dunes. The troops of Ferahgo were still after them. They had spent a long and breathless afternoon being pursued, sometimes hiding among the sandhills for a short breather, other times running flat out across the hilltops, with their pursuers in plain sight. Mara stumbled and fell, gasping for breath, and Pikkle tried pulling her upright.

“No . . .” She pushed him away. “You go on. . . . Can’t run any more. . . . Hare can make it. . . . You go Pikkle . . . please!”

Pikkle stood, shaking his head, his narrow chest heaving. “Not the done thing, old sport. ’Fraid you’re stuck with me, wot!”

Then the rain started, slowly at first, but rapidly increasing to a full-fledged downpour. Thunder boomed overhead and lightning flashed across the dunes.