Brother Hal sat sipping cold mint tea amid a welter of faded parchments and yellowed scrolls. He scratched at the furrow in his headfur as he scanned a barkpaper manuscript from the time when old Abbot Saxtus was a young mouse.

The sword of Martin the Warrior has been returned to its rightful home, Redwall Abbey. Today Rufe Brushtail, our champion climbing squirrel, took the weapon and climbed to the very point of the Abbey roof. There he has secured the sword to the north pointer of the weathervane. So will Martin’s sword rest there in peace as his spirit guides our Abbey. It is my fervent hope that Redwall lead a calm and tranquil existence and that the sword never has to be brought down within my life’s seasons.

Hal sat musing as he pondered over the text. “Hmm, dark night, thunder, rain, storm. . . . That’s it!” He leaped up, spilling mint tea over his habit. “The big lightning bolt: Samkim said that it struck the weathervane shortly before he found the sword. Of course, the lightning blasted the sword from the weathervane, it slid down the roof and fell point first. By the fur! From what that young un says, it’s a good thing he never moved a pace to the right. Falling from that height, the blade would have cleaved him in two!”

*   *   *

The two stoats had found the archery equipment. Disdaining the rounded targets, they took a bow apiece and began firing arrows upward at the high beamed ceiling of Great Hall. Neither was very good at archery.

“Yah, boggleyes, you can’t even hit the ceilin’!”

“That’s ’cos I was brought up in poverty, mucker. My ol’ mum never could afford bows ’n’ arrers!”

“Ho, shut up, snotnose. If you ever ’ad a mum she should’ve tried to shoot yer with a bow ’n’ arrer for winjin’ an scrinjin’.”

“Wowee! Lookit that’n go. Betcher that gets the ceilin’!”

“Never! Look out, it’s comin’ down on us!”

They leapt out of the way, and the arrow landed quivering in the tabletop. Dingeye loosed off an arrow that barely missed Thura’s ear, and he hid beneath the table.

“Wot was that for? ’Twas only an accident!”

“I’ll accident you, muckmouth. I was nearly killed then!”

“That’s ’cos we never ’ad proper weapons afore, mucker. Huh, we only ’ad a rusty knife apiece when we was with Ferahgo . . .”

“Belt up, loosegob. Wot’ve I told yer about mentionin’ that hellspawn’s name? Come ’ere, I’ll show yer ’ow ter fire one o’ these weapons proper.”

Dingeye bent the bow with both paws, Thura notched a shaft to the string and heaved back with all his might, and between them they stretched the yew-wood bow to its capacity.