“Yes, sir. I’ve decided to choose good stones an’ give a good account of m’self to those vermin.”

Oxeye grinned. “Did the same m’self when I was a nipper like you.”

“D’you think they’ll take long gettin’ here, sir?” Shorebuck tested his sling with an experimental twirl.

“Don’t fret, laddie. When they do, I’ll be right by your side.”

Shorebuck relaxed slightly, comforted by the veteran fighter’s presence. Keeping his eyes on the advancing lights, he murmured, “No sign of Lord Urthstripe yet. Where d’you suppose he is?”

“Oh, he’ll be around somewheres, gettin’ ready an’ whatnot. Stay awake now, supper should be round any moment now. Y’don’t want to miss that, wot?”

Oxeye moved on around the vantage points, murmuring encouragement, his solid presence radiating calm and good humor to the fighters of the Long Patrols.

Inside the mountain stronghold of Salamandastron passageways hewn through the living rock led off caves and chambers. Some were lit by torches, others illuminated from window slits, giving the entire place the air of some vast primeval warren. At the end of one such corridor a large rock slab had been rolled aside, and lantern light cast a warm glow upon the smooth stone face of the chamber where Urthstripe stood. This was the place where he sought solitude when his mind was troubled. All around the walls the record and history of Salamandastron and its badger Lords was depicted in intricate carvings: Brocktree, Spearlady Gorse, Bluestripe the Wild, Ceteruler the Wise, Boar the Fighter, Sunstripe the Mace . . . they were all there. It was a place of mystery, heavy with the ages of badger lore.

Urthstripe set the lantern on a ledge and picked up a fine pointed chisel. Selecting a clear space on the flat rock wall, he began carving the likeness of himself into the stone. As he cut skillfully into the rock he reached into his forge apron and produced a pawful of herbs. These he sprinkled over the flame-heated sides of the lantern. Soon the cave was filled with a swirling gray smoke that carried with it a smell of autumnal woodlands. The badger Lord began chanting, the words forming in his mind as he gouged trancelike at the wall-stone:

“Seas and lifespans, ebbing, flowing,

Past and future merge as one.

Mountain Rulers, coming, going,

Seasons future, seasons gone.

Badger Warriors from the shades

Stand beside me, guide my paw.

O wise Lords and gentle maids,

Restrain my rage, preserve our law.”

*   *   *

Sergeant Sapwood left off stacking lances at a concealed window slit on the lower level. He accepted the bowl of hot mushroom and leek soup from a small wiry hare who carried two short swords strapped across his shoulders. Together they sat on the windowledge and took supper, watching the seemingly endless torchlight procession flooding from the dunes into the moonless night.