Hazy sunlight pierced a pale-washed dawn, sending streaks of gold lancing to banish the sea mists over Salamandastron. Urthstripe the Strong strode boldly out onto the sands in front of his mountain with ten hares at his back. The badger Lord looked every inch what he was—a true warrior—clad in shining metal greaves and breastplate with a plumed and visored headgarb fringed in fine chainmail. Across his back a mighty double-hilted war sword was strapped; resting easily in his right paw was his famed spear, which weighed more than a grown hare and was tipped by a long double-edged blade with ornate iron crosstrees a third of the way down its length. He threw back his head and bellowed out the badger Lord’s challenge in a voice like rolling thunder.

“Eulaliaaaa! I am Urthstripe the Strong, Ruler of the mountain! Who dares trespass on my domain?”

A white flag appeared from behind some rocks on the shore, followed by the call of a high-pitched voice: “Flag of truce, flag of truce. My master would parley with you!” Raptail the rat showed himself, waving the flag furiously.

Behind the visor Urthstripe’s eyes glittered in anticipation. “Urthstripe does not parley with vermin, he buries them!”

A tall blue-eyed weasel stood up behind Raptail. His voice carried neither menace nor challenge as he sidled forward. “I am called Ferahgo. We have no need to fight each other, Lord Urthstripe. Besides, if I did want to fight, you would lose sorely. I see you have only ten hares at your back.”

Urthstripe had gone silent. He stared hard at Ferahgo, as if trying hard to call up something from the depths of memory. Sunlight flashed upon the badger medallion around the weasel’s neck, causing it to glimmer like fire, and his blue eyes opened wide in a disarming smile. The badger Lord peered at Ferahgo through the slitted visor; voices were calling dimly down the corridors of his mind, too distant for him to make sense of. The harder he looked the more the blue-eyed weasel with the golden medal seemed to confuse him. Urthstripe shook his head and lifted the visor.

“Ferahgo, Ferahgo . . . where have I heard that name before?” He banged the spearshaft down, bringing himself back to normality. “Hear me, Ferahgo. There may be only a few warriors at my back, but there are many more inside my mountain.”

The Assassin stopped a few paces from the badger Lord and waved his claws once in the air. In a trice the rocks were bristling with armed vermin behind him. He turned right and left to wave his claws again. They flooded onto the sands of the shore and stood like a pestilence of evil weeds sprung there by magic: line upon line of ferrets, stoats, weasels, rats and foxes, each one armed to the fangs. Banners of blood red and standards decorated with skins, hanks of beast hair and skulls swayed in the light breeze.