The ship was to be named Ironhook. It would be invincible, fast and powerful, feared both on deep sea and dry land. He pictured it sailing out of Irgash harbour, with him pacing the foredeck, a master of vermin corsairs, Braggio Ironhook. This island would become his—the day would come when Razzid Wearat would be nought but a dim memory.
Contrary to Braggio’s prediction, Razzid Wearat was not dying. It took almost half a season of constant attention from the vixen Shekra before his condition began to improve. Then one morning he called Mowlag to his side. The searat mate knew his master was recovering when Razzid’s claws dug sharply into his shoulder. The Wearat hauled himself almost into a sitting position.
“Did ye think I was goin’ to Hellgates, Mowlag?”
The mate winced as the claws tightened their grip. “Not me, Cap’n. I knew ye’d live. I’m ’ere t’serve ye—just give the word an’ I’ll do as ye say!”
Razzid released Mowlag and lay back. “I know you were here night an’ day, my friend, but now I want ye to go out an’ be seen round the island agin. Put the word about that I’m slowly sinkin’ an’ won’t last out the season. Then report back here t’me every evenin’.”
Mowlag nodded. He could see Razzid’s right eye peering from a gap in the bandaged face. “Aye, Cap’n. Anythin’ special ye wants me t’look for?”
Razzid beckoned to Shekra, who helped him to sip some water. Licking blistered lips, he closed his eyes. “Tell me how that fool Ironhook is progressing with his work on my ship. Make him think you are on his side.”
Mowlag rose. “I’ll act as if’n Braggio was me own brother.”
When Mowlag had gone, Razzid whispered to Shekra, “When will I be fit enough to move about again?”
The vixen bowed respectfully. “Why ask me when you already know, Lord?”
A faint chuckle rose from the bandaged figure.
“I would have slain you for answering falsely.”
2
Brisk breezes caused the window shutters to rattle and clatter round old Redwall Abbey. It was a boisterous late spring. With no prior warning, the rain arrived. Workers left their outdoor chores, hurrying to seek warmth and comfort inside the ancient building. Leaning on the sill of his study window, Abbot Thibb watched Sister Fisk hurrying over the rainswept lawns toward the gatehouse. Fisk was the Infirmary Sister, a youngish mouse the same age as Thibb. Her habit flopped wetly about her as she held on to the hood with one paw whilst clutching her satchel in the other. Thibb was popular with the Redwallers, though some thought that the squirrel’s lack of seasons was not quite appropriate in an Abbot. This did not bother him. He was normally cheerful and fair in his dealings with everybeast. However, Abbot Thibb was not a squirrel to gladly suffer fools and wrongdoers. He saw Sister Fisk stumble and fall ungracefully.
Thibb struck the sill with a clenched paw, muttering angrily, “Right, Uggo Wiltud. Let’s find out what you’ve got to say for yourself, shall we?”
He ran from the chamber, slamming the door behind him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he descended rapidly to Great Hall, still muttering under his breath. “A full-sized hefty fruitcake, with marchpane topping as thick as an otter’s rudder, and the greedy hog ate all of it!”
A burly otter stepped aside as Thibb hurried by. “Arternoon, Father Abbot, where be ye off to in such ’aste?”
Thibb nodded to old Jum Gurdy, Redwall’s Cellardog. “Oh, hello, Jum. Thought I’d take a look in at the gatehouse.”
A Dibbun volemaid (Dibbun is the affectionate name for all Abbeybabes) tugged at Thibb’s cloak. Little Brinky chuckled with unconcealed glee at the thought of what the Abbot was about. “You goin’ ta tell Uggo off? Can I come wiv ya, Farver?”
He patted the Dibbun’s head. “No, no. Stop here, Brinky.”
The volemaid asked that question which all little ones ask. “Why?”
Thibb’s eyes twinkled momentarily, but he kept his voice stern.
“I don’t think some of the things I have to say to Master Wiltud would be fitting for a little maid’s ears!”
Thibb had to push hard on the door to open it against the blustering wind. The big oaken door closed with a boom which echoed round the vaulted hall.
Wide-eyed, Brinky turned to a molebabe called Murty. “Ho, my jingles, I wouldn’t like t’be Uggo when Farver T’ibb has a word wiv him!”
Murty shook his small velvety head, replying in the quaint mole accent. “Boo urr, nor wudd oi, Brinky. They’m sayen Uggo stoled a gurt fruitycake, burr aye, an’ ’ee etted it all boi’isself. ’Ee never give’d uz none, so ’ee’m dissurves a gudd tellen off, so ’ee doo!”At the main gates of Redwall’s high outer walls, Thibb wiped rainwater from his eyes, gave a brief knock on the small gatehouse door and entered. Sweeping off his wet cloak, he allowed Dorka Gurdy, the Cellardog’s sister, to hang it on a peg.
“Well, how is the young glutton, Dorka?”
The female otter Gatekeeper nodded at the large, overstuffed bed, which occupied almost a third of the little room.
“Ye’d best ask Fisk that, Father Abbot.”
Sister Fisk was sitting by the bed, her head enveloped in a towel, scrubbing herself dry. She peeked from beneath its folds. “Oh, ’tis you, Father. Young Wiltud’s still sleeping. I thought it best not to wake him just yet.” Thibb looked over to the figure. Uggo Wiltud was huddled in the shadows at the far side of the bed.
“I don’t know why you’re mollycoddling him, Sister. He’s brought all of this on his own head, the rascal!”
Dorka Gurdy explained. “Young Uggo’s in some kind o’ funny dream, Father. Wrigglin’ an’ jabberin’ away, like as if he’s afeared of summat. See, there he goes agin.”
The young hedgehog began throwing up his paws to protect his face or to blot out some fearsome sight. He started to wail aloud, pleading shrilly, “Oooow.w.w.w! No, no, go’way! Don’t take me, please. Yaaaaah!” Uggo pulled the pillows over his face, holding them tight.
Sister Fisk tut-tutted. “Young fool, he’ll smother himself.”
Reaching over, she snatched the pillows from her patient. Uggo Wiltud sat up with a jerk, his eyes popping open. He was trembling all over, staring straight ahead. Abbot Thibb’s stern tone caught his attention.
“So, Master Wiltud, what was all that caterwauling about, eh? Were you being chased by a monster hefty fruitcake?”
Uggo stared at Thibb, as if seeing him for the first time. “It was the ship, a big one, with a green sail!”
Dorka chuckled. “Yore stomach must still be queasy after all that cake you scoffed. Dreamin’ ye were at sea, I s’pose.”
Uggo’s voice trembled as he fought back tears. “I wasn’t at sea, marm. I were stannin’ on the path outside the Abbey. . . .”
There was a touch of irony in Sister Fisk’s tone. “And you saw a ship, a real sailing ship. Coming over the west flatlands, was it?”
The young hog shook his head. “No, Sister. ’Twas comin’ along the path, straight at me!”
Abbot Thibb sat down on the edge of the bed. “Was it a real sailing ship chasing you? What did you do?”
Uggo waved his paws in anguish. “I ran, Father, ran for me life, but the ship came after me. I looked back an’ I saw the ’orrible beastie leanin’ over the side o’ the ship, gnashin’’is teeth at me.” Uggo yanked the bedsheet up over his face, howling. “O w w w owo w w w ! It was dreadful, I was so scared, I was—”
The Abbot interrupted him sternly. “You were having a nightmare after gorging on enough hefty fruitcake to feed ten creatures, and this was your reward for the deed, you stupid young rip!”
Uggo took to snuffling and weeping piteously. “Waaahahaaah! I’m sorry, Father Abbot, I’ll never do it agin, I promises ye, never agin, waaahaaahaaaah!”
Sister Fisk took over then. “Stop this silly blubbering right away, d’you hear me? Now, drink this!”
She held Uggo’s snout, forcing him to open his mouth whilst she poured medicine from a beaker into him. “Come
on, now, drink it all down. ’Twill ease any tummy aching and help you to get some rest!”
The Abbot took a thick old blanket from the chest at the bottom of the bed. He passed one end to the Infirmary Keeper. “Come on, Sister. I’m sure Dorka can look after him now. I’ll have a proper talk with Uggo when he’s recovered. Let’s go to lunch. We can use this blanket as shelter—sounds like ’tis still raining out there.”
After the pair had departed, Dorka sat by the bed watching Uggo. His eyelids were starting to droop as the Sister’s potion took effect. The big old otter Gatekeeper spoke softly to him.
“There now, young un. I ’opes ye keep that promise ye made to Father Abbot. You go asleep now like a good liddle’og an’ don’t dream about monsters an’ ships no more. Hush now an’ sleep.”
It was warm and snug in the little gatehouse. Glowing embers from the log fire in the grate cast gentle rays of red light into the shadows. Dorka sat back in the old armchair, listening to the rain pattering on the window and Uggo’s drowsy mutterings as he dropped into a slumber.
“Ship . . . big ship . . . green one . . . green sail, too. . . . Aye, green sail, wid a black fork top, an’ two eyes marked on it. Won’t rob no more cakes. Be a good ’og now. . . .”
Dorka Gurdy stood up, alarm bells going off in her head at the symbol Uggo had described on that green sail. A black fork head with two eyes.
A moment later she dashed out into the rain, running for the Abbey building. Her brother Jum Gurdy, the Cellardog, knew what the sign meant. She fervently hoped it was not what she thought.
Razzid Wearat had endured the pain of his injuries, hidden away in his fortress; he suffered for several seasons. The burns to his body would have killed a lesser creature, but not a Wearat. Eventually he regained his old strength and vigour, convalescing whilst he laid cunning plans. Now up and about, he went to an upper loft in his stronghold. Through a hole in the timbered wall, he viewed the refurbishment of his ship. Initially he had looked upon the scheme with scorn, but as time went by, Razzid’s opinion changed radically. He came to realise that Braggio Ironhook was not just a loudmouthed bully. The big ferret was a clever and resourceful beast, highly inventive when it came to shipwork. Braggio had nearly all the corsairs behind him. Everybeast believed that the Wearat had died of his injuries some seasons back. That was the way Razzid wanted things—he had his spies to keep him informed.
The Wearat observed with growing wonder as Braggio supervised his slave labourers. Things he had never imagined were happening to his once-battered vessel. This irked Razzid. He began questioning himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Why had he never envisaged a ship armed in such manner? How had Braggio thought up all these great modifications?
Razzid knew the answer. Because Braggio was more intelligent than he! The Wearat could not tolerate such a notion, yet he knew it to be true. However, Razzid also knew that the most dangerous creature was a brainy one, a thinker, and one whom others would follow. Hence, the simplest way he could rid himself of the danger was to kill Braggio.
But not right away. When Greenshroud was fixed up and seaworthy, that would be the time he would make his move. Meanwhile, it suited his purpose that all the vermin of Irgash Isle believed their Wearat ruler was dead. So Razzid continued to watch and wait and let his spies report back to him.
It was toward the end of winter when the vessel was shipshape and ready for sea. Braggio had selected his crew, promising everybeast a share in the plunder and loot they would be bringing back. Down on the shore that night, festivities were in full swing. Bonfires blazed on the beach, coloured lanterns had been strung amidst the ship’s rigging, and there was a general air of celebration about. Slaves rolled casks of grog bearing names which denoted their ferocity. Shark’s Tooth, Scorpion Sting and Old Turtlebeak were but a few of the potent brews. Laid out upon the flat rocks was a spread to delight any corsair’s heart: lobster, crab, mussels, cockles, clams and a wide variety of fish which inhabited the warm southern seas. Searats and other corsair vermin reeled about in drunken hobjigs to the accompaniment of flutes, drums, fiddles and accordions played by a band of slaves, whom they had “volunteered” for the job.
Braggio Ironhook sat on the long, flat prow, beaming with pleasure as he raised his tankard and bellowed, “Drink ’earty, buckoes! Hahaarr, ’ere’s to the good ship Ironhook! Aye, an’ all ’er crew o’ rakin’s an’ scrapin’s o’ land an’ water. Hahaharrr! Beasts after me own ’eart, killers all!”
Crumdun dipped a large clamshell into a cask of Shark’s Tooth, his speech slurred with grog. “An’ I’ll shecond tha’, Catping. ’Appy shailin’ to ye!”
Drunken vermin raised their drinking vessels, roaring, “Iron’ook! Iron’ook! Waves o’ blood an’ plenny o’ plunder!”
It happened without warning. A heaving line with a sling rigged at its end swished down from the top of the foremast. The figure sitting in the sling swung out with a broad ship’s carpenter’s hatchet as it sped by, and Braggio Ironhook lost his head. It splashed down into an open grog cask on the shore. The slayer waited as the heaving line swung back, then neatly stepped onto the prow end, kicking the headless ferret aside. Musicians ground to a halt; the drunken revellers froze, still holding up their drinks. Suddenly all that could be heard was the waves washing the sand and the fires crackling.
Mowlag’s command cut the silence. “I give ye a toast. To the mighty Razzid Wearat an’ his ship Greenshroud!”
Vermin corsairs gaped in disbelief. It was Razzid, and he was alive. He had lost both ears, and his head was a mass of shining scar tissue, minus its fur. One of his eyes was slitted, half shut and leaking. But there was no mistaking the brutal face and the barbarous stance. It really was Razzid Wearat. Shekra attended him, passing her master a tankard of grog and his trident. He raised the tankard, his voice hoarse and rasping from a scarred throat. “Well, cullies, aren’t ye goin’ to take a drink with yore ole cap’n?”
Mowlag and his comrade, a weasel named Jiboree, who was one of Razzid’s secret spies, shouted lustily, “Three cheers fer Razzid Wearat, the cap’n wot can’t die!”
There was a moment’s pause, then the cheering and shouting broke out. More so when Razzid bellowed, “Greenshroud sails with the mornin’ tide. Who’s with me?”
As dawn broke over the southern wavecrests, Greenshroud took the breeze, sailing out in fine style with a new crew, a Wearat as captain and the head of Braggio Ironhook impaled on the foremast top. Razzid Wearat was well and truly back in command.
3
It was cold and windy on the shores of the great western sea, near the mighty mountain fortress of Salamandastron. Scudding clouds raced across a full moon, scattering silver light patterns over the vast, heaving waters. A swelling spring tide boomed and hissed, sending foam-crested rollers at the coast. Huge waves were flung forward, dashing and breaking on the tideline. Salamandastron towered over all, a long-extinct volcano, now the rocky stronghold of Badger Lords and Warrior hares of the Long Patrol.
Colour Sergeant Nubbs Miggory leaned on the roughhewn sill of a high window in the fortress. The old hare wiped moisture from his eyes, seared by the buffeting wind. From his lofty viewpoint, the sergeant commanded a fair view of the night panorama. Long seasons as garrison instructor in unarmed combat had sharpened Nubbs’s senses. Catching the slightest of sounds behind him, he identified the approaching creature and spoke quietly.
“That ole wind’s a touch nippy t’night, marm. Do I smell mulled nettle ale with a touch o’ spice ’ereabouts?”
His visitor, a strikingly regal-looking young badgermaid, placed the steaming tankard close to the sergeant’s paw. “My father used to say there was nought like mulled nettle ale to warm a beast on bleak nights. When I was young, I often stole a sip when he wasn’t looking.”
The sergeant’s craggy features softened. “I recalls h’it well, Milady. But yore pa knew you was suppin’ his h’ale, so ’e looked t’other way an’ let ye. Steal his h’ale. H
ah, you was a real liddle scamp back then, but look at ye now. Lady Violet Wildstripe, ruler o’ Salamandastron an’ commander of all the Western Shores!”
With her jagged cream muzzlestripe and clouded violet eyes, she looked every inch the noble Badger Lady. Violet smiled. “Happy times, those young seasons. But what of the present, Sergeant—anything to report?”
The tough old veteran paused, as if loath to speak. Then he pointed down to a patch of fireglow on the south shore. “Er . . . beggin’ y’pardon, marm, but those four young uns on Seawatch—they should be carryin’ out their duties from h’up ’ere, h’inside the fortress, h’instead o’ sittin’ round a fire down there, toastin’ chestnuts h’an singin’. Who gave’em permission t’do that, I asks meself?”
A note of concern crept into Violet’s voice. “It was me, Sergeant. Forgive me—did I do something wrong?”
The colour sergeant took a sip of his mulled ale. “Well, now, h’if ’twas yore order, Milady, then that’s that. Beggin’ yore pardon, there h’ain’t n’more t’be said.”
Violet had always held Miggory in the highest regard. Disconcerted, she placed a paw on his shoulder. “My thanks to you for pointing out my error, friend. There are so many rules and traditions for me to learn.”
The kindly sergeant patted the paw on his shoulder. “Ho, t’aint nothin’, really, Milady. You’ll soon learn. Them four rascals sittin’ down there took advantage of ye. They’re only second-season cadets. Salamandastron standin’ h’orders states they’ve got t’serve four seasons afore they’re qualified for nighttime Seawatch h’outdoors.”
The Rogue Crew Page 2
