The Rogue Crew

by Brian Jacques

Shekra shook her head. “Don’t include me in any o’ yore plans. I ain’t part o’ no mutiny, but I ain’t agin it, neither—leave me out of it. I got a few plans of my own.”

  Jiboree was curious. “Like wot? Tell us, Shekra.”

  But the Seer would not be drawn out, commenting casually, “Oh, you’ll see when the time comes. Now, mind yore own schemes an’ keep yore traps shut when Mowlag’s around.”

  Slowly, ponderously, the big green-sailed vessel forged its way upriver in an atmosphere of high tension.

  The monster pike was roasted to perfection. Badtooth, the fat weasel cook, had garnished the fish with fennel and wild parsley. Assisted by two crewbeasts, he bore it on a tray made from an old shield to the captain’s cabin.

  Razzid sniffed it appreciatively. Pouring himself a goblet of his best grog, he cut off a sizeable portion of the fish, waving the remainder away. “Take it out an’ place it on the forepeak. There’s plenty there for everybeast!”

  Razzid appeared in high good humour. Accompanying the bearers to the forepeak, he called out to the crew, “Eat’earty, buckoes. I’ll wager there’s a taste of ole Dirgo on this pikefish. Hahahaaarrrr!”

  He swaggered off back to his cabin as the crew gathered around the pike. It smelled delicious until Badtooth told them, “Huh, there’s more’n a taste o’ Dirgo in there. I saw it meself when I ’ad t’roast the thing.”

  Wigsul touched the pike with a footpaw. “Well, I ain’t eatin’ none. It wouldn’t be right!”

  Several agreed in low voices.

  “Nor me, I wouldn’t be able to swaller it!”

  “Aye, Dirgo was a good shipmate—not that it matters to that Wearat. ’E don’t care for nobeast but hisself.”

  So the roasted pike remained untouched. Late that day, Mowlag passed the thing. It was buzzing with flies.

  Razzid had his footpaws up on the cabin table as he sipped grog and picked his teeth with a pikebone. He looked up as Shekra, Jiboree and Mowlag entered. As captain he had ordered them to attend him. He stared from one to the other.

  “Well?”

  He allowed the awkward silence to linger awhile before continuing. “Any news o’ this ford we’re supposed t’come across?”

  Mowlag spread his paws wide. “Cap’n, I’m the same as yoreself. I’ve never been in these parts, so ’ow should I know?”

  This was not an answer which pleased the Wearat. He jumped upright, then kicked aside the chair, snarling at Jiboree, “An’ I suppose you’ve got the same excuse, eh?”

  Giving the weasel no chance to answer, he turned on Shekra. “Wot’ve you got t’say fer yoreself—the great mumbo-jumbo Seer yore supposed t’be. Well, wot do the omens tell ye?”

  The vixen bowed respectfully. “Do ye wish me to consult my omens, Lord?”

  Razzid wiped his leaky eye. “Well, if’n you an’ these two mudbrains can’t tell me wot I wants t’know, I suppose you’d better see wot the omens have t’say.”

  Shekra’s fertile brain was racing as she replied, “I can do it, sire, but ’tis only twixt thee an’ me. The omens are not for all beasts to hear.”

  Razzid waved a dismissive paw at Mowlag and Jiboree. “Begone, the pair of ye!”

  As they went, he added menacingly, “Go sit in the bows. I don’t want yore ears pressed agin’ this cabin door. Unnerstand?”

  They nodded mutely and left.

  Razzid would not sit. He paced the cabin impatiently. “Out with it, Seer, an’ speak true if’n ye wish to live. When do we reach the ford?”

  The vixen replied, using all her guile. “There is no need of casting spells to say what I know, O Great One. The ford lies ahead, how far I cannot say. Listen now, there is a far more urgent message I must deliver to ye!”

  Shekra’s dramatic tone caused Razzid to pause. His good eye bored into the Seer. “Speak, then!”

  The vixen returned his stare, dropping her voice. “There is talk. The crew no longer want you as their captain. They say you deliberately sent Dirgo to his death and now you joke about it. They say any captain who treats his crew thus does not deserve their loyalty, sire.”

  There was a brief silence, then Razzid exploded. “Loyalty? I don’t need loyalty from a bunch o’ rakin’s an’ scrapin’s. I’m the Wearat! I rule because they fear me. Who is it that speaks out agin’ me, eh?”

  Shekra shrugged. “All of them, Lord, except me an’ two others.”

  Razzid sneered. “I ain’t worried about you or two other fools. Every snake has a head until it is slain. Now, who is the leader?”

  The vixen spoke confidentially. “It came to me in a dream, sire. Here is what I saw. Wigsul, the corsair weasel, was in this cabin with you. Then all went blurred an’ I heard these words.

  “A weasel of the Greenshroud’s crew,

  will try to take his captain’s life—

  be watchful, Lord, and know this beast

  is skilful with the knife.”

  “When my vision cleared, you were lyin’ on the cabin floor with a knife in your back, sire. The weasel was shouting to the crew that he was now the captain.”

  Shekra held her breath, trying not to flinch under Razzid’s stare. He spoke calmly.

  “An’ who are the two, beside yoreself, who are loyal to me? Have no fear. Ye can speak their names.”

  The vixen almost smiled with relief. “Mowlag an’ Jiboree, sire.”

  Razzid resumed pacing the cabin, rubbing at his weeping eye and nodding. “Good, good. Now, I want ye to bring Wigsul to me, but make sure he suspects nothing. Can ye do that?”

  Now Shekra smiled. “Leave it to me, Lord.”

  Mowlag, Jiboree and Wigsul were lounging on the prow, watching flies congregating on the remains of the roast pike.

  Shekra joined them. “Do any of ye fancy a nice bit o’ roasted pikefish?”

  Jiboree ignored the vixen’s remark. “Wot did ye tell the cap’n, fox?”

  Shekra chuckled. “The Wearat’s a law unto himself. Ye can’t tell him anythin’ he don’t want to hear.”

  Wigsul swept the flyblown piece of fish overboard.

  Mowlag persisted. “So wot went on in that cabin, eh?”

  The vixen was hiding something alongside her paw. She stood behind Wigsul, addressing Mowlag and Jiboree. “The cap’n never mentioned you two.” She patted Wigsul’s back at about waist height. “Said he wanted a word with you, mate.”

  The weasel corsair looked bemused. “Cap’n wants t’see me?”

  Shekra nodded. “Aye, you, matey. He’s in a good mood, so it can’t be anythin’ serious. Off ye go now.”

  Razzid was sitting at his table with both paws concealed beneath its edge. Wigsul knocked on the cabin door and entered. Standing in front of the table, he tugged his right ear in salute.

  “Ye wanted t’see me, Cap’n?”

  Razzid looked up as if he had just noticed the weasel. “Are ye loyal to me, Wigsul?”

  The corsair nodded, trying to keep his wits about him. “Aye, Cap’n, loyal as the day’s long.”

  Razzid nodded. “Good! An’ ye wouldn’t come to my cabin t’do me any harm, would ye?”

  Wigsul shook his head rapidly, wondering what he had walked into. “No, Cap’n, on me oath, I wouldn’t!”

  Razzid made a twirling gesture with one paw. “Turn round, right round so yore facin’ me agin.”

  The weasel obeyed, though he was shaking nervously.

  When he had completed the turn, Razzid spoke as though he was sharing a joke with the crewbeast. “Now, I want ye to take that thing out of yore belt careful like, with one paw. Do it slowly, use yore left paw, easy now. . . .”

  Wigsul’s face went rigid as he drew the dagger from his belt. He stammered, “H-h-how did that get there? It ain’t mine, Cap’n, I swear it ain’t!”

  Razzid replied softly, “Now, there’s a strange thing. Do me a favour, mate, put that blade on the table, right here in front o’ me.”

  The corsair leaned over the table, placing the dagge
r close to his captain, still protesting his innocence. “I never seen this blade afore. Ye’ve got to believe me, Cap—”

  Still bent forward over the table, he froze. Razzid had thrust the trident hard through the flimsy timber top, his eye meeting Wigsul’s stricken gaze as he snarled, “Yore relieved o’ duty aboard Greenshroud. Get to Hellgates!”

  Pulling the trident loose, he pushed the slain weasel from him, calling aloud, “Don’t go slopin’ off—git in here, all three of ye. Come on, jump to it!”

  Mowlag, Jiboree and Shekra shuffled in. He winked his good eye at them. “I knew ye’d be spyin’ out there. Well, wot d’ye think o’ this mutinous scum, eh?”

  Shekra bowed. “He won’t go round plottin’ against ye anymore, Lord, that’s for sure!”

  The Wearat’s piercing gaze swept over them. “Are ye loyal to me?”

  Three heads bobbed in unison. “Aye, Cap’n!”

  He watched in silence until they showed signs of squirming. “Then look at this un an’ remember wot happens to those who ain’t. Get that thing out o’ my cabin.”

  None of the trio spoke as they dropped Wigsul’s carcass over the side. Then Mowlag glared at Shekra.

  “Wot was all that about, fox?”

  The vixen murmured, “Keep your voice down, mate. Razzid could feel somethin’ was brewin’, so I gave him Wigsul. Now ain’t the time for a mutiny. When Razzid conquers the red Abbey, then we’ll deal with him. Between us we can outsmart him, when the time comes.”

  Mowlag grabbed Shekra’s paw. “Yore talkin’ mutiny an’ murder. Wot makes ye think I wants any part in it, eh?”

  The Seer withdrew her paw coolly from his grasp. “Because I’ve been watchin’ ye. I could tell, believe me. Wigsul had a big mouth—he’d have done for us all sooner or later. Razzid thinks he’s quelled any mutiny now, an’ that’s the way we’ll keep it, until the time’s ripe.”

  Jiboree agreed. “She’s right, mate. Once the cap’n is outta the way, we’ll be in charge o’ everythin’, that Abbey, an’ all wot goes wid it!”

  Mowlag looked from one to the other, then nodded. “I’m with ye!”

  Shekra lowered her eyes to the deck, whispering, “Look out, he’s watchin’ us!”

  Razzid had been standing in his cabin doorway. He began walking toward them, but a cry from the mast top brought him up short.

  “The ford, Cap’n! ’Tis dead ahead as she goes. The ford!”

  25

  Uggo gripped Posy’s paw tightly, even though they were travelling in the centre of the group. Old Drogbuk Wiltud was supposedly taking them on a shortcut to Redwall, so they could arrive ahead of Greenshroud and Razzid Wearat’s crew. They were in a forbidding and eerie part of Mossflower, one seldom used by other travellers. The trees were enormous, their upper foliage coming together—cedar, oak, elm, sycamore, ash, beech and other varieties—blocking out the sunlight. It was a world of green gloom haunted by dark shadows. Nothing except trees and odd fern beds seemed to grow there in the all-prevailing silence. The woodland floor was deeply coated with leaf loam and dead pine needles.

  Uggo chuckled nervously. “Ain’t much fun strollin’ through this place, is it?”

  His voice echoed hollowly around the monolithic trunks. Posy squeezed his paw. “Hush, now, be quiet. Sound carries round here.”

  The Guosim shrew Banktail whispered furtively, “D’ye think somebeast might be lissenin’?”

  Log a Log Dandy, who was bringing up the rear, pawed at his rapier hilt, putting on a show of bravado. “I don’t care who they are. They can lissen long as they like, providin’ they don’t try anythin’ on me. All they’ll git off’n this Guosim is a taste o’ cold steel!”

  Walking in the lead with Drogbuk, Swiffo had to slow his pace to match the ancient hog. He was not best pleased when the oldster sat down on a fallen spruce trunk.

  The young sea otter held forth his paw.

  “C’mon, Granpa, up ye come. Let’s get goin’—I don’t like this place. Sooner we’re outta here the better, eh?”

  Drogbuk shook the paw off his shoulder, stating moodily, “I don’t like this place either, but a beast o’ my seasons ’as to rest. I ain’t as spry as you whippersnappers.”

  Swiffo called a halt. “Take a short rest, mates.”

  Drogbuk felt inclined to argue, so he did. “A short rest is it, eh? Lissen, wavedog, I’ll rest fer as long as I likes, see? I’m the one wot knows the way, so ye can’t go anywhere widout me to guide ye!”

  Log a Log Dandy tried humouring him. “Yore right there, ole feller. You cool yore paws awhile.”

  Drogbuk stuck out his snout stubbornly. “Aye, an’ whilst I’m coolin’ me paws, wot about some vittles an’ a drop t’drink, or do I ’ave t’starve t’death?”

  Swiffo shrugged. “Wouldn’t mind a bite o’ grub meself, mate. Trouble is, we ain’t got none, an’ there ain’t any to be got around this place, unless anybeast wants t’go foragin’.”

  The Guosim scout Dobble dusted loam from his tail. “I’ll take a look around. There’s got t’be somethin’ a body could eat.”

  Frabb, a tough-faced Guosim, volunteered himself. “I’ll go with ye, Dobble. If’n I don’t git me paws on some vittles soon, I’ll start eatin’ me own tail!”

  As they strode off together, Log a Log Dandy called, “Keep yore eyes skinned for trouble, mates, an’ give our Guosim cry if’n there’s anythin’ amiss.”

  After the pair had vanished into the green gloom, the others sat resting. It was an uneasy time. A pall of silence lay upon the whole party. Uggo and Posy moved closer to each other, staring uneasily around, stiffening at a sound in the background.

  The shrew Banktail looked rather unhappy at the situation. “See? I told ye we was bein’ watched. Now they’re trackin’ us.”

  Dandy nudged him hard. “Why don’t ye talk a bit louder, so that whoever it is can find us easier? Huh, wot makes ye think we’re bein’ tracked, eh?”

  As if fearing to turn, Uggo gestured backward. “That noise just then. It sounded like somethin’ slitherin’ through the dry leaves, a snake maybe.”

  At the mention of the word snake, a fearful moan arose from the shrews, who were mortally afraid of serpents.

  Even the Log a Log looked apprehensive; he prodded Drogbuk. “Did ye say there was snakes round here, old un?”

  The ancient hog nodded. “Aye, an’ I ain’t in the habit o’ tellin’ lies. That could be the sound of a snake!”

  Swiffo gathered some dried moss. With knifeblade and flint, he began conjuring up a smouldering little heap. “Ahoy, Guosim, don’t sit there like crabs at a cookup, git gatherin’ dry wood. Fire’ll keep anybeast at bay, even snakes. C’mon, mates, show willin’!”

  Nervously the Guosim set about their chore, encouraged by Dandy, who was putting on a brave face. Uggo and Posy joined in. Soon there was a sizeable stack of dead twigs and branches piled up for kindling.

  Swiffo uttered a timely caution. “Don’t build the fire too big. We don’t want t’be faced by a forest fire.”

  Suddenly, Posy, who had been gathering dead ferns, hurried toward the fire. She was ashen-faced, clutching her right paw with the left.

  Dandy nodded to her. “Hurt yore paw, missy? Fall, did ye?”

  The pretty young hogmaid was trying to stop her teeth chattering as she stammered an answer. “Th-th-think I’ve b-b-been bitten!”

  Uggo hurried to her side. “Bitten by what, a snake?”

  Posy sat down, rocking back and forth, still clutching her paw tightly. “Th-th-think it was a s-s-s-snake!”

  Uggo felt his voice go shrill with panic. “Posy’s been bitten by a snake! Wot’ll we do?”

  “Tell’er t’sit still, I’ll take a look.” Drogbuk trundled over, forcing Posy to relinquish her hold on the injured paw. He pushed his face close, inspected the mark, then sucked it and spat. Staring at the bright drop of blood that stood out, he cackled. “Heehee, it must’ve been a one-toothed serpent, missy. There’s on
ly one puncture, snakes make two. Where did ye get it? Point out the spot t’me.”

  Uggo nodded toward a fern bed. “We were t’gether, over yon.”

  Taking a stick from the firewood pile, Drogbuk hobbled over to the ferns. He waved the stick amongst the plants as he grumbled, “Young uns t’day wouldn’t know a snakebite from a bloomin’ butterfly kiss. See, here’s yer snake!”

  He held up a dead blackberry stem covered with prickly spines. “Ye can stop shakin’, missy. Ye’ll live—ouch! Gone an’ stuck meself now!”

  He flung the broken stem from him, almost hitting Dobble, who came marching in followed by Frabb.

  “Aye aye there, Granpa, watch where yore flingin’ things!”

  Between them, the two Guosim were carrying the results of their foraging, bundled up in an old cloak.

  Frabb emptied the contents on the ground. “Loads o’ mushrooms round ’ere, some dannelion roots, last autumn’s acorns, some ole chestnuts an’ this thing.”

  Drogbuk picked up a big, brownish, wrinkled footballshaped growth and sniffed it.

  “Found this stuck t’the side of a tree, didn’t ye? Cauliflower fungus, they calls it—makes fine eatin’ sliced up an’ roasted o’er the fire—”

  With no prior warning, a missile flew out of nowhere, striking the big fungus out of Drogbuk’s paws. This was followed by a harsh commanding voice.

  “Thieves who steal my food die!”

  A very tall fox stepped out from behind a pine. He was slim but strong looking. He wore a cloak of black and green with a high collar. His pale green eyes swept over the travellers.

  “I am Ketral Vane, Lord of the Hinterwoods. Leave that food here. Go now whilst ye still draw breath!”

  Log a Log Dandy stepped in front of Swiffo, who was about to draw steel. The feisty Guosim Chieftain growled, “Whilst we still draw breath, eh? Fancy talk for a skinny vermin. I’m Log a Log Dandy Clogs, Chieftain o’ Guosim shrews, an’ I’m warnin’ ye, brushtail, interfere with us whilst we’re eatin’ an’ I’ll give ye a rapier blade to chew on!”

  As he spoke, Dandy drew the Guosim blade, which he was now using, and advanced on the fox.

  Ketral Vane stood immobile as six other foxes stepped out of the tree cover. Each had a crossbow strung, drawn and levelled at Dandy. Ketral’s cloak opened, revealing that he was similarly armed, though he had already fired the bolt at the fungus which Drogbuk had been holding.