The Mousehunter

by Alex Milway

  Then he disappeared from view. Pirates shifted on deck, pushing bodies around as they searched for any rich pickings. With tears in his eyes, Drewshank watched them move like scavengers among his fallen crew.

  “How has this happened?” he murmured. “Devlin Drewshank, the great Devlin Drewshank. Captured by a pirate . . . ”

  He sat wondering, sifting things through his mind. This was the famous Mousebeard he’d come after. Not even all the powerful navies in the world had so far been able to catch him, and yet his foolish arrogance and the temptation of riches had fooled him into believing he was good enough — what had he been thinking?

  His arm was tugged by a pirate, and he rose to his feet to have his arms bound.

  “Lovelock . . . ,” he cursed. Lovelock was a shrewd man, he thought. He would have known Mousebeard was out of a privateer’s reach, even if it was someone as famous and dashing as himself. What had he achieved other than simply holding up the pirate’s passage?

  Drewshank instinctively looked out toward Mousebeard’s island hideout and beyond. Something strange was spreading out along the horizon behind the island. A faint, broken line stretched across the sea, approaching stealthily. He resisted a pirate’s pull on his arms to look longer. And then it hit him.

  Drewshank laughed; quietly at first, just a few chuckles — and then a full belly laugh. His remaining crew couldn’t understand what had gotten into him.

  “Mousebeard!” shouted Drewshank.

  The pirate appeared once more on deck.

  “What is it?” he hammered back.

  Drewshank tried to direct the pirate’s attention with a nod of his head.

  “It would appear that we’ve both been fooled, and you’ve fallen into a very big trap,” replied Drewshank.

  Mousebeard looked out over the water. It soon became clear that the line consisted of sailing ships — their white, full sails now visible above the gray, choppy sea. The pirate hurriedly pulled out a short black telescope from his pocket and, looking through, saw an armada of at least forty warships of all shapes and sizes approaching with speed. Mousebeard quickly turned to look at Winter Vale past the Flying Fox, and saw even more ships emerge. There was only one navy that could muster such a force, and that was the Old Town Guard, led by Lord Battersby. The final piece of the trap had fallen into place.

  “May the Spirit Mice rain fire on you, Lovelock,” growled Mousebeard.

  “The Flying Fox was just the lure,” said Drewshank bitterly. “Mere bait for your Silver Shark.”

  “Get the prisoners onboard and scuttle their ship,” shouted Mousebeard, angrily. “We have little time. Crank up the mist generator and get us out of here.”

  The Powder Mouse

  ORIGINALLY KNOWN AS THE RUNNER MOUSE OF CRESTFALL ISLAND, THIS mouse has for years been specially trained by the navy to carry gunpowder between cannons aboard warships. It is a particularly steady runner, capable of sprinting without wavering or tripping. The Powder Mouse has played key roles in many of the great sea battles, and Captain John Blouseworthy of the battleship Intrepid claimed that without them he would have lost the battle of Cape Crank during the Third War of Midena.

  Because most of its life is spent in close proximity to cannons, the Powder Mouse is unfortunately susceptible to deafness at an early age. It is a sad affair, but at the age of two, all Powder Mice are retired and sent to Mouser Retirement Homes for ex-service mice, where they are cared for into their old age.

  MOUSING NOTES

  It can be kept very happily in a collection, as long as it has plenty of space to run around in. The Powder Mouse can also be employed in the home, where it’s very useful for passing salt and pepper between guests at dinner parties.

  Mousebeard

  ATHIN MIST WAS LILTING UPWARD ROUND THE SIDES OF the Silver Shark, and Mousebeard ground his teeth frustratedly. His main mast had fallen and the Old Town Navy was closing in. His eyes flickered with bitter thoughts, mulling over his predicament, while he clenched his hairy, muscular hands behind his back.

  “Miserley?” he barked, his eyebrows dipping while he scratched his black beard, deftly avoiding the small mice that lived within its mess.

  “Come on, where are you?” he shouted once more, his temper fraying.

  Eventually a girl with long dark-brown hair appeared, her eyes sparkling mischievously. On her shoulder sat a peculiar mouse with brown fur and dark rings under its eyes. It had two earrings in one of its tufted ears, and its black eyes twinkled.

  “About time too,” said the pirate, staring at his wayward mousekeeper. “Send a mouse to Ogruk; we’ll be needing his services.”

  Miserley remained relaxed.

  “I already have done so,” she said, clutching the daggers that hung from her belt.

  “Of course you have,” grumbled Mousebeard, who was getting tired of her cleverness. “You’d better go and make yourself useful somewhere else, then.”

  Miserley rolled her eyes, let out a very loud huff, and marched off, leaving the pirate alone on the bridge. Through the gathering mist the burning Flying Fox was creaking and lurching in its death throes. Mousebeard watched as his pirates grabbed their last haul of booty, returned to the Silver Shark, and raised the gangplanks. Small explosions went off within the condemned vessel, blasting its hull to smithereens and sending it straight to the ocean floor.

  “What are you waiting for!” he shouted. His men rushed to their posts and climbed the rigging. “Head to the island! We’ll seek safety in its shadow.”

  “Sir?” queried a pirate from high up on the mast. “But there’s no way out from there without Ogruk . . . .”

  “Do as I say!” snapped Mousebeard. “The navy is still far enough away, and the Shark can take a hit or two. What are you all? Men or mice?”

  With a flurry of activity, the remaining sails opened and they set off through the thickening mist.

  “All these boats just for us?” said Mousebeard. “Isiah must be up to something . . . I’m not usually this important to him.”

  “Aye, captain,” said Scragneck, appearing from below deck and taking his place at Mousebeard’s side. “They set us up good ’n’ proper. But we won’t go down easily.”

  Scragneck was Mousebeard’s first mate and a nasty customer. He had a shaved, scarred head, and lacked most of his front teeth; they had been lost to the ravages of fighting and the rotting quality of sugary Rodent Rum. He had no respect for life and not one good bone in his body, but Mousebeard saw his presence as a necessity for maintaining order onboard.

  “We won’t go down at all, if I know Isiah,” said Mousebeard. “He won’t want me dead now. He’ll want to hang us all from the highest gallows for everyone in Old Town to see. And he definitely won’t leave without his precious mice.”

  “They were a rum catch for sure,” added Scragneck, “for they’re the prettiest things I ever seen. But if it comes to it, nuthin’ would please me more than to take the drop beside you, cap’n.”

  “Kind words indeed — especially from such a wretched mouth as yours. But even the will of Isiah Lovelock won’t get me in the gibbet, you can be sure of that.”

  “That’s pirate talk all right,” said Scragneck, cackling to himself. His sinewy body was sickly compared to the bulk of Mousebeard, but the first mate’s scheming and treacherous disposition made him the equal on many other counts.

  “We’ll need more than talk against those ironclads. Let’s give them something to think about, eh? Order our gunners to send a few flaming presents to our friends out there before the mist consumes us all.”

  “I’d be overjoyed to, captain,” replied Scragneck.

  Imprisoned in the hold at the lowest reaches of the Silver Shark, the remaining crew of the Flying Fox were chained together in a space barely big enough for them all. Boxed into the narrowing bow of the ship, with a locked iron grille rising from floor to ceiling in front of them, there was no opportunity for escape. It was dark and dank so far down below the wate
r level, and with each breath the prisoners could taste the age-old smell of sweat and grime. The only light came from two small oil lamps glowing at the base of the stairs to the higher deck, their flames perfectly still.

  There were only ten sailors left, including Emiline and Scratcher, and the mood was anything but happy. As the sound of cannonfire rumbled around them, they thought of their lost crewmates.

  “It’s my fault,” said Drewshank. “But I’ll get us out of here, I promise you.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” announced Fenwick; “we all knew what we were getting ourselves into. Besides, that was the whole of the Old Town Navy and then some. There’s more goin’ on here than we know . . . .”

  “It’s all to do with Lovelock, I know it is,” grumbled Drewshank.

  “To warrant those huge warships — sea-borne firebrands, mortar vessels, and ironclad destroyers. It must be somethin’ special, and I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it!”

  “As much as I hate to say it, we’re going to be,” replied the captain, “unless Mousebeard has something extraordinary up his sleeve. Whatever it was that he stole from the Lady Caroline, it was certainly important.”

  “But, cap’n,” said Fenwick, “if they attack the Silver Shark, she won’t stand a chance. And we’ll be as much use as caged Messenger Mice down here.”

  Fenwick looked up abruptly — he could hear footsteps, and suddenly a guard stormed down the stairs.

  “Shut up your chatter!” he shouted, marching to the bars and shoving a long pike into the gaps. The prisoners sat quietly.

  “Any more gassing and I’ll poke your eyes out!” he growled, turning his back and leaving once more. He stopped at the base of the stairs, took one last look at the prisoners, and ran upward.

  “There must be a way out,” whispered Scratcher as the guard vanished out of sight. “Maybe there’s some way we can let the navy know we’re onboard? They might go easy on us?”

  Drewshank shook his head. “I doubt they’d be much interested in us,” he said. “I fear we’re of no importance to anyone anymore, and the Flying Fox is sinking as we speak.”

  Emiline was picking at the tight cuffs clamped to her wrists.

  “I can’t get these things off!” she said angrily.

  “If they’re built like the rest of the ship, there’s not much that’ll damage them,” said Drewshank. “Don’t waste your energy.”

  “But they’re digging in,” she moaned. Emiline wasn’t one to go on about things, but she was worried. She hadn’t seen Portly since they were sailing through Winter Vale, and she was desperate to know what had happened to him.

  “Just take it easy,” pleaded Scratcher.

  At those words the guard came crashing down the stairs again.

  “I told you!” he shouted. “Shut up!”

  He thrust his pike right at Emiline. The speared end was only inches from her nose when a smile broke across her face.

  Portly had always been a mouse of great character — a good deal above what his breeding as a lowly Grey Mouse should have allowed — and he always showed excellent initiative. Emiline was only slightly surprised, therefore, when his little head poked out from behind the guard’s foot.

  “Sorry,” she said weakly, repressing a giggle.

  “You’re on thin ground, girl!” snapped the pirate, withdrawing his weapon slowly. He surveyed all the prisoners.

  “This is your last warning!” he said, hitting the end of his pike on the floor for effect.

  Emiline couldn’t help but smile again.

  The guard gave a disgruntled sigh and made his leave again. Portly darted from behind his foot, scampered over to the wall, and squeaked. By now all the prisoners had seen Emiline’s mouse and felt a sudden relief. This was made even greater by seeing a column of assorted mice racing down the stairs to join Portly. They were pet mice from the Flying Fox, as well as a few Messenger Mice and an occasional Powder Mouse that had survived the battle.

  One by one they scampered through the prison bars, and Portly scurried up to Emiline to squeak hello before gesturing to another mouse. A very odd-looking creature then ran to her: it had a thick mane of red fur around its neck, and from its mouth protruded an array of tiny, razor-sharp teeth.

  The little mouse jumped at Emiline’s wrists and started to chew at the metal clasps. Burning hot filings flashed out of its mouth like a welder’s torch, and within no time the bindings were broken and clunked to the floor. To Emiline, the mouse looked like a Steel Jaw from the far-off Isle of Launay, but she’d have to check it in The Mousehunter’s Almanac to be sure. It was an odd mouse to have kept as a pet, though, she thought.

  The sprightly mouse proceeded to bite through the other prisoners’ bonds, grinding down each one in turn. No one had expected such a turn of events, and then, quietly skipping up to their prison, came another.

  “Chervil!” cheered Fenwick, watching the cat brush his long curly fur languidly against the bars. Seated on his back was a Creeper Mouse, who jumped off and shuffled through to Drewshank with a great big steel key in its mouth. Creeper Mice were well known for their exceptional stealth abilities, and were often employed by the army for secret spylike activities. It had obviously stolen it from one of the guards with the help of the ship’s cat.

  “Meeoow!” said Chervil happily.

  “Well I never!” declared Drewshank, and he took the key carefully from the mouse’s tiny mouth. He stared out through the bars to see that the coast was clear.

  “Anyone for a jailbreak?” he said, putting the key in the lock at the side of the barred grille. With a loud clank it unlocked. Despite Drewshank’s best efforts to move it quietly, the grille swung noisily upward, with rusty chains rising and falling at its edges. He cursed.

  “Why don’t they oil these things?” he moaned. “Hide yourselves!”

  The prisoners ducked into the shadows. Drewshank jumped out, walked to the stairwell at the center of the deck, and raised his fists. With loud crashing footsteps, the guard came quickly down the stairs, his pike protruding out in front of him.

  “What are you — ”

  Before the guard could finish his words, Drewshank pulled at the end of his pike and pushed him heavily to the floor. The man landed on his back and cried out for help, but Fenwick grabbed him and knocked him out. He dragged his body out of sight, but there was another voice now heading their way.

  Drewshank took the pike and stood ready. Eventually, a girl of Emiline’s age appeared. It was Miserley, her jacket pinned tight around her by her mousehunting belt. She looked around feverishly, turning back and forth, sending her hair drifting out and over her face.

  Drewshank dropped the pike and grabbed her arms, pulling them tightly behind her back. She wriggled fiercely, kicking her heels into his shins with all her might.

  “Get off me!” she shouted, twisting sharply and hitting Drewshank firmly in the stomach. The captain folded in two, stunned by the strength of the girl, and before he could react, Miserley had broken free of his grip and kicked him to the ground. She flicked her hair to the side and snatched the daggers from her belt.

  “Any more fun and games?” she asked, looking for signs of the other prisoners.

  Her mouse appeared from under her hair and looked around. Acting as another pair of eyes for Miserley, it darted its beady eyes about.

  Seeing Drewshank begin to move, she grabbed his head by the hair and thrust the dagger up to the front of his throat. Drewshank choked, as he felt the cold steel blade against his skin.

  “I’ll kill him!” she shouted, dragging Drewshank a short distance so that her back was against the stairwell. “One little slice and your precious captain will die, so show yourselves and get back behind those bars!”

  Emiline turned to Scratcher from behind a wooden crate.

  “D-do as she says,” spluttered Drewshank. His crew reluctantly stepped out of hiding, and slowly crept into the center of the deck.

  “Back behind the
bars!” she yelled.

  The crew put their hands in the air and idled back into the prison.

  “Throw me the key!” she demanded, staring at the prisoners. Drewshank placed his hand into his pocket and let the key fall to the floor.

  “Now stand up!” she ordered. The captain lifted himself slowly, and the dagger dropped from his throat to reappear at his back.

  Miserley walked him to the prison area and shoved him in while pulling down the chains that lowered the iron grille.

  “You almost got me there, Drewshank,” she said triumphantly, “but you just don’t have what it takes.”

  She looked at the grouped prisoners, and counted them with a nod for each. Once she’d reached the end, she shook her head and mumbled something to herself.

  She counted again, and suddenly a look of horror crossed her face.

  “Where’s the boy and girl?” she demanded, her eyes shooting around the room. Scratcher and Emiline were nowhere to be seen.

  “Where are the mousekeepers?” she shouted once more. The prisoners remained silent.

  Miserley glanced around the prison deck hopelessly. It was true; Emiline and Scratcher had escaped from right under her nose.

  “Guards!” called Miserley. Two pirates rushed to the hold.

  “Don’t let the prisoners escape,” she said angrily, “or I’ll see to it that you’re hung out on the yard arm!”

  Emiline clung to a wooden wall in the middle of the Silver Shark’s gun deck, letting each breath slip out as quietly as possible. She was hidden in darkness between thick iron joists, occasional shafts of light flickering across her face with the bobbing movement of the ship. Excitable pirates were everywhere, charging this way and that with cannonballs held firmly in their hands. A line of armored Powder Mice were racing along with them.

  Pyramids of cannonballs were built up alongside the guns, which numbered at least fifteen on each side of the ship. Through the wide hatches that opened for the cannons, Emiline could see nothing due to the mist.

  It had shocked Emiline to find that there was a girl like herself onboard. She’d spotted the mousebox around her belt, sitting alongside other mousehunting implements, and realized she too was a mousekeeper. The mousekeeper of a pirate: for some reason, Emiline felt slightly jealous.