Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Mowlag silenced her with a wave of his paw. “His lips just moved. Does he want water?”

They both leaned close to the bandaged figure as Shekra soaked some moss in water. She held it close to his mouth. He did not drink but spoke quite clearly in a low snarl. “I . . . will . . . live!”

Braggio Ironhook strolled around the beached hulk of Greenshroud, assessing it closely. There was a creak from the high stern deck, then the rudder moved fractionally. Braggio called out, “Wot are ye playin’ at up there, picklebrain?” Owing to the number of times he had sustained head injuries whilst leading the corsair life, Crumdun was not the brightest of vermin. Popping his head between the after rails, he announced his discovery.

“She’s gonna need a new tiller, Bragg!”

Braggio feigned surprise. “Well, now, who’d have thought that?”

The fat stoat seemed pleased with himself as he continued. “On me oath, she is. An’ foremast, an’ new sails, an’ about fifteen oars, an’ a whole set o’ riggin’. There ain’t a strand o’ rope wot didn’t get burnt. Good job ye brought me wid ye, eh, Bragg?”

Braggio gestured with his hook.

“Ahoy, pudden’ead, shut yore fat gob an’ git down ’ere. I’ve got a job for ye.”

Crumdun wheezed his way down the charred hull. Brushing damp black ash from his greasy vest, he grinned crookedly. “Wot job’s dat, mate?”

Braggio leaned close, keeping his voice low. “Go an’ round up some slaves for me, but do it nice’n’quiet. Fetch those three ole shrew wives, the ones who are good at fixin’ up sailcloth. Aye, an’ them vole brothers that builds carts an’ such like. . . .”

Crumdun saluted and trundled off, but Braggio yanked him back by the tail. “Don’t go roamin’ off, mudface. I ain’t finished yet. Now, lissen. Y’know those ’ogslaves Razzid uses for ship repairin’?”

The fat stoat nodded eagerly. “That’ll be ole Kalstig an’’is kinbeasts. Shall I fetch them, too?”

Braggio nodded. “Aye, bring ’em all an’ make sure they’ve got their tools with ’em.”

Crumdun wrinkled his snout in a secretive smile. “Are ye figgerin’ on makin’ the ole Greenshroud shipshape agin? Are ye, Bragg?”

The hulking ferret touched the tip of his hook to the end of Crumdun’s nose, snarling savagely. “Just one word o’ this to anybeast on Irgash Isle, ye middenbrained lard bucket, an’ ye know wot I’ll do to ye?”

“Aye, ye’ll stick yore ’ook so far up me nose that it’ll come outta me left ear.” Crumdun grinned cheerily. Braggio released him.

“Right. Now, get goin’, addlebrain!”

Braggio Ironhook had always wanted a ship of his own. The idea of being a sea captain appealed immensely to him. Razzid Wearat would soon be making the voyage to Hellgates—he wouldn’t be needing this charred wreck, so why waste it if it could be made seaworthy again? Sitting down on the shore, Braggio began marking out in the sand a blueprint. This was the plan for a vessel he had long dreamed of. Many seasons of cunning and ingenuity had gone into the idea. Braggio knew it would work.

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!”