Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Gil and Dreel were sisters, slim and keen eyed. They had quite a story to tell, which they did bit by bit, one at a time. Rake and Skor listened in silence, questioning only when the report had been given in full.

However, it was Jum Gurdy who spoke first. “You say two liddle ’ogs escaped from the vermin ship?”

Dreel smiled. “Aye, sir, but they wouldn’t have made it without help from the Whoomers. They were funny, I can tell ye, haulin’ that ship around an’ throwin’ weapons back at the vermin.”

Jum seemed puzzled. “Wot’s a Whoomer?”

Skor explained, “They’re seals, bigbeasts, who don’t like vermin. I rule the coasts hereabouts, but ’tis the Whoomers who rule the seas, really. That’s why we don’t need ships.”

Jum continued, “The two liddle ’ogs—they’ll be Uggo an’ Posy, I’m sure of it. Did they get away safe?”

Gil nodded. “Oh, they’re safe enough, sir. They were found by the Freepaws tribe. Freepaws are goodbeasts. They’ll keep the young uns from harm.”

Skor Axehound looked to Dreel. “Did ye see my youngest son, Swiffo?”

The scout answered respectfully. “We saw him, Lord. He is a tracker and scout for the Freepaws, an’ still carries no weapons.”

The burly chieftain rested his chin on a big paw, sighing. “A son o’ mine, an’ he goes unarmed, along with that gatherin’ of travellin’ ragbags. I tell ye, Rake, it brings shame upon the name of Axehound.”

The dark hare captain tried to make light of it. “Och, away with ye. Your son’s young—he’s likely goin’ through a wee phase. Did ye never have sich a time in your spring seasons, Skor?”

The huge sea otter Chieftain nodded reflectively. “Aye, I recall likin’ flowers. Daisies, roses, bluebells an’ buttercups. I carved ’em all over my shield, on my sword scabbard an’ axe haft, sketched some on my arrow quiver, too. But nobeast seemed t’make fun o’ me. Strange that, wasn’t it?”

With much effort, Rake kept a serious face. “Aye, ’twas that, mah friend. So mayhaps ye might go easy on your young laddie for his odd habits, ye ken?”

Skor raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Yore prob’ly right. Swiffo will outgrow ’em, just like I did. Ahoy, Gil, where d’ye reckon this vermin ship is now?”

The ottermaid pointed south. “Someplace down yonder, Lord. She went landward for a while, then came back to sea, all muddied up an’ stinkin’ o’ marsh muck. She headed out to deep water, but then veered south. Maybe she’ll put in somewhere sheltered to careen the dirt off. Caked mud can slow a vessel down, y’know.”

Skor rose, hefting his massive battleaxe. “So, what think ye, Nightfur? We number three an’ a half score—that’s mine an’ Ruggan’s crew with yore Long Patrol warriors. Are ye game t’go up agin’ a shipload o’ vermin?”

Rake needed no second invitation. “Ye have mah paw, mah blades an’ mah heart on it, Skor. Taegether we’ll find’em. ’Tis guid tae be with a Rogue Crew again. Sergeant, form up the column tae march!”

Ruggan smiled coldly at Sergeant Miggory. “When we find ’em there’ll be blood on the wind, friend!”

The veteran hare returned the smile. “H’or as we says at Salamandastron, sah, we’ll let ’em taste blood’n’vinegar. Form up, column, we’re goin’ for a little walk, buckoes!”

Greenshroud had rounded a hilly point. She lay at anchor in a pleasant little bay. Razzid Wearat would not abide idle paws aboard his vessel, so whilst he awaited the return of his trackers, he set the crew to work. Good silver sand showed through the clear shallow water, ideal for hull scouring. Teams of corsairs and searats waded almost chest deep, rubbing the malodorous slime from the marsh off the woodwork. Mowlag and Jiboree patrolled for’ard and aft, each swinging a knotted rope’s end to chastise any slackers. Razzid had retired to his cabin in a foul humour. The entire craft seemed to be permeated with the smell of green mud.

Staying clear of her ill-tempered captain, Shekra went ashore on the pretext of looking for medicinal herbs. The vixen enjoyed the early summer day, paddling awhile in the shallows, then wandering farther along the beach. Tiring of the walk, she eased herself down behind a small sandhill, grateful for the chance of taking a short nap. She had just closed her eyes when scuffling sounds disturbed her. The noise came from somewhere behind where she was sitting.

Easing gently to the hilltop, she spied out the land. The intruder was a ragged-spined old hedgehog foraging for food. He was using a crude spearhead to probe the rocky base of the main hill, which isolated the cove to the north. Shekra watched him; he had a woven reed sack slung over one shoulder, which contained any edible finds. As he rummaged, the old hog muttered and giggled to himself.

“Heeheehee, limpets. Drogbuk likes limpets. Ye can boil up a good soup wid limpets. Come on, ye shellbound rascal. No good ye hangin’ on. I’ll git ye off’n there!”

He pried a big limpet from the rockface, throwing it into his sack. “Aye aye, wot’s this? A good ole nipclaw. Heehee, you’ll go nice in Drogbuk’s soup, matey. Cummere!”

The crab tried to dig in twixt sand and rock, but the hedgehog’s spear stabbed it right through its shell. Still writhing and nipping, it was tossed into the sack.

Shekra stole up on the unsuspecting hunter, commenting in a honeyed tone, “By the seasons, yore good at that. ’Tis a pleasure to watch a beast who knows wot he’s doin’.”

The old hedgehog appeared startled for a moment, then snapped, “Well, yew ain’t gittin’ none o’ my vittles. Go an’ git yore own, bushtail. Go on, be off wid yer!”

The vixen continued chatting in a friendly manner. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of askin’ to share your food. It must be hard enough, trying to scrape a livin’ on this part of the coast. I admire your efforts, Drogbuk.”

The ragged oldster squinted suspiciously at the fox. “Who told ye my name, needlenose?”

Shekra shrugged. “Just guessed it, I suppose. My name’s Shekra. I’m with that big green ship over yonder.”

Drogbuk carried on prising periwinkles from the base of the moss-clad rock. He sniffed scornfully. “I seen it afore—big clumsy lump o’ wood! Makes no diff’rence t’me. I’ll be movin’ on by nightfall.”

Shekra picked up a few fallen periwinkles, dropping them in Drogbuk’s sack. “Moving on? But I thought you lived here on the coast.”

The scraggy old hedgehog thrust out his chin aggressively. “I’m a Wiltud, an’ us Wiltuds goes where we pleases, see? Hither’n’yon, shore or shingle, field or forest!”

At the mention of the name Wiltud, the vixen’s memory jogged, remembering young Uggo. Choosing her words carefully, Shekra appeared still friendly and casual. “I’ve heard of Wiltuds, great travellers I believe. I’ll wager you’ve been to many places, Drogbuk?”

Throwing the sack higher on his shoulder, the ancient Wiltud hog smirked. “Many, many places. You name ’em, an’ I’ve been there. Nobeast knows these lands like me!”

Shekra smiled craftily. “I wager you’ve never been to Redwall.”

Drogbuk wagged his rusty spearpoint at the fox. “Heeheehee! Well, that’d be a bet ye’d lose. I been to that ole Abbey a few times in my seasons.”

Shekra nodded. “Is it a nice place?”

The old Wiltud gnawed a grimy pawnail. “No better’n’no worser than some places I’ve been, though I never tasted anythin’ so fine as Redwall vittles.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at Shekra. “Why d’ye want to know about Redwall, eh?”

Shekra’s mind was racing as she thought up a plausible answer. “Well, it’s like this, friend. There’s to be a great midsummer feast at Redwall, so the captain of that ship has decided to bring gifts for the Redwall beasts. We’ll probably be invited to attend the feast. That’s why I asked you about the place.”