High Rhulain

“Rather! That’s the first time I’ve ever seen old granite-gob Granden backin’ down to any blinkin’ beast, wot!”

Still chuckling, Mandoral beckoned to her. “Make sure you treat Captain Granden right. He was only carrying out my orders.”

Tiria kept a straight face as she replied graciously. “Milord, we queens treat everybeast fairly, both our subjects and our allies!”

Both Tiria and Mandoral suddenly broke out laughing.

The following afternoon, a light breeze ruffled the sun-tipped waves in the bay as the Purloined Petunia rode, fully laden, at anchor. Regimental Major-cum-Captain Cuthbert Bloodpaw Frunk stood high on the stern. With a ladle in each paw, he hovered over the upturned barrel which would serve as his stroke drum. The vessel’s oar ports had been opened, twelve each to port and starboard. Twenty-four hares sat waiting, each gripping a long oar. Quartle and Portan sat either side of the tiller, ready to steer outward bound. Pandion Piketalon perched at the masthead; below him, two hares straddled the crosspiece. Up forward, the two burly sergeants stood by the anchor cable. Tiria was alone, out on the prow, facing west to the open sea.

Cuthbert was in his element as he began roaring orders to all and sundry in his roughest maritime tones. “Ahoy, let’s go to sea, me buckoes! Haul anchor, ye slab-sided scallawags! Make sail aloft, ye blunderin’ bluebottles! We’re bound for death or glory, whichever comes first!”

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! As he belaboured his drum, he bellowed out orders to the rowing crew. “Bend yore backs, ye skinny sideswabs! Avast there, ye paddle-pawed poltroons! Pull! Pull! Pullllll!”

The big hare felt happier than he had for many long seasons. “Steersbeasts! Hold her westward, ye dither-pawed dodderers! Sweep oars! Pull, ye gripe-gutted galoots! Heave ho, me blunderin’ buckoes! I’ll make seabeasts of ye, or I’ll wallop yore whiskers, keelhaul yore scuts an’ nail yore noses t’the mainmast! Pull! Puuuuullllll!”

The ship, caught by the breeze and swept on by two dozen long sweep oars, shot forward like a flying fish.

Pandion raised his beak to the sun-kissed skies. “Karraheeee! Take me to my home! Karreeehaarr!”

The two subalterns gripped the tiller tight between them, amazed at the speed the ship was gaining by the moment.

“I say, Quarters, in a bit of a blinkin’ hurry aren’t we, wot!”

“Rather, Porters. D’you think Ole Blood’n’guts is tryin’ to gain a march, so’s we can stop for tea?”

Cuthbert leaned over them both, squinting villainously. “Either of yew chubby-cheeked charmers lets go of that tiller an’ I’ll make subaltern skilly’n’duff out o’ ye both. How’d ye like that for tea, eh?”

Lord Mandoral stood at the window of his high chamber. He saw reflecting sunlight flashing from Tiria’s armour as she stood on the bowsprit, waving good-bye to him. The Badger Lord merely nodded his big striped head in acknowledgement. He watched the vessel receding over the water, its long sweep oars making it look like a damselfly skimming over a vast millpond.

Mandoral’s lips barely moved as he softly chanted an old warrior’s farewell to the tall young ottermaid he had come to respect and admire.

“May fair winds attend thee always,

may thy days be bright and long,

may good weapons ever serve thee,

may thy limbs wax fleet and strong.

I will dream of thee by moonlight,

I will watch for thee by day,

until on thy returning,

I will come to thee and say,

‘Drink ye the wine of victory,

now lay aside thy sword,

for home and hearth and friendship

are the warrior’s reward!’ ”

27

Leatho Shellhound struggled wildly to avoid the spear as Kaltag stabbed viciously down at him. Bound as he was by both paws to the cage bars, he did not have much room for manoeuvre. The outlaw ducked his head forward, wrenching his body to one side as the wooden cage rocked madly against the high tower wall. He felt a stinging pain close to his left paw as the spearhead glanced off it.

Kaltag’s eyes glittered in the darkness as she drew back the weapon and thrust it down, screeching out vengeance for her dead son. “Eeeyaaaah! Go to Hellgates, murderer! Die! Die!”

Twice more the spear grazed Leatho as he wriggled about within the confines of his narrow prison. Defiant to the end, he roared insults at his tormentor. “Is that the best ye can do, Mangetail? Ye need a few lessons with the spear. Cut me loose, Scruffcoat, an’ I’ll show ye how it’s done!”

Kaltag yowled with rage. Gripping the spearpole with both paws, she centred on the back of the otter’s neck, readying herself for the killing strike.

Leatho knew his fate was sealed. Bound and helpless, he could not last much longer. He tensed himself, listening to the cat’s rasping breath above him. Suddenly a hubbub broke out from the upper chamber. The spear slithered down through the bars and stuck, quivering, point first, in the pier far below.

Kaltag began wailing insanely. “Let me go, take your stupid paws off me! Shellhound must pay for my son’s death!”