The Rogue Crew

Accepting a beaker of cold pear cordial, the Abbot removed the rest of his disguise. “Thank you, Friar, the trifle mould was indeed yours, just as the sword belonged to Martin. As for the rest, this red cloak is my bedcover, the gauntlets are a pair of oven mitts which one of your kitchen helpers loaned to me. The idea must belong to Martin the Warrior. I stood in front of his tapestry long enough, wonderin’ what to do. Then I sat down on the floor—I must have dropped off for a while. Suddenly, I knew exactly what I must do, so I took his sword, disguised myself as him and came straight up here. Just in time, too, so we’ve got our Abbey Warrior to thank.”

Dorka Gurdy spoke, dampening the victorious mood slightly. “No matter what we do, I think those rascals are goin’ to attack sooner or later.”

Aboard the Greenshroud, Razzid had been putting his mind to the problem. He had not come this far to see himself turned away from his aim. Having reached a decision, he called the crew together.

“Well, buckoes, one thing’s for sure, they ain’t goin’ to attack us. Those woodlanders’ll sit tight behind their big stone walls. So, we’re safe enough here, eh?”

“So wot d’ye say, Cap’n, are we goin’ to take that place, or ’ang about ’ere ’til we grows old?”

The voice, which came from a group amidships, was that of Jiboree.

Giving no clue that he knew this, Razzid answered, “Dig the dirt outta yore lugs an’ I’ll tell ye. I wants a good gang of ye to go into that forest. Yore to chop down about six good-sized trees—pines or firs should do, good straight ones. When ye’ve done that, bring ’em back ’ere, an’ I’ll tell ye the rest o’ my plan.”

The crew stood in silence, as if unsure of the next move.

Razzid wiped moisture from his bad eye. “Mowlag, Jiboree, yore in charge o’ the tree-choppin’ gang. Pick twoscore crewbeasts an’ get to it. Vixen, I wants a word with ye. Come t’my cabin!”

As the searat and the corsair weasel chose their party, Razzid jabbed his trident toward the cabin. “You go first, fox.”

Filled with trepidation, Shekra entered the cabin. Razzid closed the door behind him. Leaning on his trident haft, he fixed the vixen with a piercing stare, stating flatly, “Ye know the penalty for mutiny agin yore cap’n, I suppose?”

With a sob in her voice, Shekra protested, “Sire, I have always been loyal to you, I swear!”

He knocked her flat with a swift kick, hissing viciously, “D’ye take me for an idiot? I know wot’s been goin’ on twixt you an’ those other two, Mowlag’n’Jiboree. Speak just one more lie an’ I’ll rip yore throat out with this trident. Tell the truth an’ I’ll let ye live. So?”

Shekra had no option but to confess, though with a little twist of her own. “Lord, they threatened to kill me if I didn’t go along with ’em. They were going to murder you as we sailed up the River Moss, but I talked them out of it. I said wait until we conquer Redwall first. I was playing for time, you see. I was going to warn you, believe me, sire.”

Razzid nodded. “I see, an’ were the crew with them, too?”

The vixen sensed a further opportunity. “They wouldn’t tell me, sire. Some were, some weren’t. But leave it to me. I’ll discover who was in on it with them.”

The Wearat leaned forward, his breath tickling her nostrils. “Leave that to me, an’ heed wot I say now. Nobeast, not Mowlag, Jiboree or any o’ the crew must know of this—not a single word, d’ye hear me?”

Shekra gulped. “My lips are sealed, Cap’n!”

Razzid’s searching eye never left her for a moment. “They’ll be sealed for good if’n ye play me false. Get up!”

The vixen staggered up on shaking limbs as Razzid pointed to the bulkhead wall. “Stand there an’ raise yore right paw. Go on, fox, do it. I ain’t goin’ to kill ye. Just raise that paw an’ swear to serve me truly.”

Gaining a little confidence, Shekra spoke up. “I give my oath I’ll always serve you truly, sire!”

Razzid struck like lightning.

Thud! The trident’s middle prong went right through the vixen’s paw into the wall behind. She gave an agonised screech, which was stifled by Razzid’s paw across her mouth. Smiling savagely at Shekra, he explained his cruel act. “Said I wouldn’t kill ye, didn’t I? That didn’t mean ye weren’t to be punished for plottin’ agin me.”

Shekra gave vent to a long-stifled moan as he twisted the trident, withdrawing it. Razzid shoved her contemptuously toward the door. “Yore still alive, ain’t ye? Stop whinin’ an’ git out o’ my cabin. Yore gettin’ blood everywhere!” With her face a drawn mask of pain, the Seer reeled out on deck, clasping her paw tightly to stanch the wound.

Razzid put his head out, calling to the cook, “Badtooth, bring me some decent food an’ a jug o’ the best grog. Move yoreself, I’m famished!”

Badtooth, the fat greasy weasel, watched as Razzid divided a roast wood pigeon into two portions and placed beakers of grog on the table. Razzid winked. “Join me, my ole shipmate—ye did well.”