The Rogue Crew

The vermin feast was less than adequate for hungry creatures. The fish were golloped down by Skor’s Rogue Crew, whilst hares and shrews shared the flatbreads. Uggo sampled a sip of the bubbling liquid from the cauldron. “Hmm, tastes like vegetable soup with some watershrimps thrown in.”

“Watershrimp, y’say!” Skor was swiftly at the cauldron. Rummaging in his belt pouch, he found a packet of reddish powder. This he tipped into the mixture. “Ahoy, Crew, anybeast for watershrimp’n’hotroot soup?”

The Rogue Crew descended on the cauldron eagerly. Shrimp’n’hotroot soup is a great favourite amongst otters, particularly sea otters from the High North Coast, who are partial to a fiendish blend of hotroot pepper.

“Wo hoa, buckoes, this is the stuff t’serve the Crew!”

“Hahaarr, I can feel it curlin’ me rudder!”

Trug Bawdsley tried a spoonful; the result sent him dashing to the stream for huge mouthfuls of water. With eyes streaming and burning lips, he exclaimed, “Great flippin’ flames, I thought somebeast had lit a bloomin’ fire in me mouth, wot!”

The Rogue Crew otters roared with laughter at his discomfort. Sergeant Miggory had an idea, which he whispered to Skor.

The sea otter Chieftain listened, then replied, “Let’s give it a try, though I think ’tis a shameful waste o’ good vittles. Right, bring the villain to me.”

Viglat the patch-eyed vermin leader was hauled forward by Gil and Dreel. Sergeant Miggory put the question to him. “Ye might recall me h’askin’ you before, could ye tell me the way to Redwall h’Abbey?”

Viglat answered sullenly, “Dunno no Redwall Abbeyz, never ’eard of it in me life.”

Young Dreel kicked his tail. “Don’t lie t’the sergeant!”

Skor smiled at the patch-eyed ferret in a kindly way. “Oh, leave the pore beast alone. Maybe he’s just forgotten the way to Redwall. Sergeant, d’ye think a nice drop o’ soup will cure him, jog his memory a bit, eh?”

Viglat was seized by two brawny otters. He watched Miggory filling a bowl with soup from the cauldron.

The ferret grinned impudently. “Zoop, eh? Viglat likes zoop!”

Sergeant Miggory blew steam from the bowl, holding it to the vermin’s mouth. “Well, h’I’m sure yore goin’ to love this. C’mon now, bucko, sup up hearty!”

The first sip was enough. Feeling the ferocious heat of the hotroot ingredient, Viglat spluttered, trying to spit it out. “Bulagggh! Itza burn me mouf off!”

Skor registered mock surprise. “Don’t talk rubbish. We brings our babes up on that—’tis good for ye. Give him some more, Sarge, lots more!”

Viglat began blubbering as he was fed another mouthful. “Wahaaah! No more, no more—wanna drinka water!”

Miggory continued pouring mercilessly. “Sup up. There’s more’n arf a cauldron t’go yet. You’ll get water when ye tell h’us about Redwall. Where is h’it?”

Slopping liquid down his ragged shirt, the ferret wailed, “I tell ya, I tell ya. Wahaaah! No more zoop . . . please!”

The sergeant kept pouring as he consulted Rake. “Wot d’ye think, sah?”

The captain looked up from cleaning his pawnails on the tip of one of his claymores. “Och, he looks a truthful wee sort. Let him speak his piece.”

The brawny sea otters held Viglat, keeping him from scrambling to the stream for water. He was making unmentionable noises, trying to cover his mouth, massage his throat and rub his stomach all at the same time.

Miggory filled the soup bowl, holding it forth threateningly. “H’if’n h’I was you h’I’d speak.”

In a hoarse strangled rasp, the ferret talked. “Foller dis stream ’til it bendz east, den look out fer da t’ree-topped oak, it’z due south o’ there!”

Drogbuk hiccuped loudly. “I could’ve told ye that!” With that, he fell flat on his back, drunk.

Young Wilbee giggled. “I say, sah, the old sot’s been at that nettle beer. He’s stinko!”

Grabbing Viglat by the scruff of his neck, Skor marched him into the stream, ducking his head. “Drink up, scumface, so ye can lead the way. Aye, an’ ye’ll be carryin’ Drogbuk on yore back. Ruggan, fix up a rope harness an’ tie that ole fool to the vermin’s back!”

Rake chuckled. “Ah’d let yon ferret come up for air afore ye drown him, Skor!”

They marched east along the streambank as evening shades fell gently over the land. The haremaid Ferrul picked a yellow iris and set it behind her ear as she waxed lyrical about a summer eve.

“Ain’t it pretty, the end of a summer day, wot? Have you noticed how a calm settles over the woodlands? The stream quietly murmurin’, birdsong in the distance, hardly a blinkin’ breeze to stir the weary oak leaves. . . .”

Viglat’s stomach bubbled aloud; he groaned pitifully. Drogbuk swayed on his back, hiccupping and belching.

Corporal Welkin Dabbs sniffed the iris, murmuring in Ferrul’s ear, “Ain’t it all jolly pretty, miss?”

She glared frostily at him. “Yah, go an’ boil your bloomin’ head. You’ve got no finer flamin’ feelin’s!”

As darkness fell over the woodlands, Log a Log Dandy caught up with Viglat. “Ahoy, mudguts, how far is this three-topped oak?”

The ferret muttered, “Gudd way yet, I t’ink.”