The Rogue Crew

In his frantic efforts to extinguish the blaze which threatened to engulf Greenshroud, Razzid Wearat was badly burnt. Shekra had him wrapped in wet canvas; he was carried off screeching with pain and anger. The vixen stayed at his side, having a knowledge of healing. She stopped in the charred cabin to tend his wounds. Rain and snow helped to douse the flames. After a few running repairs, Mowlag took command, steering the vessel southwest, back to more temperate climes. Realising it was a case of stay afloat or sink, the searat mate drove the decimated crew hard, cursing, flogging, and threatening the wretched corsairs. Through endless days and wearisome nights, the damaged craft limped slowly into the far southern seas.

It took a full season until Greenshroud came at last to anchor in the bay at Irgash Isle. Vermin waited on the shore to greet their leader—for was not the fearsome Wearat always returning in triumph? However, this time it was different. Greenshroud, charred, battered and half crewed, was a chastening sight. The searats and vermin corsairs watched in silence as a party bearing a canvas-covered stretcher waded ashore through the sun-warmed shallows. Shekra had the litter well guarded by a score of heavily armed crewbeasts. There was little need for guessing. Everybeast knew who the hidden figure was by the lethal trident which had been placed on the stretcher. It was their chief, Razzid Wearat. The vixen hastened the group over the sand into the timber stockade, slamming and locking the gates as the onlookers surged forward.

There was plenty to speculate about, but everybeast held their silence. Razzid had his spies—there was always the fear of reprisal for loose talk. However, there had long been a contender for the captainship of Greenshroud, Braggio Ironhook. He was a big, brutal ferret, renowned as a killer, with a curved iron hook replacing his left forepaw. Braggio turned to view the damaged ship in the bay, then spoke, his voice loud and bold.

“Well, break out the grog, mates, we got us a broken craft an’ a dead cap’n if’n I’m to believe me eyes, eh!”

An old searat shrugged. “Mebbe Razzid ain’t dead. I saw the canvas move a bit. Wearats don’t die so easy.”

Braggio tripped the speaker as he turned to walk away. “Wot would yew know, ye can’t even stand up proper. I say Razzid’s dead—or leastways, if’n ’e ain’t, well, ’e soon will be. Am I right, Crumdun?”

The small, fat stoat who was his constant shadow chuckled. “Yore right there, Bragg. Y’ain’t afeared o’ nobeast!”

The big ferret swaggered amongst the other corsair vermin, letting them see his lethal iron hook. “Youse ’eard Crumdun. I ain’t afeared o’ nobeast! Of course, if’n there’s anybeast who ain’t afeared o’ me, all ’e has to do is challenge me by speakin’ up!”

Braggio Ironhook had an enviable reputation as a fierce fighter. The corsairs looked at the ground. There was not one who fancied his chance against the ferret.

Braggio spat scornfully on the sand, watching the crew and some slaves hauling the emaciated Greenshroud above the tideline. “Ahoy, Crumdun, let’s go an’ cast an eye over that wreck.”

Inside the stockade, Razzid lay in his private chamber, with Shekra attending him. The vixen had lit a fire in the centre of the floor. She tended the Wearat diligently, smoothing unguents and soothing ointments on his burns. Mowlag stood watching her in the dim light as she poured medicine into Razzid’s unresponsive mouth. It spilled out. The searat mate shook his head. Perhaps his guess had been right—maybe the Wearat didn’t have long to go. He looked very still. Shekra sprinkled powder upon the fire. It began giving off heavy green and yellow smoke. Now she emptied out her pouch onto the floor close to Razzid. Selecting some items from the contents—shells, stones, feathers and bones—she went into a high, croaking dirge.

Mowlag covered his mouth and nostrils, to save having to breathe the cloying fumes of the smoke. “Well, fox, wot’s the strength o’ things? Is Razzid gonna live?”

The Seer cast her materials at the Wearat’s footpaws, then hurried to and fro. She set the chamber door ajar, then opened a window shutter. In a short time, the chamber was completely clear of the greeny yellow smoke and fumes. Mowlag was not impressed. He repeated the question irately.

“Stow the mumbo jumbo, fox. Just tell me, will ’e live?”

Shekra studied how the omens had fallen. “Oh, yes, Razzid Wearat will live. The omens never lie. See this long shell? That is the Greenshroud. Three green feathers landed in it—they are the sails.” She picked out a stone from the shell, explaining. “This pebble, it represents him. See how it is pitted and marked, no longer perfect—damaged but still aboard the ship? Nothing is more certain, my friend. Razzid will survive to sail his vessel again!”

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