The Rogue Crew

It was toward the end of winter when the vessel was shipshape and ready for sea. Braggio had selected his crew, promising everybeast a share in the plunder and loot they would be bringing back. Down on the shore that night, festivities were in full swing. Bonfires blazed on the beach, coloured lanterns had been strung amidst the ship’s rigging, and there was a general air of celebration about. Slaves rolled casks of grog bearing names which denoted their ferocity. Shark’s Tooth, Scorpion Sting and Old Turtlebeak were but a few of the potent brews. Laid out upon the flat rocks was a spread to delight any corsair’s heart: lobster, crab, mussels, cockles, clams and a wide variety of fish which inhabited the warm southern seas. Searats and other corsair vermin reeled about in drunken hobjigs to the accompaniment of flutes, drums, fiddles and accordions played by a band of slaves, whom they had “volunteered” for the job.

Braggio Ironhook sat on the long, flat prow, beaming with pleasure as he raised his tankard and bellowed, “Drink ’earty, buckoes! Hahaarr, ’ere’s to the good ship Ironhook! Aye, an’ all ’er crew o’ rakin’s an’ scrapin’s o’ land an’ water. Hahaharrr! Beasts after me own ’eart, killers all!”

Crumdun dipped a large clamshell into a cask of Shark’s Tooth, his speech slurred with grog. “An’ I’ll shecond tha’, Catping. ’Appy shailin’ to ye!”

Drunken vermin raised their drinking vessels, roaring, “Iron’ook! Iron’ook! Waves o’ blood an’ plenny o’ plunder!”

It happened without warning. A heaving line with a sling rigged at its end swished down from the top of the foremast. The figure sitting in the sling swung out with a broad ship’s carpenter’s hatchet as it sped by, and Braggio Ironhook lost his head. It splashed down into an open grog cask on the shore. The slayer waited as the heaving line swung back, then neatly stepped onto the prow end, kicking the headless ferret aside. Musicians ground to a halt; the drunken revellers froze, still holding up their drinks. Suddenly all that could be heard was the waves washing the sand and the fires crackling.

Mowlag’s command cut the silence. “I give ye a toast. To the mighty Razzid Wearat an’ his ship Greenshroud!”

Vermin corsairs gaped in disbelief. It was Razzid, and he was alive. He had lost both ears, and his head was a mass of shining scar tissue, minus its fur. One of his eyes was slitted, half shut and leaking. But there was no mistaking the brutal face and the barbarous stance. It really was Razzid Wearat. Shekra attended him, passing her master a tankard of grog and his trident. He raised the tankard, his voice hoarse and rasping from a scarred throat. “Well, cullies, aren’t ye goin’ to take a drink with yore ole cap’n?”

Mowlag and his comrade, a weasel named Jiboree, who was one of Razzid’s secret spies, shouted lustily, “Three cheers fer Razzid Wearat, the cap’n wot can’t die!”

There was a moment’s pause, then the cheering and shouting broke out. More so when Razzid bellowed, “Greenshroud sails with the mornin’ tide. Who’s with me?”

As dawn broke over the southern wavecrests, Greenshroud took the breeze, sailing out in fine style with a new crew, a Wearat as captain and the head of Braggio Ironhook impaled on the foremast top. Razzid Wearat was well and truly back in command.

3

It was cold and windy on the shores of the great western sea, near the mighty mountain fortress of Salamandastron. Scudding clouds raced across a full moon, scattering silver light patterns over the vast, heaving waters. A swelling spring tide boomed and hissed, sending foam-crested rollers at the coast. Huge waves were flung forward, dashing and breaking on the tideline. Salamandastron towered over all, a long-extinct volcano, now the rocky stronghold of Badger Lords and Warrior hares of the Long Patrol.

Colour Sergeant Nubbs Miggory leaned on the roughhewn sill of a high window in the fortress. The old hare wiped moisture from his eyes, seared by the buffeting wind. From his lofty viewpoint, the sergeant commanded a fair view of the night panorama. Long seasons as garrison instructor in unarmed combat had sharpened Nubbs’s senses. Catching the slightest of sounds behind him, he identified the approaching creature and spoke quietly.

“That ole wind’s a touch nippy t’night, marm. Do I smell mulled nettle ale with a touch o’ spice ’ereabouts?”

His visitor, a strikingly regal-looking young badgermaid, placed the steaming tankard close to the sergeant’s paw. “My father used to say there was nought like mulled nettle ale to warm a beast on bleak nights. When I was young, I often stole a sip when he wasn’t looking.”

The sergeant’s craggy features softened. “I recalls h’it well, Milady. But yore pa knew you was suppin’ his h’ale, so ’e looked t’other way an’ let ye. Steal his h’ale. Hah, you was a real liddle scamp back then, but look at ye now. Lady Violet Wildstripe, ruler o’ Salamandastron an’ commander of all the Western Shores!”