The Rogue Crew

There was a confusion of vermin running about carrying long oars whilst others dropped from the half-furled sails.

Razzid Wearat stumped out on deck, brandishing his trident. “Wot’n the name o’ blood’n’Hellgates is goin’ on’ere?” He turned, his face almost colliding with Jiboree as the weasel continued bawling.

“Yaaaah, did ya see that? We’re bein’ attacked. Lookit that! ’E’s dead!”

Razzid blenched from the weasel’s foul breath as he pushed him aside. “Attacked? Attacked by whom?”

He grabbed Shekra, who was looking stunned. She stammered, “I dunno, but somebeast just killed the lookout, Cap’n.”

Roughly shoving the vixen from him, Razzid grabbed the unattended tiller, roaring out to both banks, “Come an’ show yoreself if’n ye wants a battle!”

Thunk! A slingstone whacked him on the side of his jaw. Clapping a paw to his face, he hastened back to his cabin, dribbling blood as he spat out a broken fang. “Jiboree, git yoreself back at the tiller! Mowlag, find who’s attackin’ us an’ rip ’em apart, d’ye hear me?”

Doing his best to look efficient, the searat tugged his ear in salute. “I’ll take a party ashore, Cap’n’.”

Whirling around in his cabin doorway, Razzid snarled, “Stay aboard, fool. Don’t leave my ship unguarded!”

A searat named Dirgo answered, “But wot’ll we do, Cap’n? Yaaaaargh!”

An arrow zipped out of the twilight, pinning Dirgo’s left footpaw to the deck. The crew began milling about willy-nilly.

Razzid bellowed furiously, “Stand fast, all of ye! Mowlag, post six crew with bows’n’arrers to port an’ starboard. Shoot at anythin’ that moves! The rest of ye, pick up those oars an’ get us outta here! Those are my orders—now jump to ’em!”

The archers stood ready speedily, shafts nocked to bowstrings, but they were handicapped by two things, the onset of darkness and the lack of anything to direct arrows at. As the rowers began punting Greenshroud upriver with their long oars, a hail of slingstones rattled at them from the surrounding woodlands. A searat screamed as he was struck in the eye, another was knocked cold by a random head shot.

Mowlag grabbed a bow and arrow from a weasel corsair. “Right, where are they? Just let ’em show their faces an’ I’ll put a stop to ’em! Come out an’ face me, if’n ye dare!”

A chunk of wet wood, a broken sycamore branch, came boomeranging out of the dusk, cracking him across the shoulders. Mowlag’s bow accidentally discharged its shaft; it pierced the ear of the weasal corsair he had taken it from.

Shekra yelled at the archers, “Shoot! Loose those arrows, don’t just stand there with yore bows bent!”

As the archers fired, each in a different direction, the vixen was suddenly taken with an idea.

Drogbuk Wiltud was still sitting tied to the base of the mainmast. Shekra untied him. Forming the rope into a noose, she tightened it about his neck. Throwing the other end over a jib, she hauled tight, shouting at the same time to the invisible assailants, “You out there, we’ve got one o’ yores, a woodlander! One more arrow, slingstone or stick from ye, an’ I’ll hang this ’edgepig. D’ye hear?”

Drogbuk was squealing and sobbing as he teetered on tippaws, held there by the noose. “Mercy! Don’t attack or they’ll ’ang me—guuuuurgh!”

No more missiles came out of the darkened greenery. There was a mere rustle of foliage, then silence fell.

Shekra held on to the rope, smirking at Mowlag. “Hah, that did the trick, eh?”

Badtooth, the greasy weasel cook, ventured out of his galley. “Aye, it worked well enough, fox. But keep heavin’ on yonder rope an’ ye’ll finish that ole ’og off. Then where’ll we be?”

Razzid took advantage of the cease-fire, coming out on deck. “Smart thinkin’, Shekra. Ye did well, but Badtooth’s right, ye’d best loosen the rope afore that drunken ole fool dies.”

Drogbuk wheezed a gurgling sigh as his footpaws fell flat upon the deck, then he seemed to collapse in a heap.

Shekra called the cook, “Badtooth, keep an eye on this un.”

The greasy weasel sat down with his back against the mast. “Huh, ’e ain’t goin’ noplace. Looks arf dead t’me!”

The words had scarce left his lips when Drogbuk sprang nimbly up, ducked out of the noose, and jumped overboard. He went under and never surfaced. The archers shot a volley of arrows into the river, with no results.

Rizzad snarled at them, “Don’t waste shafts. The drunken ole sot’s prob’ly pike food by now. Stow those weapons an’ get on the oars with yore mates. When we’re clear of the area, ye can rest. Shekra, Mowlag, stay alert. If’n ye spy anythin’ that looks like a ford, report t’me.”

Probing the broken tooth with a blunt claw, the Wearat sought his cabin.

Greenshroud moved on upriver. Spitting water and trying to shake river mud from his rattly old spikes, Drogbuk staggered upright, shielded by reeds. He shook a clenched paw as the ship vanished round a bend.

“Gurrrraaah, ye murderin’ blaggards! Ye lard-gutted, stinky-bottomed, scabby-tailed, wall-eyed, dirty-lugged, misbegotten sons o’ hags—”