The Rogue Crew

24

It was a hot, still afternoon. The Moss was at a point where it flowed sluggishly. Greenshroud crewbeasts poled lethargically against the slow current. The ship was hardly moving as searats and corsairs watched a variety of water insects skimming the surface in the more tranquil areas. Lacewings, dragonflies, alderflies and pondskaters moved gracefully about.

Redtail, a corsair stoat, pointed at a big green-and-blackbanded dragonfly hovering close to the prow.

“Ahoy, mates, lookit that un, ’e’s a big ole thing, ain’t ’e?”

Suddenly the water exploded as a huge green-gold fish powered itself out of the river, took the dragonfly in a lightning snap of its jaws and vanished swiftly back underwater.

Redtail was astounded. “Blood’n’tripes, wot was that thing?”

Dirgo, a lean searat, knew. “That’s a pikefish, mate. I’ve’eard ’em called the freshwater shark. Haharr! Ye wouldn’t like to go swimmin’ round ’ere now, would ye?”

Mowlag waved a rope’s end at the talkers. “This ship ain’t movin’ while yew lot are blatherin’ an’ watchin’ flies. So let’s see ye puttin’ a bit o’ paw power into things. Come on, now, don’t make me use this rope’s end on ye. Push! Pull!”

The crew obeyed. Greenshroud inched forward, then stopped. One or two beasts were pushing so hard that their oars bent and twanged back again.

Mowlag scowled. “Well, wot is it now, eh?”

Redtail shrugged. “I dunno—the ship ain’t movin, that’s all.”

Mowlag hailed Jiboree, who was steersbeast. “Is it that tiller agin? ’As it broke?”

The weasel tapped a paw upon the tiller arm. “Nowt wrong wid ’er tiller, mate. Why’ve we stopped?”

“Aye, why have we stopped?”

Razzid had come out of his cabin. Leaning on his trident, he glared from one face to the other, stopping at Mowlag. From the smouldering look in the Wearat’s eye, it was obvious that no excuse would be brooked. His voice was dangerously harsh. “Go an’ see why we’ve stopped!”

Mowlag hesitated, then went to the midship rail and peered over. “Er . . . er. . . can’t see nothin’ wot’s stoppin’’er, Cap’n. . . .”

The butt of Razzid’s trident hit Mowlag in the back, sending him into the river.

Razzid roared, “Now take a proper look! Why ain’t we movin’?”

Mowlag shot out of the water with panicked haste. He stood shivering, tugging his ear in furious salute. “Wheel, Cap’n. . . . Er, back wheel portside run afoul of underwater roots an’ rocks, Cap’n—it’s jammed, I think.”

Crewbeasts slumped against their paddles, one murmuring wearily, “Ships wid wheels ain’t no use at all.”

It was a searat named Dirgo who made the remark. He suddenly found himself the object of his captain’s attention.

Razzid looked him up and down, enquiring, “Do ye carry a blade?”

Dirgo touched the hilt of one which was stowed through his belt. “Just this un, Cap’n. ’Tis a dirk.”

Razzid cast a glance at a ferret corsair. “Lend me that cutlass yore carryin’.”

Wordlessly he accepted the heavy cutlass. His eye continued roving. “Anybeast got a good spear? Splitears, yores’ll do, give it to Dirgo.”

The searat took Splitears’s spear and also the cutlass, which Razzid passed to him. Dirgo shook his head, a sob entering his voice. “Aaah no, Cap’n, please—not me!”

Razzid levelled the trident prongs at his throat. “Git over the side an’ free that wheel.”

Dirgo wailed pitifully, “But, Cap’n, there’s a giant pikefish in there. I seen it meself!”

Razzid nodded, speaking reasonably. “But ye might free the wheel an’ stay clear o’ the pikefish. So wot’ll it be, take a chance with a fish, or get my trident through yer neck for a certainty? Mowlag, Jiboree, ’elp our mate Dirgo to git ’is paws wet in the river.”

The pair grabbed the hapless searat and flung him over the side. He had time for only one scream, then went under. The crew crowded the rails, watching Dirgo, who could be clearly seen underwater. Making his way to the fouled wheel, he hacked at the subterranean tree root, which had somehow become entangled with the part where axle connects with hub.

Dirgo strove at the task, cutting two deep slashes into the fibrous root before having to surface for a breath.

Redtail winked at him. “Yore doin’ alright, matey, keep goin’. Ain’t no sign o’ the pikefish. Think it might o’ gone downriver.”

Dirgo felt heartened. “I’ll soon git ’er free, Cap’n!”

Razzid actually smiled. “Cask o’ grog for ye if’n ye do.”

The searat dived back to his chore with a will.

Nobeast saw the pike arrive; it hit Dirgo like a thunderbolt. The vicious serrated rows of the predator’s teeth locked fast in the back of the searat’s neck. It shook him like a sodden rag. Dirgo was totally helpless in the huge fish’s ferocious jaws. The crew watched the macabre scene from the rails, shouting out in horror as the water crimsoned with their messmate’s blood.

Razzid however, seemed fascinated with the gory spectacle. He called to Shekra, “D’ye think that pikefish is the only one around?”

The vixen turned her face from the awful sight. “It must be. A pike that size would rule this stretch o’ river, Cap’n.”

Nobeast was expecting what came next. The Wearat cast off his cloak and leapt into the river, brandishing his trident, laughing wildly.

“Hahaaarrhahaharrr!”

He lunged at the pike, sending the three-pronged fork plunging into its flank. The fish released its prey, writhing madly, then went limp.

Mowlag and Jiboree were standing by to help their captain aboard. He emerged dripping, a hideous grin on his face. “Haharr, I just caught meself a monster pikefish!”

Shekra congratulated him. “Oh, well done, Lord. ’Twas a brave thing to do—no otherbeast would have dared it!”

Razzid was still laughing as he shook water from himself. “Aye, but t’do somethin’ like that, ye need good bait. Ole Dirgo came in useful, didn’t ’e?”

There was a shocked silence when the vermin crew realised that Razzid had deliberately sent Dirgo to his death.

Donning his cloak, the Wearat continued callously, “Nobeast but me could’ve done that. Mowlag, send some o’ these layabouts down t’get my trident back, aye, an’ tell’em to deliver my pikefish t’the cook. I never tasted pikefish afore. ’Ave Badtooth bring it t’my cabin when it’s roasted. Oh, an’ get that wheel freed so we can get underway agin!”

He retired to his cabin, from where everybeast could hear him laughing and imitating Dirgo. “Ships wid wheels ain’t no use at all—hahahaaarrr! Wheels or not, Dirgo, no ship’s any use to ye now, mate! Hahahaaarrr! Looks like I won the keg o’ grog!”

None of the crew shared the joke. They hung about on deck, casting sullen glances at the captain’s cabin.

Wigsul, a corsair weasel, gnawed at a dirty pawnail. “Nobeast deserves t’die like pore Dirgo did.”

Jiboree drew him to one side, whispering a caution. “Careful that Mowlag or Shekra don’t ’ear ye say that, mate.”

A nearby searat’s lips scarcely moved as he interrupted. “Wigsul’s right, though, ain’t ’e? Sendin’ a crewmate t’be slayed like that, just so Razzid could eat roast fish fer dinner—it ain’t right, I tell ye!”

Growls of agreement came from several others who had heard the searat.

Jiboree nodded, then turned back to his tiller. “Stow it.’Ere comes Mowlag.”

The mate joined Jiboree at the tiller, remarking, “Ole Cooky’s galley’s scarce big enough to roast that fish. The wheel’s free now. C’mon, buckoes, back t’yer paddles—there’s still a bit o’ daylight left.”

Jiboree leaned close to Mowlag, lowering his voice. “Some o’ the crew reckon ’twas a wrong thing the cap’n did to Dirgo—”

Mowlag enquired sharply, “Who were they? Wot’s their names?”

Jiboree spat expertly over the rail into the river. “Couldn’t tell, really. Just a general sort o’ mutter.”

Mowlag drew a dagger, pointing it directly at Jiboree. “Lissen t’me, bucko. We both serves Razzid Wearat, see? So if’n ye catch any o’ this crew mutterin’ agin ’im, then let me know sharpish, an’ they’ll be dealt wid as mutineers, an’ ye know wot that means?”

Frowning seriously, Jiboree patted Mowlag’s paw. “Don’t fret, matey. I’ll tell ye if’n any o’ this lot even looks like they’re thinkin’ o’ mutterin’. Leave it t’me, I’ll sort ’em out!”

Mowlag stalked off, glaring about at all and sundry.

Once he was out of earshot, Jiboree nodded to Wigsul. “See wot I mean? We’ll have t’watch that un!”

“Aye, if’n ye don’t, you’ll all end up as fishbait!”

Startled, they turned to see who had spoken. It was Shekra, who had been eavesdropping. The vixen winked knowingly at them. “Easy, mates. I won’t give ye away, I don’t like the cap’n any more than you do.”

Wigsul breathed a sigh of relief. “Does that mean yore wid us?”

Shekra shook her head. “Don’t include me in any o’ yore plans. I ain’t part o’ no mutiny, but I ain’t agin it, neither—leave me out of it. I got a few plans of my own.”

Jiboree was curious. “Like wot? Tell us, Shekra.”

But the Seer would not be drawn out, commenting casually, “Oh, you’ll see when the time comes. Now, mind yore own schemes an’ keep yore traps shut when Mowlag’s around.”

Slowly, ponderously, the big green-sailed vessel forged its way upriver in an atmosphere of high tension.

The monster pike was roasted to perfection. Badtooth, the fat weasel cook, had garnished the fish with fennel and wild parsley. Assisted by two crewbeasts, he bore it on a tray made from an old shield to the captain’s cabin.

Razzid sniffed it appreciatively. Pouring himself a goblet of his best grog, he cut off a sizeable portion of the fish, waving the remainder away. “Take it out an’ place it on the forepeak. There’s plenty there for everybeast!”

Razzid appeared in high good humour. Accompanying the bearers to the forepeak, he called out to the crew, “Eat’earty, buckoes. I’ll wager there’s a taste of ole Dirgo on this pikefish. Hahahaaarrrr!”

He swaggered off back to his cabin as the crew gathered around the pike. It smelled delicious until Badtooth told them, “Huh, there’s more’n a taste o’ Dirgo in there. I saw it meself when I ’ad t’roast the thing.”

Wigsul touched the pike with a footpaw. “Well, I ain’t eatin’ none. It wouldn’t be right!”

Several agreed in low voices.

“Nor me, I wouldn’t be able to swaller it!”

“Aye, Dirgo was a good shipmate—not that it matters to that Wearat. ’E don’t care for nobeast but hisself.”

So the roasted pike remained untouched. Late that day, Mowlag passed the thing. It was buzzing with flies.

Razzid had his footpaws up on the cabin table as he sipped grog and picked his teeth with a pikebone. He looked up as Shekra, Jiboree and Mowlag entered. As captain he had ordered them to attend him. He stared from one to the other.

“Well?”

He allowed the awkward silence to linger awhile before continuing. “Any news o’ this ford we’re supposed t’come across?”

Mowlag spread his paws wide. “Cap’n, I’m the same as yoreself. I’ve never been in these parts, so ’ow should I know?”

This was not an answer which pleased the Wearat. He jumped upright, then kicked aside the chair, snarling at Jiboree, “An’ I suppose you’ve got the same excuse, eh?”

Giving the weasel no chance to answer, he turned on Shekra. “Wot’ve you got t’say fer yoreself—the great mumbo-jumbo Seer yore supposed t’be. Well, wot do the omens tell ye?”

The vixen bowed respectfully. “Do ye wish me to consult my omens, Lord?”

Razzid wiped his leaky eye. “Well, if’n you an’ these two mudbrains can’t tell me wot I wants t’know, I suppose you’d better see wot the omens have t’say.”

Shekra’s fertile brain was racing as she replied, “I can do it, sire, but ’tis only twixt thee an’ me. The omens are not for all beasts to hear.”

Razzid waved a dismissive paw at Mowlag and Jiboree. “Begone, the pair of ye!”

As they went, he added menacingly, “Go sit in the bows. I don’t want yore ears pressed agin’ this cabin door. Unnerstand?”

They nodded mutely and left.

Razzid would not sit. He paced the cabin impatiently. “Out with it, Seer, an’ speak true if’n ye wish to live. When do we reach the ford?”

The vixen replied, using all her guile. “There is no need of casting spells to say what I know, O Great One. The ford lies ahead, how far I cannot say. Listen now, there is a far more urgent message I must deliver to ye!”

Shekra’s dramatic tone caused Razzid to pause. His good eye bored into the Seer. “Speak, then!”

The vixen returned his stare, dropping her voice. “There is talk. The crew no longer want you as their captain. They say you deliberately sent Dirgo to his death and now you joke about it. They say any captain who treats his crew thus does not deserve their loyalty, sire.”

There was a brief silence, then Razzid exploded. “Loyalty? I don’t need loyalty from a bunch o’ rakin’s an’ scrapin’s. I’m the Wearat! I rule because they fear me. Who is it that speaks out agin’ me, eh?”

Shekra shrugged. “All of them, Lord, except me an’ two others.”

Razzid sneered. “I ain’t worried about you or two other fools. Every snake has a head until it is slain. Now, who is the leader?”

The vixen spoke confidentially. “It came to me in a dream, sire. Here is what I saw. Wigsul, the corsair weasel, was in this cabin with you. Then all went blurred an’ I heard these words.

“A weasel of the Greenshroud’s crew,

will try to take his captain’s life—

be watchful, Lord, and know this beast

is skilful with the knife.”

“When my vision cleared, you were lyin’ on the cabin floor with a knife in your back, sire. The weasel was shouting to the crew that he was now the captain.”

Shekra held her breath, trying not to flinch under Razzid’s stare. He spoke calmly.

“An’ who are the two, beside yoreself, who are loyal to me? Have no fear. Ye can speak their names.”

The vixen almost smiled with relief. “Mowlag an’ Jiboree, sire.”

Razzid resumed pacing the cabin, rubbing at his weeping eye and nodding. “Good, good. Now, I want ye to bring Wigsul to me, but make sure he suspects nothing. Can ye do that?”

Now Shekra smiled. “Leave it to me, Lord.”

Mowlag, Jiboree and Wigsul were lounging on the prow, watching flies congregating on the remains of the roast pike.

Shekra joined them. “Do any of ye fancy a nice bit o’ roasted pikefish?”

Jiboree ignored the vixen’s remark. “Wot did ye tell the cap’n, fox?”

Shekra chuckled. “The Wearat’s a law unto himself. Ye can’t tell him anythin’ he don’t want to hear.”

Wigsul swept the flyblown piece of fish overboard.

Mowlag persisted. “So wot went on in that cabin, eh?”

The vixen was hiding something alongside her paw. She stood behind Wigsul, addressing Mowlag and Jiboree. “The cap’n never mentioned you two.” She patted Wigsul’s back at about waist height. “Said he wanted a word with you, mate.”

The weasel corsair looked bemused. “Cap’n wants t’see me?”

Shekra nodded. “Aye, you, matey. He’s in a good mood, so it can’t be anythin’ serious. Off ye go now.”

Razzid was sitting at his table with both paws concealed beneath its edge. Wigsul knocked on the cabin door and entered. Standing in front of the table, he tugged his right ear in salute.

“Ye wanted t’see me, Cap’n?”

Razzid looked up as if he had just noticed the weasel. “Are ye loyal to me, Wigsul?”

The corsair nodded, trying to keep his wits about him. “Aye, Cap’n, loyal as the day’s long.”

Razzid nodded. “Good! An’ ye wouldn’t come to my cabin t’do me any harm, would ye?”

Wigsul shook his head rapidly, wondering what he had walked into. “No, Cap’n, on me oath, I wouldn’t!”

Razzid made a twirling gesture with one paw. “Turn round, right round so yore facin’ me agin.”

The weasel obeyed, though he was shaking nervously.

When he had completed the turn, Razzid spoke as though he was sharing a joke with the crewbeast. “Now, I want ye to take that thing out of yore belt careful like, with one paw. Do it slowly, use yore left paw, easy now. . . .”

Wigsul’s face went rigid as he drew the dagger from his belt. He stammered, “H-h-how did that get there? It ain’t mine, Cap’n, I swear it ain’t!”

Razzid replied softly, “Now, there’s a strange thing. Do me a favour, mate, put that blade on the table, right here in front o’ me.”

The corsair leaned over the table, placing the dagger close to his captain, still protesting his innocence. “I never seen this blade afore. Ye’ve got to believe me, Cap—”

Still bent forward over the table, he froze. Razzid had thrust the trident hard through the flimsy timber top, his eye meeting Wigsul’s stricken gaze as he snarled, “Yore relieved o’ duty aboard Greenshroud. Get to Hellgates!”

Pulling the trident loose, he pushed the slain weasel from him, calling aloud, “Don’t go slopin’ off—git in here, all three of ye. Come on, jump to it!”

Mowlag, Jiboree and Shekra shuffled in. He winked his good eye at them. “I knew ye’d be spyin’ out there. Well, wot d’ye think o’ this mutinous scum, eh?”

Shekra bowed. “He won’t go round plottin’ against ye anymore, Lord, that’s for sure!”

The Wearat’s piercing gaze swept over them. “Are ye loyal to me?”

Three heads bobbed in unison. “Aye, Cap’n!”

He watched in silence until they showed signs of squirming. “Then look at this un an’ remember wot happens to those who ain’t. Get that thing out o’ my cabin.”

None of the trio spoke as they dropped Wigsul’s carcass over the side. Then Mowlag glared at Shekra.

“Wot was all that about, fox?”

The vixen murmured, “Keep your voice down, mate. Razzid could feel somethin’ was brewin’, so I gave him Wigsul. Now ain’t the time for a mutiny. When Razzid conquers the red Abbey, then we’ll deal with him. Between us we can outsmart him, when the time comes.”

Mowlag grabbed Shekra’s paw. “Yore talkin’ mutiny an’ murder. Wot makes ye think I wants any part in it, eh?”

The Seer withdrew her paw coolly from his grasp. “Because I’ve been watchin’ ye. I could tell, believe me. Wigsul had a big mouth—he’d have done for us all sooner or later. Razzid thinks he’s quelled any mutiny now, an’ that’s the way we’ll keep it, until the time’s ripe.”

Jiboree agreed. “She’s right, mate. Once the cap’n is outta the way, we’ll be in charge o’ everythin’, that Abbey, an’ all wot goes wid it!”

Mowlag looked from one to the other, then nodded. “I’m with ye!”

Shekra lowered her eyes to the deck, whispering, “Look out, he’s watchin’ us!”

Razzid had been standing in his cabin doorway. He began walking toward them, but a cry from the mast top brought him up short.

“The ford, Cap’n! ’Tis dead ahead as she goes. The ford!”