The Rogue Crew by Brian Jacques
Rake Nightfur called out to all the hares present. “Attenshun, High Chieftain present!”
Members of the Long Patrol, who had been watching the spectacle, came swiftly to attention, including Sergeant Miggory, who took a sudden punch on the chin from Ruggan.
The veteran hare smiled crookedly, waggling his jaw from side to side. “Good shot, young sah, but ye should’ve hit my bread basket to double me h’over first, like this.”
Miggory’s right whacked into the otter’s midriff. Ruggan doubled up, going down on all fours as he fought for breath.
The sergeant lifted him upright, massaging his back. “You alright, sah? H’I tried not to ’it ye too ’ard.”
Skor Axehound was all that a sea otter Chieftain should be. Garbed in a chain-mail vest, with a cloak of vermin hide down to his footpaws, he had a long shield tied by a thong to his shoulder. In one paw he carried a huge double-headed battleaxe, which any normal beast would have trouble lifting. Above his grey-streaked beard, which bushed out over a barrel-like chest, Skor’s eyeteeth stuck out like fangs. He had two of the brightest barbaric green eyes.
Captain Rake Nightfur felt himself enveloped in the massive sea otter’s embrace. Skor laughed boomingly. “Ho ho! Still the same old longears, eh? Slim as a rake an’ dark as thunder. How are ye, my friend? Ye look as if ye haven’t aged a day since we last met long ago!”
Rake returned the hug, extricating himself neatly. He held the huge beast off by grasping his paws.
“Och, Skor Axehound, ye bonnie old wardog. How d’ye manage tae stay so young lookin’?”
Skor patted his bulging but rock-hard middle, chuckling. “Hah! Young lookin’. Me? I leave bein’ young to beasts like my son there, Ruggan. Hoho, ye never met a boxin’ hare afore, have ye, son? Come on, now. Shake paws with an ole warrior who could’ve slain ye with a real blow.”
Ruggan gasped Miggory’s paw, managing a weak smile. “My thanks for the lesson, friend. Mayhaps one day I could show ye a few tricks with sword or bow?”
The tough sergeant grinned. “H’I’ve no doubt ye could, sah, an’ I’ll look forward to it!”
A sizeable breakfast was served out on the sunwashed beach by their hosts, the pigmy shrews and sand lizards. Otters and hares dined on soft cheeses and flatbreads, fresh fruit and a honeyed coltsfoot cordial. Rake explained the mission that Lady Violet Wildstripe had sent him on, telling Skor all that had taken place to date. The chieftain listened intently.
When Rake had ended his narrative, Skor scratched his beard reflectively. “What ye tell me makes sense, my friend. I rue the day I never finished Razzid Wearat off for good, but I swear to you that I’ll put that right before I’m much older. I saw the villain when he returned to seek vengeance on me. Hah, Wearat, he’s the same as any coward or bully. Took one look at me an’ my Rogue Crew, then turned tail an’ fled.”
Lieutenant Scutram, who was party to the conversation, enquired, “We knew he was sailin’ north, sah. Trouble is, where’n the name o’ seasons has he jolly well gone to after turnin’? We’ve not caught sight of his vessel.”
Ruggan had a suggestion. “Mayhaps he’s gone back to attack your fortress, Captain Rake.”
The dark hare chuckled briefly. “Ah think not, laddie. Since he was last at Salamandastron, our Badger Lady is on the alert. Yon Wearat’ll no’ get a chance tae sneak in an’ murder our young cadets. Razzid isnae a fool. He wouldnae try tae attack the mountain.”
Sergeant Miggory posed a question. “Beg pardon, sah, but if’n ’e ain’t h’interested in meetin’ Lord Axe’ound agin h’an’ ’e won’t be h’attackin’ our mountain, where does ’e h’intend going to? Sailin’ h’off ’ome to his den, maybe?”
Scutram shrugged. “Who jolly well knows. Where else could the blighter go to, wot?”
Skor winked knowingly. “We’ll know in a short while. I’ve had two o’ my best trackers shadow the vermin ship since it turned away from the High North Coast. Kite, Endar Feyblade, go an’ see if there’s any sign o’ Gil an’ Dreel returnin’.”
Rake stood up, pacing about and scanning the sea. “Ah hope yore scouts have found where the green-sailed ship is. Bear in mind what I told ye—yon craft has wheels now. It can go by land or sea, which has me sair bothered, ye ken?”
Skor nodded in agreement. “Aye, it worries me, too. In a way I feel guilty. We’ve never had need o’ ships—’twas enough just to defend our coast against enemies. I know your Badger Lady was hopin’ sea otters had vessels. I want to help her, and I will, truly. Argh! But a ship that can sail on land or sea, that’s somethin’ I never reckoned with. Any sign o’ those trackers yet, Ruggan?”
Skor’s son scanned the beach both ways. “Not yet. We’ll just have to wait, sir.”
And wait they did. It was late afternoon before the scouts returned. During the intervening time, Long Patrol hares and sea otters had a chance to be acquainted with each other. It turned out they were not so different, both being warriors. Sea otters, though, had a more ruthless code. Anybeast even resembling a foe or vermin was slain without question or pity. But like the hares, they greatly valued courage and honour. In the matter of weaponry, the Long Patrol were better skilled with swords, but sea otters were far superior archers, each otter being equipped with a bow and a quiver of arrows. Both sides were showing off their skills when the scouts returned. All activity stopped as they gathered to listen to the reports.
Gil and Dreel were sisters, slim and keen eyed. They had quite a story to tell, which they did bit by bit, one at a time. Rake and Skor listened in silence, questioning only when the report had been given in full.
However, it was Jum Gurdy who spoke first. “You say two liddle ’ogs escaped from the vermin ship?”
Dreel smiled. “Aye, sir, but they wouldn’t have made it without help from the Whoomers. They were funny, I can tell ye, haulin’ that ship around an’ throwin’ weapons back at the vermin.”
Jum seemed puzzled. “Wot’s a Whoomer?”
Skor explained, “They’re seals, bigbeasts, who don’t like vermin. I rule the coasts hereabouts, but ’tis the Whoomers who rule the seas, really. That’s why we don’t need ships.”
Jum continued, “The two liddle ’ogs—they’ll be Uggo an’ Posy, I’m sure of it. Did they get away safe?”
Gil nodded. “Oh, they’re safe enough, sir. They were found by the Freepaws tribe. Freepaws are goodbeasts. They’ll keep the young uns from harm.”
Skor Axehound looked to Dreel. “Did ye see my youngest son, Swiffo?”
The scout answered respectfully. “We saw him, Lord. He is a tracker and scout for the Freepaws, an’ still carries no weapons.”
The burly chieftain rested his chin on a big paw, sighing. “A son o’ mine, an’ he goes unarmed, along with that gatherin’ of travellin’ ragbags. I tell ye, Rake, it brings shame upon the name of Axehound.”
The dark hare captain tried to make light of it. “Och, away with ye. Your son’s young—he’s likely goin’ through a wee phase. Did ye never have sich a time in your spring seasons, Skor?”
The huge sea otter Chieftain nodded reflectively. “Aye, I recall likin’ flowers. Daisies, roses, bluebells an’ buttercups. I carved ’em all over my shield, on my sword scabbard an’ axe haft, sketched some on my arrow quiver, too. But nobeast seemed t’make fun o’ me. Strange that, wasn’t it?”
With much effort, Rake kept a serious face. “Aye, ’twas that, mah friend. So mayhaps ye might go easy on your young laddie for his odd habits, ye ken?”
Skor raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Yore prob’ly right. Swiffo will outgrow ’em, just like I did. Ahoy, Gil, where d’ye reckon this vermin ship is now?”
The ottermaid pointed south. “Someplace down yonder, Lord. She went landward for a while, then came back to sea, all muddied up an’ stinkin’ o’ marsh muck. She headed out to deep water, but then veered south. Maybe she’ll put in somewhere sheltered to careen the dirt off. Caked mud can slow a vessel down, y’know.”
Rake needed no second invitation. “Ye have mah paw, mah blades an’ mah heart on it, Skor. Taegether we’ll find’em. ’Tis guid tae be with a Rogue Crew again. Sergeant, form up the column tae march!”
Ruggan smiled coldly at Sergeant Miggory. “When we find ’em there’ll be blood on the wind, friend!”
The veteran hare returned the smile. “H’or as we says at Salamandastron, sah, we’ll let ’em taste blood’n’vinegar. Form up, column, we’re goin’ for a little walk, buckoes!”
Greenshroud had rounded a hilly point. She lay at anchor in a pleasant little bay. Razzid Wearat would not abide idle paws aboard his vessel, so whilst he awaited the return of his trackers, he set the crew to work. Good silver sand showed through the clear shallow water, ideal for hull scouring. Teams of corsairs and searats waded almost chest deep, rubbing the malodorous slime from the marsh off the woodwork. Mowlag and Jiboree patrolled for’ard and aft, each swinging a knotted rope’s end to chastise any slackers. Razzid had retired to his cabin in a foul humour. The entire craft seemed to be permeated with the smell of green mud.
Staying clear of her ill-tempered captain, Shekra went ashore on the pretext of looking for medicinal herbs. The vixen enjoyed the early summer day, paddling awhile in the shallows, then wandering farther along the beach. Tiring of the walk, she eased herself down behind a small sandhill, grateful for the chance of taking a short nap. She had just closed her eyes when scuffling sounds disturbed her. The noise came from somewhere behind where she was sitting.
Easing gently to the hilltop, she spied out the land. The intruder was a ragged-spined old hedgehog foraging for food. He was using a crude spearhead to probe the rocky base of the main hill, which isolated the cove to the north. Shekra watched him; he had a woven reed sack slung over one shoulder, which contained any edible finds. As he rummaged, the old hog muttered and giggled to himself.
“Heeheehee, limpets. Drogbuk likes limpets. Ye can boil up a good soup wid limpets. Come on, ye shellbound rascal. No good ye hangin’ on. I’ll git ye off’n there!”
He pried a big limpet from the rockface, throwing it into his sack. “Aye aye, wot’s this? A good ole nipclaw. Heehee, you’ll go nice in Drogbuk’s soup, matey. Cummere!”
The crab tried to dig in twixt sand and rock, but the hedgehog’s spear stabbed it right through its shell. Still writhing and nipping, it was tossed into the sack.
Shekra stole up on the unsuspecting hunter, commenting in a honeyed tone, “By the seasons, yore good at that. ’Tis a pleasure to watch a beast who knows wot he’s doin’.”
The old hedgehog appeared startled for a moment, then snapped, “Well, yew ain’t gittin’ none o’ my vittles. Go an’ git yore own, bushtail. Go on, be off wid yer!”
The vixen continued chatting in a friendly manner. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of askin’ to share your food. It must be hard enough, trying to scrape a livin’ on this part of the coast. I admire your efforts, Drogbuk.”
The ragged oldster squinted suspiciously at the fox. “Who told ye my name, needlenose?”
Shekra shrugged. “Just guessed it, I suppose. My name’s Shekra. I’m with that big green ship over yonder.”
Drogbuk carried on prising periwinkles from the base of the moss-clad rock. He sniffed scornfully. “I seen it afore—big clumsy lump o’ wood! Makes no diff’rence t’me. I’ll be movin’ on by nightfall.”
Shekra picked up a few fallen periwinkles, dropping them in Drogbuk’s sack. “Moving on? But I thought you lived here on the coast.”
The scraggy old hedgehog thrust out his chin aggressively. “I’m a Wiltud, an’ us Wiltuds goes where we pleases, see? Hither’n’yon, shore or shingle, field or forest!”
At the mention of the name Wiltud, the vixen’s memory jogged, remembering young Uggo. Choosing her words carefully, Shekra appeared still friendly and casual. “I’ve heard of Wiltuds, great travellers I believe. I’ll wager you’ve been to many places, Drogbuk?”
Throwing the sack higher on his shoulder, the ancient Wiltud hog smirked. “Many, many places. You name ’em, an’ I’ve been there. Nobeast knows these lands like me!”
Shekra smiled craftily. “I wager you’ve never been to Redwall.”
Drogbuk wagged his rusty spearpoint at the fox. “Heeheehee! Well, that’d be a bet ye’d lose. I been to that ole Abbey a few times in my seasons.”
Shekra nodded. “Is it a nice place?”
The old Wiltud gnawed a grimy pawnail. “No better’n’no worser than some places I’ve been, though I never tasted anythin’ so fine as Redwall vittles.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at Shekra. “Why d’ye want to know about Redwall, eh?”
Shekra’s mind was racing as she thought up a plausible answer. “Well, it’s like this, friend. There’s to be a great midsummer feast at Redwall, so the captain of that ship has decided to bring gifts for the Redwall beasts. We’ll probably be invited to attend the feast. That’s why I asked you about the place.”
Drogbuk nodded. “But ye don’t know ’ow t’get there, do ye?”
The vixen shook her head ruefully. “Alas, no. Our ship was blown off course in a big storm at sea, and we’re completely lost. Do you know the way to Redwall, friend?”
Drogbuk wrinkled his scaly nose. “Wot’s in it fer me if’n I shows ye the way? Wot do I get?”
Shekra spread her paws, smiling broadly. “Well, for a start, you get to ride in comfort all the way. Also, I’m sure my captain would include you in the invitation to the midsummer feast.”
Drogbuk thrust the spearhead into the rope tied about his waist. “Come on, then. Take me to yore cap’n!”
Shekra paused, as if considering the request. “Listen, my friend. You wait here whilst I go and tell him yore comin’. He’ll want to lay a table for ye. My captain is quite choosy about who he lets aboard the Greenshroud. So I’ll run ahead an’ tell him of yore kind offer. Alright?”
Drogbuk was eager, but he feigned indifference. “Aye, sounds fair enuff, but don’t leave me hangin’ round ’ere too long, fox. I ain’t got all day.”
Razzid Wearat listened to Shekra’s report. “Ye did well. I’ll send Mowlag an’ Jiboree ashore to fetch the ole hog.”
The vixen objected. “No, Cap’n, ’tis best I do that. Those two might be a bit rough on him. Let’s play this softly. There’s more ways of makin’ a duck sleep than beltin’ it over the head with a rock. I’m sure if we let Drogbuk think we’re his friends an’ treat him kindly, he’ll show us the way to Redwall willingly.”
It was an idea that was foreign to the Wearat’s nature, but seeing the possibilities, he agreed. “Right. You go an’ fetch him, an’ I’ll have vittles laid out for him. But I warn ye, fox—yore scheme had better work, or ’twill be the worse for ye.”
The crew had been told about Drogbuk Wiltud. They avoided talking to him as he came aboard with Shekra. Entering the captain’s cabin, he ignored everything else, making straight for the meal of grilled fish and gull’s eggs. The ragged hog set about the food with all the appetite of a true Wiltud.
Shekra poured him a beaker of Strong Addersting grog, enquiring, “Is the food to your liking, my friend?”
Drogbuk spat out a herring bone and slopped down some grog. He sniffed. “I’ve tasted worse. Who’s that un?”
Razzid remained silent as the vixen answered, “That’s our captain.”
Drogbuk refilled his tankard with the fiery grog. Draining it, he smacked his lips, giggling. “Heeheehee, uglylookin’ ole toad, ain’t ’e?”
Shekra held her breath in horror as Razzid stayed the ragged guest’s paw from reaching for more grog.
“I’m told ye know the way to Redwall. Tell me.”
Drogbuk stared into the leaky eye as if he did not care. “Ain’t sayin
Razzid was fuming inwardly, but he allowed the meal to continue. Drogbuk wolfed down fish and eggs, and drained the tankard three times. Then he sat back, picking with a fishbone at his stained teeth. Staring at Razzid’s good eye this time, he belched aloud.
“Good drop o’ grog, that. Ain’t ’ad no grog fer a season. Pour us a drop more there, Cap’n.”
Nodding toward a keg in the corner, Razzid spoke, trying not to grit his teeth as his ire rose. “Not so fast, friend. You can drink as much as you like from that little barrel once you tell us how to get to the Redwall place.”
Owing to the amount he had already supped, the old Wiltud hog’s speech was becoming slurred.
“S’awright, Cap’n. I knows ’sactly where ’tis. Jusht sail south downa coast ’til ye comes to a river wot runsh over the shore. S’called der River Moss, y’cant mish it. Ye goes up there t’the easht!”
Drogbuk’s chin dropped onto his chest, grog dribbling out of his lips. He hiccuped, belched, then began snoring.
Jiboree curled his mouth in disgust as he drew his knife. “Slobberin’ ole sot. ’Ere, Cap’n, lemme tickle ’im up a bit wid me blade. I’ll make ’im sing like a finch at a feast!”
A kick from Razzid sent the weasel sprawling.
Razzid’s voice was heavy with authority. “Anybeast puts a paw near this ’og will drown in ’is own blood. We’ll do this my way. Leave the drunken fool to sleep it off. He’ll do anythin’ for a noggin o’ grog. When I needs more information, I’ll just let ’im take a liddle sip—that’ll loosen ’is tongue. Right, Shekra?”
The Seer saluted. “Aye, Cap’n, a good plan!”
The Wearat dismissed Jiboree and Mowlag. “Git all paws onboard an’ hoist sail. Take ’er south along the coast an’ keep an eye out for this River Moss.” Mowlag reminded him of the trackers he had sent out over the marshes on Posy and Uggo’s trail.
“Ain’t we waitin’ fer Ricker’n’Voogal, Cap’n?”
Razzid sneered. “No we ain’t. I’ve got wot we need, a beast who knows the way to Redwall. Those two idiots might be drowned in that swamp, an’ if’n they ain’t, well, they should’ve been back aboard long since, wid the two liddle ’ogs. Now, get my ship underway, quick!”