The Rogue Crew (38 page)

Her lips quivered. “N . . . no, sire, nothin'.”

Razzid wiped moisture from his bad eye slowly. “Good! You're still my Seer, ain't ye?”

Shekra nodded dumbly, aware of the single eye's intense stare.

His next enquiry came as a surprise to her. “Then, tell me, why did I not sleep well?”

The vixen relaxed slightly. “Were your old wounds troublin' ye?”

Razzid spoke but one word. “No.”

She allowed a pause before speaking again. “A dream disturbed your slumbers, then, Lord.”

Razzid sat back slightly. “Aye, a dream. What do ye know of a warrior who carries a flaming sword?”

Even though she was puzzled, Shekra was on more familiar territory. “This warrior, what manner of beast was he, Lord?”

His reply startled her.

“A mouse, I think.”

The vixen covered her surprise by nodding, gaining time. “Sire, I will have to consult my omens. What did the mouse look like?”

As she rummaged for materials in her satchel, Razzid snapped irately, “Idiot, he looked like a mouse, in armour.”

Having gained a scrap of information, Shekra cast pebbles, bones and shells. Her tone became foreboding. “The omens predict a sign of warning. Do ye fear that, sire?”

Razzid laughed scornfully. “I fear nobeast, least of all a mouse. Wot else do ye see? Tell me!”

The vixen gained confidence, resorting to flattery. “'Tis right ye fear nobeast, Great One. The creature has not been born that can defeat ye. Ignore this mouse, go forward and conquer the redstone fortress. Nought will stop ye—'tis your right to rule there!”

She awaited his reaction. The Wearat seemed buoyed up by the fact he was nearing his objective. Then his mood swung suddenly. He fixed her with a fearsome stare.

“Do ye speak truly, Seer? Well, do ye?”

Shekra adopted her mystic expression. “When did I ever lie? I always speak truly to ye, Lord.”

Razzid mused aloud. “I often wonder if yore a Seer or just a Soothsayer. So, ye say truly I have nought to fear.”

The vixen decided to add a cautionary word, covering herself against future events. “One thing, my Lord—beware the flames from the sword of your dream. Remember, it was fire that almost killed ye!”

The Wearat scowled darkly. “Aye, that's somethin' I won't easily forget. I'll bear these scars for life!” Razzid sat silent briefly, drumming his paw lightly on the trident haft, then startled Shekra by rising speedily, an unexpected smile on his face.

“Come on, friend, let's go and take a look at the famous Redwall, eh!”

The vixen stood to one side respectfully, but Razzid held back, making an elaborate paw gesture. “No, no, you go first. From now on, I want all my crew to go first, d'ye know why?”

Shekra shook her head. “No, Lord.”

She flinched as Razzid tickled her back gently with the trident prongs, answering casually, “Because I trust only those who are in front of me.”

The crew were jubilant. They cheered their captain as he strode out on deck.

“Ye did it, Cap'n, ye did it!”

“Aye, there's the easy life, dead ahead of us, an' 'twas you wot brought us 'ere, Cap'n!”

Smiling graciously, the Wearat partially mounted the rigging, so he could get a better view of the Abbey. They cheered him to the echo as he held out his trident, pointing it at their goal. Smiling benevolently, he nodded acknowledgement, noting as he did that Shekra was standing between Mowlag and Jiboree, murmuring something to them. All three turned. For a moment his single good eye was smiling straight at them, almost with a mocking expression.

 

Dorka Gurdy put little Guggle down on the walkway as Abbot Thibb and his followers came up the northern wallstairs to the ramparts. The Dibbun squirrel protested strongly.

“Lif' Guggle up agin, Dorky. Me wanna see da big ship!”

This caused Alfio to take up the cry. “Me too! I wanna see da big ship!”

The Abbot shook his head pointedly at Dorka, who caught on immediately. “What big ship? I didn't see no ship. Run along, now, or you'll be late for brekkist, go on!”

Paw in paw, they toddled off down the wallstairs, both minds with a single thought now. Breakfast.

“I wants 'ot scones an' hunny, wiv a big bowl of rasbee corjul!”

“Heehee, me too! I race you. One, two . . . go!”

Thibb watched them for a moment, then climbed nimbly up onto the battlements. Standing tippawed, the others peered over the walltop at the still-distant vessel. Dorka Gurdy could not resist the drama of the moment.

“So liddle Uggo Wiltud's dream 'as come true. I'll wager when that thing gets near enough, we'll see the Wearat sign on its green sail!”

Roogo Foremole, always practical, interrupted. “Bo urr, that bee's all vurry gudd, marm, but wot's us'ns goin' t'do abowt et, Oi arsks?”

Abbot Thibb hopped neatly down to the parapet. “Good question, Foremole. We'd best come up with an answer quickly. I reckon that vessel will be alongside us around lunchtime. What d'you say, Friar?”

The weighty watervole replied sharply, “Well, they won't be gettin any lunch from my kitchens!”

Fottlink the mouse Recorder could not resist a smile. “I'm sure they won't, Friar. First thing we must do is to keep everybeast indoors, especially the Dibbuns.”

Sister Fisk was still staring at
Greenshroud.
“That's a big ship, Father Abbot. Have you thought, when it draws alongside our Abbey, its mast tops will be as high as this wall? I think they could climb from there to where we are now. If they're seagoing vermin, they'll be rough, savage beasts. How'll we stop them?”

Dorka Gurdy sat down with her back against the battlements. “Wish that brother o' mine was 'ere now, Father. I wager Jum would think of an idea.”

Fottlink nodded. “Aye, no doubt he would. Now, what was it that Jum told us about the Wearat? Ah, I remember. He said that Razzid Wearat had been beaten by the sea otters on the High North Coast. Weren't they supposed to have slain a lot of the ship's crew and sent it on its way in flames? Aye, that was what he said!”

Friar Wopple made a sobering statement. “All well'n'good, but we ain't no warrior sea otters.”

Foremole held up a huge digging claw. “Mebbe we'm b'aint, zurr, but us'ns knows 'ow to make ee fire, hurr aye!”

Sister Fisk clenched her paws resolutely. “Then we'll make fire, lots of fire. A big blaze up here won't harm the wallstones!”

The Infirmary Sister's determination gave them heart.

“That's the way! We'll make those rascals sorry they ever thought of coming to Redwall!”

“Boi 'okey, uz'll burn thurr ship to ee cinder, hurr hurr. They'm vurrmints'll be a-scarmperin' abowt wi' thurr tails'n'bottums a-blazin'!”

Abbot Thibb held up his paws for silence. “Please, friends, let's not get carried away. I'm sure it's a sound idea, but we'll act only if they start to threaten us. Now, let's make some preparations.”

 

Razzid Wearat had positioned himself astern. He stood leaning on the tiller, watching his crew, who were all for'ard. As far away from him as they could get, the three conspirators, Shekra, Mowlag and Jiboree, stood on the bow peak.

Mowlag muttered angrily at the vixen, “How d'ye know he suspects anythin', eh?”

Shekra cast a swift glance back at Razzid. “I told ye wot he said. Why d'ye think he's stayin' astern? He knows, I tell ye. Razzid Wearat ain't stupid!”

Jiboree had his eyes fixed on Redwall. “Wot d'ye say we rush 'im? We could slay Razzid an' take the ship. After all,'e's only one beast, ain't 'e?”

Mowlag curled his lip. “Well, you carry on, mate. I won't be with ye. I know Razzid. He'd either kill one or all of us. Right?”

Shekra was forced to agree. “Right, an' another thing, the crew are all set on gettin' the prize—that place an' all the good life wot goes with it.” The vixen was getting more disenchanted with the idea of a mutiny since her interview with the Wearat. “I think we'd be best forgettin' any of our plans until after that place is taken. We need Razzid for that.”

Mowlag was inclined to agree with her. “Aye, the cap'n's the one to have on yore side in a battle.”

The impulsive Jiboree was not happy, but he was forced to agree. “So be it, then, we wait. But lissen, mates, once we're inside that Redwall Abbey or wotever ye calls it, then our cap'n's a deadbeast. Right?”

 

On the walltop, Abbey creatures were carrying wood up from below. Ding Toller and Dorka Gurdy were piling it at the northwest gable whilst keeping an eye upon the ship's progress. Roogo Foremole and his crew arrived with a pile of old barrel staves from the wine cellars, which they placed on a heap of dried moss, dead grasses, withered branches and other combustibles. Roogo dusted off his huge paws, winking at Dorka.

“They'm barrel stavers makes gurt flames. Yurr, b'aint ee vurmint boat arrived yet, marm?”

The otter judged the distance from
Greenshroud
to the Abbey. “Nay, sir, 'twill be some time a-comin' yet. When do we light the fire, I wonder?”

Milda, a helpful young volemaid, tossed a bundle of dried bracken onto the pile. “Not yet, marm. Abbot said he'd do it when the time comes.”

Sister Fisk called down the wallstairs, “Has anybeast seen Abbot Thibb?”

Friar Wopple was hauling a large cauldron up the steps, assisted by some of her kitchen helpers. “I've seen him not long ago. Excuse me, but would some of you lend a paw with this thing? It's very heavy.”

Willing volunteers hurried to help with the cauldron. Having delivered her contribution, the tubby watervole sat on the top step, mopping her brow with a dockleaf.

“I saw Father Abbot not long ago. He was standing in front of Martin the Warrior's tapestry, so I thought it best not to disturb him. I expect he'll return here when he's ready.”

Sister Fisk sniffed the contents of the cauldron. “Phew, that smells a bit ripe. What is it, Friar?”

Wopple explained. “That's some waste vegetable cooking oil. I find it excellent for lighting fires—it burns for quite a while. Be careful how you use it, Dorka.”

Morning wore on toward midday as the tension increased. Trundling along at an unhurried pace, the big green-sailed ship drew closer to the Abbey. It was clearly visible now, a very threatening sight. Searats and corsairs lined the rails and forepeak, armed with a fearsome array of weapons, ready and eager to use them. Razzid Wearat held his position at the tiller, with Mowlag and Shekra attending nearby, at his command.

He sized up the huge, red sandstone building, nodding in admiration. “Well, I ain't never seen nothin' like this. Wot d'ye say, Mowlag, do we attack?”

Confused that he should be consulted, the searat mate merely lowered his eyes. “I'm here t'do wotever ye say, Cap'n.”

Razzid turned to Shekra. “An' you, fox, wot do you say, eh?”

The Seer had been expecting this. She had a ready reply. “Lord, if ye are set on attackin', I cannot stop ye.”

Razzid raised one scarred eyebrow. “But?”

The Seer chose her words carefully. “But I would counsel caution, sire. This is a big stronghold and unknown to us. What number creatures wait behind its walls? Mayhaps if we were to sound them out first, talk to their leaders, let them know who ye are. We might not have to fight, once they know yore name an' reputation.”

Razzid stared pointedly at Mowlag. “A wise decision, I think. Wot d'ye say, Mowlag?”

The searat maintained his humble attitude. “Like ye say, Cap'n, a wise decision.”

The Wearat stamped his trident butt on the deck. “Good! we'll halt within hailin' distance o' the wall.”

 

In the Abbot's absence, Ding Toller had taken charge at the walltop. Roogo Foremole levered himself up, noting how close
Greenshroud
was.

“Hurr, Ding, they'm almost yurr. Do ee loight ee fire naow?”

The gaunt squirrel drew in a deep, nervous breath. “Aye, I think 'tis about time, but where's the Abbot got to?”

Friar Wopple dipped a tankard in the cauldron, then spread oil over the waiting heap of kindling. “I don't know, friend, but we'd better do somethin' fast!”

Dorka Gurdy lit a fir twig from a lantern. At that moment, the top of a mainsail drew level with the wall.

Redtail, the corsair stoat lookout, climbed into view. Grinning nastily, he swept off his battered hat, addressing them. “Good day to ye, gennelbeasts—”