28
SOUTH OF SALAMANDASTRON in a sparsely wooded copse, a group of about thirty Blue Hordebeasts and their stoat captain, Byle, sat in a clearing. They had been foraging for food, quite successfully, if anybeast were to judge by the bulging haversacks scattered about. Byle was a newly promoted officer, determined to do well. He was very happy with the results of the forage, but also quite hungry. So were the vermin under his command. Byle strode about, checking the haversacks were all fastened tight, aware of the surly glances of his minions. They wanted to eat some of the food, instead of having to tramp back to the mountain and deposit it, untouched, with Ungatt Trunn’s supply officers. It was a tricky situation for Byle, but he put on a jovial air and attempted to flatter the mutinous-looking vermin by praising their efforts.
‘Hoho, we did well today, cullies. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you wasn’t all promoted f’yer good work!’
A rat spat, narrowly missing Byle’s footpaw. ‘Promotion! Wot good’s that, eh? Ye can’t eat promotion!’
The new captain laughed nervously and winked at another rat. ‘Haha, you was up that tree like a squirrel after those apples. Where did ye learn t’climb like that, mate?’
Instead of answering, the rat began undoing the drawstring on his heavily laden haversack. Byle knew it was time to assert his authority. He spoke sharply. ‘Now now, none o’ that, you. Leave them apples alone or I’ll have to report yer!’
The rat pulled out an apple, making a wry face at his companions as he mocked Byle. ‘Did ye hear the nice new cap’n, mates? Goin’ to report me he is. Huh, that’s if’n he makes it back alive!’
The apple was halfway to the Horderat’s mouth when a slingstone struck his paw. He screamed and dropped the apple.
‘First beast t’move is a dead ’un!’
A figure clad in a hooded brown barkcloth cloak appeared from behind a juneberry bush, its face hidden behind a woven reed mask, a long whip held in its paw. Byle gasped. ‘The Bark Crew!’
The creature behind the mask chuckled harshly. He cracked the whip in Byle’s face. ‘Haharr, right first time, vermin. Yore surrounded by threescore of us. Duck yore ’eads. Quick!’
Instinctively the forage patrol ducked their heads, Broken twigs and leaves showered down on them as a volley of slingstones rattled through the trees overhead. Four arrows quivered in the ground close to Byle. The whip snaked out, wrapping itself round his paw.
‘See wot I mean, stoat? D’you an’ this worthless pack want to live? Answer me!’
Since the start of summer the dreaded Bark Crew had become the terror of Ungatt Trunn’s foraging patrols. They seemed to be everywhere at once. Byle knew of Hordebeasts and captains who had been slain when they offered resistance to the brown-cloaked raiders. His voice quavered helplessly as he replied to the sinister figure.
‘Don’t s-s-s-slay us, s-s-sire. We wants t’live. W-w-wot d’ye want us to do?’
Other members of the Bark Crew entered the vermin camp, bows, swords and javelins much in evidence. The Crew leader pulled Byle forward on the whip around his paw.
‘Get rid of yore weapons, all of ’em! Those uniforms, too – strip ’em off an’ shed ’em. Move yoreselves!’
Menaced by the Bark Crew, the vermin piled their arms in a heap and pulled off their uniforms. They huddled together awaiting the next command.
‘Sling those ’aversacks o’ vittles on spear poles!’
They threaded the laden haversacks three to a spear haft. When this was done, they were ordered to lie face down on the ground. Walking between the prostrate figures, the Bark Crew leader consulted his companions aloud.
‘Wot d’ye say we do with this scum, eh, mates?’
The Crew were in no doubt as to the fate of their captives.
‘Rope ’em up to some rocks an’ drown ’em!’
‘Nah, sounds too Trunnish t’me. Toss ’em off the cliffs!’
‘I vote we tie these vermin to trees an’ use ’em for target practice. I likes shootin’ at blue targets!’
The Crew leader had to crack his whip several times, to stop the forage patrol weeping, sobbing and begging to be spared. He turned Byle over roughly with his footpaw.
‘Stow yore scringin’ an’ bellerin’, stoat. You ain’t worth wastin’ arrows on, so I’m goin’ to let ye live.’
Lined up in threes, within minutes the foraging patrol stood facing a rift in the clifftops, in view of the sea. Taking Byle none too gently by his neck scruff, the Bark Crew leader made him repeat his orders.
‘We marches straight t’the sea, sire. If’n we looks left right or back we’re deadbeasts. We wades into the sea up to our necks an’ goes that way back to the mountain. I’m to make my report to Ungatt Trunn that this was the work of the Bark Crew, an’ to say that he’s a worthless piece o’ crab bait, an’ that he’s goin’ to starve t’death with ’is vermin army!’
The whip cracked viciously over the forage patrol’s heads.
‘Next time we see yore faces we’ll roast ye alive! Quick march, one two, one two!’
The vermin needed little urging to march quicker than they had ever done before. Down the rift, across the shore and straight into the sea, without a backward glance.
Brogalaw removed the woven reed mask from his face and clasped paws with Stiffener.
‘Another win for the Bark Crew, matey. Did ye notice ’ow thin some o’ the vermin are startin’ to look?’
Stiffener watched the dark dots far off in the sea, each one representing a Hordebeast wading neck deep back to Salamandastron. ‘They’ll look a lot thinner afore we’re done with ’em, Brog. Did you say we ’ad threescore of us surroundin’ ’em?’
Brogalaw looked around. Their party numbered twenty-two, counting himself and Stiffener.
‘I thought sixty was enough t’do the job, mate. I was goin’ t’say we ’ad fivescore, but that would’ve really been fibbin’.’
‘We could jolly well do with fivescore to carry all the loot we liberated from those rascals today,’ Willip complained as they turned back to the copse. ‘Ah well, at least we’ve got plenty of grub and weapons. What d’you think, Stiff? Should we blindfold the next lot an’ make them tote the spoils back to our hideout? Save a lot of bloomin’ wear’n’tear on our old carcasses, wot?’
Brog picked up one end of a spear haft, slung with haversacks. ‘C’mon, Willip me ole mate, git the other end o’ this thing on yore pore ole shoulder, or we’ll miss supper.’
‘Hah, d’you know, I suddenly feel young again, Brog?’
‘Aye, I’ve noticed, every time I mention food, you ole lollop-eared grubwalloper. I thought sea otters could scoff until I watched hares sit down to vittles!’
A bright summer evening was drawing to its close. Ungatt Trunn stood on the beach with his Grand Fragorl and Captain Karangool, watching as Byle and his foraging patrol stumbled through the shallows on to the sands. They presented a very odd picture. Seawater had washed out the blue dye from their fur from tail to neck; only their faces and heads remained blue. Byle staggered up and saluted the wildcat, his body drooping with exhaustion.
‘Mighty One, we were ambushed . . .’
Ungatt’s upraised paw silenced him. ‘Let me guess, Captain Byle. It was the Bark Crew again. How many of them were there this time? Fivescore . . . ten?’
‘Fivescore at least, Mightiness. The Bark Crew chieftain gave me a message to deliver, sire.’
The wildcat’s tail whipped from side to side angrily. ‘Don’t tell me if it’s merely insults. Get your patrol out of sight before others see what a pack of clowns you look!’
Byle bowed and saluted dutifully, then signalled his patrol to get inside the mountain.
Later, Ungatt Trunn sat closeted in his chamber with Fragorl and Karangool. He watched his spiders, his two aides watched him, holding their silence and blinking in the thick smoke that swathed the room.
The wildcat pointed upwards. ‘Young spiders never seem to get the flies, it
’s always the older ones. I suppose because they’re more experienced, better hunters, wickeder, more ruthless, would you say?’
Karangool nodded. ‘Ya, is so, Might’ness.’
Trunn turned his gaze upon the fox. ‘You’re a ruthless creature, but I need you here. My mistake was in sending out well-behaved new captains. What we need is wicked ones – cruel, evil creatures who bend the rules to suit themselves. Searats and corsairs were always like that, eh, Karangool?’
The fox’s normally stem face broke into a fiendish grin. ‘Ya, Might’ness. I sailed with bad ones in good old days!’
The wildcat stroked his whiskers reflectively. ‘I’ll wager you did, my friend. Fragorl, those searat brothers I had stripped of their rank, tell the guards to bring them up from the dungeons. Fetch food from the kitchens, too. Good food, not fish heads and stewed grass.’
Ripfang and Doomeye thought they were being brought in front of Ungatt Trunn because he had decided on a slow agonising death for them. They kicked, bit and struggled with the guards as they were hustled into the wildcat’s chamber. Nobeast was more surprised than they when Ungatt ordered their chains removed and the guards dismissed. Panting and rubbing their limbs where the manacles had been, they sat on the floor, their sly eyes flicking from the food to their ruler. Ungatt Trunn nodded towards the tray, which contained a flagon of damson wine and the last of Blench’s fruit scones.
‘You must be hungry. Eat.’
They stared at him, openly suspicious. Karangool sipped from the flagon and bit off a piece of scone. ‘Eat, food not poison!’
Like a pair of ravening wolves the two rats fell upon the food, stuffing it down and slopping wine. Ungatt Trunn lectured them as they crammed the vittles into their mouths.
‘By rights you should be dead now, both of you. Did you think I was fooled by your lies about Groddil and the other two? Maybe you did slay them and throw their bodies into the pool, but not because they insulted me, as you said. No, you killed them for some reason best known only to yourselves. I could have had you executed, but I chose instead to have you locked up and starved, until I decided what I should do with you both.’
Ripfang looked up, a mess of chewed scone falling from his lips. ‘So yew ain’t ’avin’ us done away wid. Thankee, cap’n, er, I mean Yer Mightiness.’
‘Oh, don’t thank me. Thank them.’
Ungatt’s paw was pointing up to the spiders. Doomeye grabbed the flagon from his brother and swigged at it. ‘Wot, does ’e want us ter say thanks to them things?’
Ripfang elbowed his slow-thinking brother hard. ‘Shut yer gob, wifflebrain! Ye’ll ’ave to excuse ’im, sire, Doomeye ain’t very bright. So, me lordship, wot is it yer wants us t’do for yer, eh?’
The wildcat assessed Ripfang. He was young still, but experienced and hardened to cruelty and death. Evil was stamped on his features, from the treacherous flickering eyes and scarred nose, to the unsightly single fang protruding downward from the centre of his lipless mouth.
‘I suppose you slew quite a few in your seasons as a searat?’
Ripfang snatched the flagon back from Doomeye and guffawed. ‘Me’n’me brother ’ere, we killed just about anythin’ that moved, all types o’ beasts, young, old, males or shemales. Harr, an’ we slew ’em any way we could, an’ a few ways wot don’t bear thinkin’ about, ain’t that right, Doom?’
Doomeye dug foodscraps from between his blackened teeth with a dirty claw. ‘Aye, yer right there, Rip, any way we could, we murdered ’em!’
The wildcat sat back and purred. ‘Excellent. Now listen to me if you want to keep eating food like that and regain your rank as captains in my Hordes.’
Brogalaw stroked the heron’s neck. ‘Good job you found this other cave, Rulango. My ole mum was beginnin’ to create an’ kick up somethin’ awful about all the loot we was bringin’ back.’
The cave was upcoast, slightly north of the sea otters’ dwelling, a fortunate find indeed. Stiffener took a torch from its wall mount to light their way out. From floor to roof, the place resembled a well-stocked larder cum armoury. Weaponry and uniforms lined its walls, while at the centre there was an enormous heap of fruit, vegetables and edible roots. Plunder, taken from the foraging patrols by the Bark Crew. Outside they doused the torch in the sand and camouflaged the cave entrance with a dead sea buckthorn bush.
Trobee kept a branch to cover their tracks. ‘I say, let’s get back an’ see what luck old Durvy had today. Maybe his crew brought back some shrimp, wot!’
Brog’s mother Frutch was in the process of giving Durvy and his crew a good dressing down.
‘Seasons o’ seaweed’n’salt, what are we supposed t’do with all this shrimp, that’s what I’d like t’know, master Durvy. There can’t be a single shrimp left in the sea!’
Durvy dodged a swipe of the ottermum’s ladle. ‘Belay wid that weapon, marm, I’m only doin’ wot yore son told me to. You ain’t supposed to biff members o’ the Bark Crew wid ladles, that’s takin’ the side o’ the enemy!’
Brog rescued the ladle from his mum and hugged her. ‘Wot’s for supper, ye liddle plump battler?’
Frutch tugged at his whiskers. ‘Put me down, ye great ribcrusher, or I won’t be fit t’cook anythin’ for anybeast. Sufferin’ sandhills, did any pore ottermum have t’put up with such a son!’
Brog’s nose twitched at the two cauldrons which his mum, Blench and Woebee had perched on the fire. ‘Mmmmm, skilly’n’duff, me fav’rite!’
The three cooks denied it stoutly.
‘We never did no skilly’n’duff, did we, Blench?’
‘No marm, we got shrimp soup, followed by shrimp stew, ain’t that right, Woebee?’
‘’Tis for sure, an’ a nice shrimp salad for afters!’
Brog’s face was the picture of misery. ‘But I could’ve sworn I smelled skilly’n’duff?’
Frutch plucked her ladle from his paw and whacked his tail. ‘Of course ’tis skilly’n’duff, ye big omadorm, with lots o’ plums in the duff, the way you like it. Now make y’self useful, an’ you too, mister Stiffener. Lend a paw to get those cauldrons off’n the fire.’
Over supper, Durvy told of his crew’s exploits at sea that day.
‘Ho, we kept the bluebottom fishin’ fleet busy, mates. We swam under their vessels an’ shredded the nets, stole all their shrimp, an’ – hahaha, tell Brog wot you did, Konul.’
‘’Twas like this, see,’ a sleek ottermaid, with a face born to mischief, explained. ‘I waited ’til they dropped anchors to fish. Soon as they cast their nets I attached each boat’s net to the next boat’s anchor flukes, snarled ’em up good an’ proper. Heehee, you should’ve seen the vermin haulin’ away at those nets. All the vessels came bumpin’ together – there was bluebottoms floppin’ an’ fallin’ this way’n’that. Harder they hauled, the worse it got. Them boats was knocked together so ’ard that three of ’em sprang leaks. Last I saw they was tryin’ to paddle back to shore an’ balin’ out at the same time, draggin’ most o’ the fishin’ fleet along with ’em. I tell ye, Brog, ’twas a sight to see!’
Another of Durvy’s crew piped up. ‘Aye, then they started fightin’ among themselves. So I slices through the anchor ropes an’ off they went like big flappin’ birds with the wind behind ’em. That ole fleet hit the shore so ’ard that they was all run aground!’
Sailears chuckled with delight at the sea otters’ story. ‘Wish I could swim like you chaps, then I could jolly well go along with you.’
Durvy gallantly refilled her bowl from the cauldron. ‘Yore doin’ just fine as the onshore Bark Crew, marm. I reckon those rascals must really be feelin’ the pinch now, wot d’you think, Stiff?’
‘I think yore right. They’re learnin’ a hard lesson the hard way. Even if Trunn an’ the officers kept the best for themselves, I’ll wager they’ve more or less gone through wot stores was left in Blench’s larders.’
Stiffener little knew how truly he spoke. At that exact moment, Ungatt Trunn was pro
wling into Salamandastron’s dining hall, followed by Fragorl, carrying her master’s plate. Taking it from her, the wildcat shoved the platter under the cook’s nose.
‘What do you call this mess of rubbish?’
Wiping his paws on his greasy apron, the cook avoided eye contact with his master, stammering nervously, ‘Mightiness, ’tis all we’ve got left. Yew ’ad the Fragorl take the last o’ the good stuff up to yore chamber. I drained the wine kegs to fill a pitcher, an’ those scones was well stale, but they was all I ’ad left.’
Trunn stared round the deserted tables as the cook continued, “Tain’t worth anybeast turnin’ up ’ere fer vittles, Mighty One. There ain’t nothin’ to serve ’em. Them Bark Crew are t’blame, I say, stealin’ the food out’n our mouths like that. I been mixin’ some mouldy flour wid chopped seaweed an’ dannelion roots. Don’t know wot I’ll do when that’s gone, sire.’
Ungatt Trunn pushed the plate into his trembling paws. ‘Stop babbling and whining, cook, and keep your voice down. After tomorrow there’ll be food aplenty for all. Put the word about that this is my promise to you.’
Marching hurriedly from the dining hall, the wildcat was rounding a torchlit passage leading out to the shore when a shadow fell over him. He fell back with a horrified gasp, shielding his face with a paw. The shadow was that of a great double-hafted sword hilt. Trunn stood petrified at the sight. It grew larger and came closer. A strangled cry was torn from his throat, and he shrank back against the rough rock walls.
Two gaunt rats rounded the corner, carrying between them three driftwood spars lashed together, the shadow of which looked for all the world like a giant doublehilted sword haft. They chatted to each other as they toted their burden.
‘I thought yew said this’d get all seaweed tangled round it?’
‘Well, we jammed it atwixt those rocks on the tideline. It should’ve got some seaweed stuck to it at ’igh tide.’
‘But it never, did it? Huh, talk about bright ideas!’
Noticing Ungatt Trunn they dropped the contraption and saluted.
‘Mightiness!’