The weasel raised a paw slowly and pointed at the crew. ‘Rabbatooma, lagor, Ko!’
One rodent, obviously some kind of minor chieftain, bowed curtly to the weasel. ‘Ya Marrahagga!’ Turning sullenly to the rest he indicated the prisoners. ‘Lagor Rabbatooma.’
Beau had recovered from his shock and rediscovered speech.
‘I should jolly well say so, you foul little fiends. You heard him, let us Rabbatoomas go, this very instant!’
The rodents obeyed. Swinging out on ropes, they perched on the poles and sawed through the crews’ bonds with their daggers. With shouts of relief and pain Beau and the Sayna’s crewmice fell to the dusty cave floor, where they lay groaning.
Cardo whimpered as he tried to rise. ‘Paws’ve gone numb with bein’ tied tight for so long!’
Luke’s reply was brusque. ‘We can’t linger here, mates. Crawl out on your bellies, move yourselves, that’s an order!’
Luke and Vurg were still menacing the weasel as the crew hauled themselves out in a sorry complaining bunch.
‘Ow ow, I got pins’n’needles in all me paws!’
‘My pore head’s achin’ fit to split, mate!’
‘Look, that rodent slashed m’tail when he cut the ropes!’
‘Huh, you should complain, my backfur’s all scorched from hangin’ over that blazin’ fire!’
Luke kicked the last one’s tail lightly. ‘Mebbe next time you’ll wait my orders afore dashin’ ashore to stuff drugged fruit down yore faces!’
When the crew were gone Luke spun the weasel round and held the blade across her throat from behind.
‘Keep an eye on those savages, Vurg, stick ’em if’n they get too close. Right, weasel, we’re backin’ out of here nice’n’easy. Don’t move or yore a dead ’un!’
As they retreated the rodents followed them, crying, ‘Lagor Marrahagga!’
Luke was beginning to understand what they said. ‘Don’t fret, buckoes, we’ll let go of yore Marrahagga as soon as we’re out o’ this stinkin’ place. Now back off!’
They negotiated the short winding tunnel. Waiting outside, the crew were massaging life back into numbed paws. Luke guided the weasel round the shallow pit they had dug, and the rodents had just reached its edge when he nodded to Vurg. ‘Knock that wedge aside, sharpish!’
Vurg hit the piece of rock a sharp tap with his spearbutt, moving it aside. The boulder rolled forward half a turn and landed in the shallow hole with a bump. It blocked the tunnel entrance off completely and muffled the squeaks of rage sounding from behind it.
Vurg leaned on his spear, grinning. ‘A good tight fit, I’d say, mate!’
Luke ordered his crew to get back aboard the Sayna, whilst he and Vurg took the weasel and forced her to sit next to the pile of squashed fruit. With his swordpoint Luke drew a picture of the Goreleech in the sand, then he transferred the point back to the weasel’s throat.
‘Marrahagga see red ship sail by here? Red ship, big one?’
The weasel watched Luke’s face as he repeated the question several times over. Carefully she drew three circles in the sand, with squiggly lines radiating from them and an arrow pointing south. Whilst Vurg squinted at the drawing, the weasel tapped Luke’s sketch of the ship thrice.
Luke understood. ‘Three suns, that’s three days,’ he explained to his bemused friend. ‘She says the red ship sailed by here three days back, bound south.’
Vurg dusted his paws off in a businesslike manner. ‘That means we ain’t far behind her, mate. Better get under way. What do we do about this ’un, Luke?’
The weasel looked unhappily at the Warrior. Touching the swordblade with a paw, she tried to shake her head. A mischievous smile crept over Luke’s face, and he thrust a big squashed plum at the weasel’s mouth. ‘Eat!’ She shut her lips tight in revulsion. Luke swung his blade aloft as if to slay her with one blow. ‘Marrahagga eat! Eat!’
The weasel gobbled the fruit with great alacrity.
Vurg giggled like a mousebabe, and selected a bruised pear. ‘Cummon, Marryhaggit, try some more o’ yore own medicine!’
The weasel was forced to down two more plums and a peach. She sat unhappily, juice dribbling down her chin.
Vurg turned to Luke, full of mock sympathy. ‘Dearie me, she don’t look too ’appy, mate. D’ye think she’s still hungry?’
Luke passed the weasel a half-eaten apple that one of his crew had sampled earlier on. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about ole Marrahagga, mate, she’ll cheer up soon. Come on, let’s get goin’.’
When they looked back, the weasel had picked up a piece of fruit and was about to hurl it at them. She swayed, dropped the fruit and sat down with a bump, a silly grin plastered on her painted face.
Vurg waved to her. ‘G’bye, ole Marryhaggit, ’tis nice to see we’re leavin’ you happy. I can’t abide sad farewells!’
Luke waved too. ‘Aye, an’ take care of that headache you’ll have tomorrow!’
As the Sayna left the island in her wake the crew sat sipping hot tea of a herbal remedy brewed by Denno. Cardo, voted spokesmouse by his crewmates, addressed the Warrior.
‘Luke, we’re sorry we raced ashore an’ ate that fruit, ’twas silly of us. But we’d like to offer a hearty vote of thanks to you for savin’ our lives. Yore a true warrior!’
Luke held up his paws to silence the cheers. ‘Aye, I saved you because I was able to, mates. Pity I wasn’t there when the red ship hit the northlands shore. Every night an’ day I think of my son Martin back there, growin’ up without a mother to care for him, nor a father, with me off here chasin’ the red ship. But we’ll catch her, I swear we will. An’ I’ll make the name Vilu Daskar just a dirty memory in the minds of honest beasts!’
The crew went off to their sleeping places as the ship sailed south in the soft warm night, each with their own memories of family lost or left behind. Luke stood in the prow, keeping watch, lost in thoughts of Martin’s small figure on the strand, waving his father’s old battlesword. He stared forlornly at the gentle bow wave dispersing into the calm dark sea.
‘Someday I’ll come back and find you waiting for me, son.’
* * *
25
ON AN ISLAND many leagues to the south, black smoke billowed above the crackling flames of what had once been a peaceful community of squirrels. Vermin, armed to the fangs, roamed in bands through the forestlands, slaying anybeast who dared to oppose them. Screams rent the air, whips cracked as pitiless rogues rounded up those left alive. Bound neck and paw into a straggling line, the bewildered captives were dragged out of the sheltering trees, into the dunes above the tideline. Akkla, the ferret mate, sniggered evilly, watching the prisoners’ horror as they glimpsed their home to be. The red ship Goreleech, riding at anchor in the sea offshore.
‘Move yerselves, me beauties, we’ll soon find yer a snug liddle berth aboard the pretty red boat!’
Vilu Daskar sat on the beach, chin on the bone handle of his scimitar, pensively watching whilst Parug, his bosun, forced the terrified squirrels to kneel and bow their heads before the master of the red ship. Vilu stayed silent until the pitiful heap of provisions and plunder was piled in front of him. Lazily the stoat’s eyes flicked over the crewbeasts standing around the pile.
‘Is this the best you could do?’
One, a burly weasel called Rippjaw, shrugged. ‘Dat’s all we be findin’, cap’n!’
Vilu stood slowly, his eyes fixed on a necklace of yellow beads, which Rippjaw sported about his neck.
‘So, where did you get that trinket, my illiterate friend?’
Rippjaw glanced down at the necklace with his good eye. ‘Oh, diss. I take ’im offa deadbeast, cap’n.’
Vilu’s scimitar made a noise like an angry wasp as he slew the weasel with one powerful stroke of the sharp blade. With a look of bored disdain, he flicked the necklace from Rippjaw’s severed neck on to the pile.
‘Must I keep reminding you addlebrained fools that all loot belongs to me? You do not
steal from Vilu Daskar.’ He turned to the prisoners, as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Hmm, you’re a pretty wretched lot. No mind, though, you’ll soon learn to pull an oar – either that or die. Well, lost your tongues? Nobeast got anything to say?’
An ancient squirrel, silver-grey with uncounted seasons, raised his bound paws and pointed at Vilu. ‘The one that follows upon the wave, will steer you one day to your grave!’
The stoat could not explain the shudder that ran through him, but it was gone in an instant. He dismissed it, observing to Akkla, who stood awaiting orders, ‘I make it a rule never to take notice of threats by those I’ve conquered. If any of them were true I’d have been dead long ago. Take that dithering old relic and the rest of his tribe aboard the Goreleech, and chain them on deck.’
The captives were being moved off when wild commotion broke out at the woodland fringe. More than a score of crewbeasts fought wildly to control a single squirrel. Vilu leaped nimbly on to a grass-topped dune, viewing the scene with evident enjoyment. Noosed ropes held the maddened squirrel by her paws, neck, tail and waist. The vermin dug their footpaws into the sand, hauling on the lines to keep them taut and prevent her attacking them. She was a huge sinewy creature, with unusually black shining fur which glistened in the sunlight. Though wounded and scarred in several places, she heaved and bucked against the ropes, sending vermin sprawling, baring strong white teeth at them.
Stopping safely out of reach on his perch, Vilu smiled. ‘Whoa! What have we here, a real fighter?’
The searat Grigg, his paws cut and burning from rope friction, reported in a strained voice, ‘This’n’s killed four crew single-pawed, cap’n. ’Tis like tryin’ to ’old a pack o’ sharks at bay!’
Vilu leaped down from the dune. ‘Hold her tight, now!’ Advancing on the bound squirrel, he soon had his scimitar tip under her chin, forcing her head back.
‘Be still now. I am Vilu Daskar and I could kill you with a flick of my blade. Be still!’
Snorting for breath against the noose around her neck, the squirrel fixed her blazing eyes on the stoat, hatred and loathing ringing fearlessly in her harsh voice.
‘I know who you are, scumface. Let’s see you put down that blade an’ loose me. I’m Ranguvar Foeseeker an’ I could rip you t’bits without need of a weapon to do the job!’
Vilu pressed his bladepoint harder, causing a drop of blood to stand out against the jet black fur.
‘Ranguvar Foeseeker, eh? Hearken then, you’re in no position to throw out challenges, and I’ve no intention of fighting you. I don’t do battle with my slaves.’
Ranguvar tried to push her chin further on to the blade. ‘Coward! Then slay me an’ be quick about it!’
Vilu withdrew his scimitar, shaking his head. ‘Never thought I’d live to see the day, a berserk female squirrel! No no, my friend, I’m not going to slay you. What a waste that would be. With mad strength like that you could do the work of a score of oarslaves alone. A few seasons of Bullflay’s whip and short rations will humble you. Down on the bottom deck, front row. The seaspray day and night should cool you down a bit. Take her away!’
‘You won’t break me, dirtbrain,’ Ranguvar yelled as she was being dragged off. ‘Don’t close your eyes to sleep whilst Ranguvar Foeseeker is aboard your cursed ship!’
Vilu Daskar picked up a pawful of dry sand and watched the breeze carry it away, remarking to Grigg, ‘Huh, insults and threats, they’re like sand in the wind to me, Grigg: here one moment, gone and forgotten the next.’
Minus the use of oars, using only her sails, the red ship coursed south. Bullflay the chief slave driver and his assistants unchained all the galley slaves and herded them up on the trireme’s high maindeck. The Goreleech’s new squirrel captives were shocked by the sight of the oar-wielders. Starved to emaciation, hollow-eyed and ragged, barely alive in some cases, the wretched slaves blinked against the bright afternoon. Bullflay cracked his long sharkskin whip low, pulling several of the slaves flat as it curled around their footpaws.
‘On yer knees, ye worthless fishbait, don’t yer see the cap’n’s present?’
Ranguvar had been chained and covered with a weighted cargo net, through which she watched the scene.
A huge baulk of timber had been attached to a rope reeved through a block halfway up the mainmast. Vilu stuck his scimitar into the mainmast at shoulder height.
‘I’ve brought you thirty-six new oarbeasts, Bullflay. How many do you need?’
The big fat weasel saluted with his fearsome whip. ‘I’ll take every one you got, cap’n Vilu!’
The pirate stoat signalled for some refreshment and a seat. Hurriedly four crew members brought his chair, a flagon of his favourite damson wine and a grilled fish. Seated comfortably he picked delicately at the fish and sipped wine from a crystal goblet, watched by the hungry slaves. Wiping his lips on a silken kerchief he nodded briefly to his chief slave driver.
Bullflay grabbed the rope which had been reeved through the block and hauled on it until the baulk of timber was hoisted level with the scimitar sticking from the mast. ‘Haul the wood this high, or else!’ He let the baulk drop to the deck. The weary oarslaves stood in line for their turn to haul up the baulk. Then he picked up his whip and cracked it over the new arrivals. ‘Come on, you lot, get below. We’ll get yer chained up to an oar nice an’ tidy like. Hahaharr!’
Getting the black squirrel Ranguvar below was an awesome task. Keeping her bundled in the cargo net a score of vermin dragged her through the decks until she was at the front seat of the vessel’s bottom level. Eight of the Sea Rogues suffered wounds and injuries, but they finally got the berserker chained alone to a long thick oar handle. Ranguvar sat relatively quiet. She waited until the other oarslaves were brought down and shackled into place at the sweeps. She questioned one, a tired old otter, who looked as if he had seen many seasons slaving.
‘What was all that about up on deck, the timber an’ the rope? Why did you have to haul it up, all of you?’
The otter blinked back a tear from his craggy face. ‘Didn’t yer know, mate? Vilu Daskar an’ Bullflay got to ’ave their bit o’ fun. Thirty-six new oarslaves means they got to get rid of thirty-six old ’uns, so they finds the sickest’n’weakest by makin’ us hoist the log.’
‘What happens to those who can’t haul the log?’ Ranguvar could not stop herself asking.
The otter’s husky voice shook as he explained. ‘That’s when the real sport starts, mate. They sails the red ship out ’til land’s too far away for a fit beast to swim back to it, then they runs out a plank. Vilu gives the pore creatures their freedom, tells ’em they’re free to swim back t’shore an’ forces ’em t’walk the plank.’
Ranguvar’s fur stood up on the nape of her neck. ‘Do any ever make it, friend?’
‘What d’you think? You saw the state of some o’ those slaves. If’n the big fishes don’t get ’em the sea does.’
Ranguvar turned and murmured softly, ‘Well at least you survived it. What’s yore name?’
Bowing his head until it touched the oar the otter replied, ‘Norgle’s my name. My father’s name was Drenner, he used to sit where yore sittin’ now, that’s his oars yore chained to. My ole dad was one of those who couldn’t haul the log.’
Slaaaash! Crack!
‘Shaddup, yer scurvy bilge swabs!’
Slavemaster Bullflay swaggered up to his rail, directly in front of Ranguvar. He wielded the whip at Norgle, but the black squirrel sat up straight and took the blow. A big skinny rat positioned himself alongside Bullflay. Picking up a drumstick, he stood ready at the big drum which was used to keep the oarslaves pulling in time with each other.
Bullflay winked at him, nodding towards Ranguvar. ‘See that, Fleabitt? Cap’n Vilu said this squirrel’s a real tough ’un. We’ll ’ave ter pay ’er some special attention, won’t we?’
Fleabitt’s narrow frame shook with unconcealed glee. ‘Special attention, right, chief. We’ll learn ’er!’
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Ranguvar’s piercing stare raked the rat scornfully. ‘What could I learn from you, cocklebrain?’
Craaack!
Buliflay’s whip struck her. Ranguvar transferred her dead stare to him without even blinking.
‘Is that the best you can do, barrelbelly?’
Choking with rage the burly weasel flogged away at his new oarslave, using all his strength. When he finished his stomach was heaving in and out, and both his paws were shaking violently with the exertion.
‘You . . . you dare talk ter Slavemaster Bullflay like that! I’ll flay yer to dollrags!’
Ranguvar, who had ducked her head to protect her face, raised her eyes. There was death dancing in them as she growled at Bullflay, ‘You big useless lump o’ mud, one day I’ll kill yer with my bare paws, even if’n I have to bite through these chains to get at yer. Remember that, weasel!’
Bullflay could not bring himself to answer, or raise his whip again. Ranguvar’s eyes had frightened him. He strode off down the walkway, laying left and right with his whip at the other oarslaves.
‘Silence there, quiet! An’ be ready ter row when my drum starts to beat, if you want t’keep fur on yore backs!’
Two hours after daybreak next morning a searat called down from his watch in the crow’s nest, ‘Away to the north, a sail, cap’n, a sail!’
Vilu Daskar leaned out over the stern of the Goreleech, shading his eyes, peering hard at the faraway smudge.
‘Sail? Are you sure? What kind of craft is she?’
‘Too far off t’tell, cap’n sir, but ’tis a sail fer sure!’
Akkla kept the tiller steady, awaiting Vilu’s order.
Striding the afterdeck, the pirate stoat stroked the yellowed bone handle of his scimitar pensively. ‘Hmm, a sail, eh? How far off are the Twin Islands, Akkla?’
‘We could make ’em by tomorrow midday wid all sail an’ full speed on the oars, cap’n.’
His eyes still fixed on the far-off object, Vilu replied, ‘Too fast, we’d lose her. No ship can keep up with mine under full sail and oars. Take her to half sail and tell Bullflay to set the rowers a steady beat. We’ll let her keep us in sight, and that way we’ll land at Twin Islands tomorrow night. Set your tiller south and a point west.’