The Rogue Crew (27 page)

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 nought 'til I've 'ad me fill!”

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!”

He lifted Drogbuk's head and let it drop again. The old hedgehog snuffled briefly, then resumed snoring.

Razzid took up his trident, giving orders to Shekra. “Lock this cabin after me. Let nobeast in 'ere. Watch'im an' let me know when'e comes round.”

The vixen settled down with a small beaker of grog when Razzid had departed. She felt quite pleased with the way things were working out. Redwall Abbey, in sunny countryside, peace and plenty. What more could a fox want?

It was a moonless night out on the marsh. The two trackers, Ricker the searat, and Voogal the ferret, had not gone far. The supply of food and grog they had taken from
Greenshroud
's galley interested them more than what seemed like a pointless task. Finding a relatively safe spot, they made camp and lit a small fire. Sitting with their backs against a fallen alder trunk, they broke out the rations.

Ricker sampled a stodgy mess, then, pulling a wry face, spat it out. “Yurk! Wot's this supposed ter be?”

Voogal sampled the lumpy mass, seeming to like it. “Skilly'n'duff, wot'd dried up inna pan. It's good stuff, mate. Yore too fussy, that's yore trouble!”

Ricker uncorked a large earthenware flask. He drank from it, then put it aside, making the same pained expression. “This is Strong Addersting grog. Why didn't ye take some o' the good stuff, like Blistery Barnacle?”

Voogal took a swig, nodding approval. “Nothin' wrong wid Strong Addersting, it's me favourite. Now, is there anythin' else to complain about, fussbucket?”

The searat scowled. “Less o' the fussbucket, ye great slopbin. Yew'd shove anythin' down yore face!”

His ferret shipmate put some of the cold skilly'n'duff on the fire to warm. He watched it sizzle. “I'm glad I'm a slopbin an' not a fussbucket like yew. Complainin' an' moanin', that's all yore good for!”

Ricker pointed indignantly to himself. “Wot me, a moaner an' complainer? Hah, wot've I got ter moan an' complain about, eh? Sent off on an idjit's errand, wanderin' round inna dark, covered in stinkin' marsh slop, an' all because the cap'n wants ter git 'is paws on two stoopid liddle 'ogs. Ho, no, bucko, I ain't complainin'. Lookit me—I'm 'avin' the time o' me life!”

Voogal prodded the mass on the fire with a twig. “Then whilst yore enjoyin' yerself so much, ye'd best start thinkin' of wot we're gonna tell Razzid when we gits back t'the ship widout any 'edge'og prisoners, 'cos I can't see 'ow we're supposed t'find 'em in this neighbour'ood, kin yew?”

Ricker stood up. Shielding his eyes, he tried to peer beyond the fire into the darkness, calling mockingly, “Ahoy there, me darlin' liddle 'ogs! Come on out 'ere. Me'n nice ole Uncle Voogal 'ave got vittles an' grog for ye. Don't be shy, now, come on out—graaaagh!”

He was tossed over backward as a huge, dark shape swooped on him, ripping the left ear from his head. It was Sircolo the marsh harrier.

Voogal had not fully comprehended what was going on. Hearing Ricker's agonised yell, he leapt up, drawing his blade. “Ricker, are ye alright, mate? Wot was it?”

Apart from another screech of pain, that was as far as the searat got. Peeved that he had missed his quarry, Sircolo made a lightning turn, striking Ricker with both sets of talons and a savage beak.

From where he crouched on the other side of the alder trunk, the ferret watched in frozen horror as the feathered hunter despatched Ricker with swift savagery. The mighty bird lifted his prey bodily, launching off into the night air. Blood spattered Voogal as he stared upward. The mighty wings flapped, and both Sircolo and Ricker vanished into the darkness.

The ferret gave an unearthly yell. Taking to his paws, he left food, drink and the campfire deserted. Hurtling off willy-nilly into the marshy scrubland, Voogal ran as he had never run before. Brush and gorse scratched at him like attacking claws. He stumbled, breaking through the marsh crust several times, but scrabbling swiftly free, he continued his flight. Completely panicked, he blundered on, unknowingly following the path of the very beasts he had set out to pursue. The ferret's only thought was to get out of the range of the giant winged predator.