"Did ya see dat, why'd 'e pick on me, wot did I say?"
Feerog supported his friend. "Yarr, sometimes der cap'n will belt ya jus' fer lookin' at 'im d'wrong way. It ain't right, mates!"
Grivel poured forth his grievances against the captain of the Bludgullet. "Aye, an' why'd we waste a whole season sailin' round der Northland coasts, wot's ter be gained there, eh?"
There were nods, and mutters of agreement as Feerog took up the cause. "Couple o' sacks o' veggibles an' some grain. Huh, an' a crazy stripe'ound. We coulda been in the southern isles, at least 'tis alius warm there."
A runty old weasel, Snikey, spoke his piece. "Cap'n must 'ave 'ad 'is reasons, any'ow we're sailin' clear o' the Northlands now, ain't we?"
Grivel's voice was thick with bitterness. "But we ain't bound fer no southern isles, are we? I'll wager der cap'n's
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got dis ship 'eaded for the Western shores, an' ye know wot dat means, don't ya?"
Feerog slammed his knifepoint into the mess table. "Aye, Vizka Longtooth wants ter do wot Windflin Wildbrush couldn't. Kill dat ole stripe'ound an' 'is rabbets, an' make 'imself king o' der mountain!"
Snikey shrugged. "I'd sooner live on a mountain than be stuck aboard dis tub all me life."
This was the chance Grivel had been waiting for. Grabbing Snikey, he head-butted the runty old weasel hard. Still holding Snikey, he kicked open the cabin door, and flung him, half-stunned, out onto the deck, growling at him. "We ain't gittin' slayed in battle, jus' ter make Longtooth famous. An' remember this, ya liddle sneak, one werd to Vizka or Codj, an' yore a deadbeast!" Slamming the door, Grivel winked at the others. "I caught 'im a good 'un, split 'is nose, stinkin' tale-carrier. I've never trusted dat weasel!"
A black rat, called Durgy, shook his head. "Ya did der wrong thing there, mate, everybeast knows Snikey's the cap'n's spy, 'is mouth'll 'ave t'be shut fer good, or 'e'll go blabbin' ter Longtooth."
Feerog pulled his knife from the tabletop. "Yore right, I'll see to it dat Snikey slips off nice'n'quiet-like."
Late afternoon found the weather still overcast, but calm. Gorath stayed huddled against the mast, where he had been since early morning. The pangs of seasickness had left him, and the pain in his wounded forehead had calmed somewhat. Nobeast had bothered him all day, though he was aware of Codj watching him from a distance.
Then the cook, a greasy, bloated ratwife, dragged a cauldron along the deck, halting where she knew the chained prisoner could not reach. Taking the lid from the cauldron, she began stirring it, yelling in a shrill voice, "Come an' get yore vittles, afore I tosses 'em overboard!"
The aroma of cooked food assailed Gorath's nostrils, and he realised how desperately hungry he was. The crew
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lined up with their bowls and dishes as she began slopping out steaming ladles of the mixture. Even Vizka attended, holding out a basin, and questioning the cook as she filled it to the brim with the mixture.
"Mmmm, this smells good, wot is it, Glurma?"
She gave Vizka a snaggletoothed grin. "Me own special skilley, Cap'n, carrots'n'turnips, oats an' herbs, wid lots o' shrimp an' mackerel in it!"
Vizka winked broadly at the vermin crew, who were sitting out of Gorath's reach, eating their meal. "Yarr, dat'll put der twinkle back in yore eyes, buckoes!" They made a great show of blowing on the hot skilley and scooping it up, some with their grimy bare paws.
Vizka knew just how far the chain would allow his captive to roam. Carefully, he placed the filled bowl out of the young badger's reach, and began coaxing him. "Come an' taste it, friend, ya must be starvin', eh?" Gorath uncovered his head and stared at the bowl, but he made no move for it. Vizka continued taunting. "Good vittles, shrimp an' fishes from der Northland coast, an' veggibles from yore farm, try some."
Gorath rose; he staggered forward to the end of the chain, reaching out. The crew laughed uproariously at his vain attempts to reach the bowl. The badger gave up, and went to sit with his back to the mast.
The golden fox dipped a paw in the bowl and sucked it. "Real good dis is, Rock'ead. Tell ya wot, I'll move it closer if'n ya speak ter me."
Gorath locked eyes with the smiling fox, but kept silent. Something in those eyes made Vizka feel nervous, the smile fell from his face and he snarled.
"Widout food yore a deadbeast. Speak!"
Then the badger spoke. "You will die before I do. You, and that other one." Here he nodded toward Codj. "And as many of these scum as I can take with me. So don't waste your time talking, I don't speak with beasts who are already dead to me."
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Vizka leapt up, quivering. "You'll beg me ta die afore I'm done wid ya!" He kicked the bowl, sending it into the sea. The golden fox strode back to his cabin, with Codj trotting in his wake.
"I told ya we shoulda killed 'im, Cap'n!"
Vizka shoved Codj into the cabin ahead of him. "Shut yore mouth, idjit, der crew can 'ear ya!"
Nobeast noticed Durgy sidle up to the rail and sit beside Snikey. The runty weasel was licking inside his empty bowl, when the black rat murmured into his ear softly.
"Did ya see dat? Waste o' good vittles, der way our cap'n kicked dat bowl o' skilley overboard. I coulda ate dat extra bowl, couldn't you, mate?"
Snikey stared into his empty bowl. "Aye."
"Den why doncha go an' gerrit, spy!"
Snikey fell backward into the sea from the rail, a look of shock on his face, and Durgy's blade between his ribs. Grivel and Feerog quickly filled the vacant space at the rail. Durgy nodded at the sea.
"Snikey's just gone ter get more skilley."
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6
There was not a single cloud on Maudie (the Hon.) Mugs-berry Thropple's horizon. The young haremaid did not even feel the weight of the haversack on her back as she skipped blithely along the dunetops. She, among all other hares at Salamandastron, had been chosen to go on this most important quest. Once more, she went over the instructions, which had been drummed into her by Lord Asheye and Major Mullein.
"Find a bloomin' badger. One who knows not his own strength. A beast from the simple life, who shuns armour, an' knows not the sword. Er, what else? Oh yes, he's got destiny marked on his blinkin' brow, an' er, what next?"
She paused on one paw, wrinkling her nose. "Er... er ... gottit! He walks with a banished one, an' a flame, that's it. Find him an' haul the blighter back to the jolly old mountain. Oh, well remembered, that, maid!" Still balancing on one paw, she took stock of her position.
To the west, the great sea was an expanse of turquoise and blue, twinkling under a clear summer sky. Below her was the coastline shore, sweeping up into the dunes. Ahead, and off to the right, lay heath, low hills and scrubland, with a fringe of treeline in the distance. Not having the faintest idea where she was going, Maudie picked up
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a pawful of sand. She tossed it into the air, calling aloud, "I say, Mother Nature old thing, which way do I go now?" Incoming sea breezes blew the sand grains off toward the distant trees. Maudie threw a casual salute to the sky. "Thankee, marm, the woodlands it is!"
Setting herself a brisk pace, she marched off, still trying to repeat the instructions. "Find a blinkin' badger with destiny marked on his armour, or somethin' like that. Er, one who shuns the simple sword for life, an' walks with a confounded fear of a flamin' banished one. Oh, my giddy aunt! Not to worry, Maudie old gel, you'll know the blighter when you trip over him, wot!"
Having spent her first night out camped in the dunes, Maudie had broken her fast in the early morn, with a dried crust of oatbread and a swig of water. She complained to herself as she marched through the scrubland.
"Huh, a skinny old crust an' a single gobful of water. What sort of food's that to give an expert cook? I'll bet the chaps back at the mess are crammin' their fat faces with all kinds of fascinatin' fodder. Right, that's it! As soon as I get the chance I'm goin' to whip up a good cooked lunch for m'self!" The thought of hot food cheered Maudie up no end. Never downhearted for long, the incorrigible haremaid broke out into song, making up the words as she went along.