The crew laughed dutifully at their captain’s feeble joke. Balid, the water-throwing weasel, called out, “Sink me, Cap’n, ’e must ’ave a t’ick ’ead, if’n ye couldn’t slay ’im wid two blows o’ yer weppin.” Balid had said the wrong thing, it was obvious by the pall of silence which fell over the crew.
The golden fox’s heavy cape swirled as he rounded on Balid. “I’m Vizka Longtooth, cap’n o’ der Bludgullet, an’ I didn’t kill dat ’un ’cos I wants ’im alive. So wot d’ye say to dat, Balid? Who did yew slay, tell me?” Vizka saw the weasel’s paws trembling as he bowed in abject apology.
“Beggin’ y’pardon, Cap’n, I was wid Codj. We never slayed anybeast. Alls wot we did was set fire to der farm ’ouse an’ locked de two ole stripe’ounds inside, so they couldn’t gerrout.”
That was the second slip of Balid’s tongue. It was also his last. With a maddened roar, Gorath launched himself at the weasel. The shortness of the chain prevented him from actually getting hold of Balid, but as the chain went taut, Gorath strained against it, lashing out with one paw. It connected with the weasel’s neck, slaying him stone dead.
Suddenly, Vizka Longtooth was yelling. “Back! Get back, all of ye! Stay outta dat beast’s way!” The vermin crew needed no second urging, they scattered to the for’ard and aft deckrails, away from Gorath’s reach.
Codj the fox, who was Vizka’s younger brother and second in command, took up the big pitchfork, which he had taken from Gorath’s unconscious body at the farmhouse. “Balid wuz my mate, I’ll kill ’im fer dat!”
Vizka stayed his brother’s paw. “No, ye won’t. I wants Rock’ead kep’ alive.”
Codj scratched at his tail stump. “Alive, wot for?”
The golden fox chuckled, nodding toward Gorath. “Ye’d lose a sight more’n ya tailstump, if’n yew tried tacklin’ dat ’un. Look close at ’im.”
Both foxes watched Gorath carefully. He was making sweeping lunges at everything, from the limits of the taut chain which held him to the mast. His powerful, blunt-clawed paws were flexing, seeking to tear and destroy anything, or anybeast. Gorath was panting hoarsely, foam flecking over his bared teeth. Fearful roars emerged from his heaving chest. But it was the badger’s eyes which struck terror into the beholders. They were suffused totally with dark red blood. The Sea Raiders’ young captive had become transformed into a ravening beast, in the grip of some awesome madness.
Vizka took the pitchfork from his brother, showing his impressive teeth as he whispered, “Aye, Stumple, ’avin’ no tail’d be der least o’ yer worries if’n yer went near Rock’ead!”
Codj shot a resentful glance at his brother—he hated the nickname Stumple. It had come about after losing his tail in a fight when he was young. He spat sullenly in Gorath’s direction. “Dat beast’s crazy mad, ’e should be slain, I tell ya. If’n ye won’t let me do d’job, then kill ’im yerself!”
Vizka called out orders to his crew. “Steer clear o’ dat beast, don’t feed ’im or give ’im water. Set course due south ’til I tells yer diff’rent. I’ll be in me cabin wid Codj.” Keeping a safe distance from Gorath, the golden fox steered his brother round to the captain’s cabin.
Pouring out two beakers of seaweed grog, Vizka gave one to Codj, explaining his reasons for keeping Gorath alive. “Lissen, I ’eard once about stripe’ounds like dat one. Some calls ’em Berserks, but ole Windflin said it was summat called der Bloodwrath.”
Codj held out his beaker for a refill. “Ya mean Windflin Wildbrush, der great Sea Raider?”
Vizka nodded. “Aye, dat was ’im. Well, let me tell ya, Windflin was slayed by a stripe’ound wot ’ad der Bloodwrath. It was at dat place wid a funny name, Sammer-strong I t’ink, a big mountain castle, far down der sou’west shores. They says der beast wot killed Windflin was an ole stripe’ound called Asheye, a real mad Bloodwrath beast who couldn’t be defeated.”
Codj took a swallow of the foul-smelling grog. “Huh, ’e musta been a champeen fighter ter slay der great Windflin Wildbrush! But if’n Bloodwrath beasts are so dangerous, why do ya want to keep one alive? Best cure for any madbeast is to kill ’im quick!”
Vizka winked slyly at his younger brother. “Nah, ya don’t turn a beast like our Rock’ead inta fishbait, ’e’s vallible. I got plans fer ’im.”
Codj was intrigued by his brother’s words. “Plans?”
Vizka expanded upon his scheme. “Aye, plans. If’n I could break Rock’ead, an’ tame ’im, jus’ imagine dat! We’d ’ave a one-beast army, we’d be der terror of d’land an’ sea!”
Codj was not wholly convinced. “Did ya see der way Rock’ead slayed pore Balid? Huh, one smack of ’is paw was all it took. I never seen nobeast wid dat sorta strength. So ’ow are ya goin’ ter tame der beast if’n ye can’t get near ’im?”
Vizka shook his handsome golden head pityingly. “’Tis a gud job I’m der brudder wid der brains. Ain’t you ’eard dat ’unger an’ thirst are de best tamers of all? We jus’ keeps Rock’ead chained t’der mast, an’ starve ’im inter my way o’ thinkin’. Hah, ’e’ll do like I says, or perish, ’ow’s dat fer a gud idea, eh?”
Codj was in awe of his older brother’s wisdom. “No wonder yore cap’n o’ der Bludgullet! Er, an’ why are we sailin’ south?”
Vizka commandeered the grog flask, as Codj was about to pour himself more grog. “We’re goin’ south ’cos dat’s my orders. Aye, an’ I ain’t goin’ down as far as dat Sammerstrung mountain. Let fools like Windflin get theirselves slayed by madbeasts. I tell ya, dere’s lotsa places where der livin’ is soft. Good vittles, loot an’ plunder, dat’s wot I’m after, Codj, an’ I don’t want ta fight for dem either!”
Codj stared ruefully into his empty beaker. “So ’ow d’yer plan on doin’ all dat?”
The golden fox spread his paws disarmingly. “Rock’ead can take care of all der fightin’ an’ killin’ fer us, once I got ’im trained proper.”
All of this sounded quite good to Codj, but he still had unanswered questions. “But if’n we ain’t sailin’ for der stripe’ound mountain, where else are ya plannin’ on goin’?”
Vizka poured him more grog. “Don’t bother yore ’ead over dat, brudder, I’ll find someplace. Yew go about yer bizness an’ leave it t’me. I’ll look out for ya, Codj.”
But the stumptailed fox was still not satisfied. “Wot’ll dis place be like?”
Vizka pondered a moment before answering. “T’will be a place where I kin rule, jus’ like a king!”
Codj persisted. “Like a king, eh, an’ worrabout me?”
The golden fox patted his brother’s back. “Yew kin be cap’n o’ der Bludgullet, dat’s wot!”
The younger fox’s tailstump quivered with joy. “Me, a real cap’n? Bludd’n’tripes, ya won’t regret it, brudder. I’ll be der best cap’n in all der seas, jus’ yew wait’n see. Heeheehee, me, a cap’n!”
Vizka ushered him to the cabin door. “Aye, yew a cap’n. Now go an’ keep Bludgullet onna straight south course, an’ don’t strain yer brains wid too much thinkin’. Oh, an’ remind der crew t’stay clear o’ Rock’ead, an’ not t’give ’im any vittles, norra crumb nor a drop, unnerstand?”
Grinning foolishly, Codj threw a clumsy salute. “Aye aye, Cap’n, unnerstood, Cap’n!” He held the salute, standing there grinning, until Vizka was forced to enquire.
“Well, wot d’ya want?”
Codj giggled inanely, winking several times. “Ain’t ya gonna say ‘aye aye, Cap’n’ back ter me?”
The golden fox frowned. “No, I ain’t, yore norrin charge aboard dis ship yet, I’m still cap’n, gerron wid ya werk!” He slammed the door in his younger brother’s face.
Codj looked crestfallen, but only for a brief moment. He brightened up, swaggering off along the deck, practising his role of captain-to-be. Selecting a small, puny-looking rat, Codj jabbed his rump with Gorath’s pitchfork, and issued him gruff orders. “Tell der steersbeast t’keep ’er on a south course! Make dem lines fast, an’ swab
dat deck! But firstly fetch me some vikkles from der galley! Go on, ’op to it!”
Pleasantly surprised that his commands had been carried out so promptly, Codj perched on the rail, out of the prisoner’s reach. Making a great show of lip smacking, he applied himself to a bowl of hot soup and a tankard of beer, taunting Gorath. “Haharr, would ya like some vikkles, Rock’ead?”
The young badger crouched silently beside the mast, his forehead wound congealed into a huge, ugly scab. This had been induced by the late Balid, drenching him with pails of cold seawater. Gorath’s dark eyes smouldered with hatred at his captor, but he did not rise to the mocking fox’s bait. However, Codj continued as he ate.
“Mmmm, nice drop o’ soup dis, made wid veggibles from yore farm it was. Beer’s tasty, too, did yew brew it, or was it de old ’uns? Heehee, dey ain’t got much use fer eatin’ an’ drinkin’ now, ’ave they?”
With a sudden roar, Gorath charged his tormentor, giving out a strangled grunt as he was jolted to a halt by the chain. Shocked by the speed of the badger’s rush, Codj jerked backward, spilling soup and beer over himself. Recovering himself, he sneered.
“Shame ya can’t git yore paws on me, ain’t it? Ya look t’irsty, I’ll give ye annuder drink, eh!” Lowering a pail into the sea, Codj flung it over Gorath. The young badger stood unmoving, he did not even blink his eyes as the cold salt water lashed over him. Some of the vermin crew, who were watching, laughed at Codj’s feeble attempt to rouse the prisoner further. This drove the stumptailed fox into a rage. He began shouting at Gorath. “Did ya like dat likkle drink, Rock’ead, d’ya want some more, eh? Ahoy, thick’ead Rock’ead, I said d’ya want some more, ye can talk, can’t ya?”
Gorath stared unblinkingly at him, then spoke. “I can talk, but I don’t waste my breath speaking to deadbeasts.”
With an expression of comical surprise on his face, Codj looked around at his shipmates. “Did ya ’ear dat? De stripe’ound called me a deadbeast! Idjit, I t’ink Vizka musta knocked yore brains loose when ’e belted ya wid ’is mace. Can’t ya see I’m still alive an’ kickin’? See, I’ll give ya anudder drink, jus’ to prove it!”
Even as the contents of the pail sloshed over him, Gorath was still staring at his torturer. This time his voice was dismissive, heavy with contempt.
“You murdered my kinbeasts, so I’m going to kill you. I’ve said all I have to say to yo…deadbeast!”
Dark blood began rising in Gorath’s eyes, clouding them with the fury of Bloodwrath. At that point, Codj’s nerve deserted him. Dropping the pail, he fled aft. Still dripping water, the young badger stood, staring after his mortal enemy.
3
With Salamandastron, his beloved fortress, at his back, Lord Asheye sat on his favourite rock, not far from the front entrance of the mighty mountain stronghold. Turning seaward, the ancient badger sniffed salt-laden air, mingling with the softer aroma of landward breezes. Producing a big, spotted kerchief from his dressing gown sleeve, he blew his snout loudly, and inhaled again. Ah yes, spring was finally done, it was the first day of summer. Tapping the butt of his yew staff against the rock, he hummed one of the Long Patrol hares’ marching songs, singing along mentally with the tune.
“Can ye see the golden gorse on the heath,
an’ dainty pale blue flax upon the plain,
do ye feel the dewy grass underneath,
then step lively, ’tis summertime again!
“Oh we’ll tramp, tramp, tramp!
if the sergeant says we must.
Aye, we’ll left, right, left!
’til our paws raise up the dust!
With me blade ever ready at my side,
an’ a knapsack full o’ vittles on me back,
I’ll go rangin’ over hills far an’ wide,
an’ good comrades like you I’ll never lack!
“Oh, we’ll march, march, march!
’til our paws are droppin’ off,
until it’s one, two, halt!
Tell the cook to serve the scoff!”
Lord Asheye allowed himself a rueful smile. Those were the days! Long gone seasons, when he would go roving forth at the head of his Long Patrol. Some of those hares had been sprightly paced, but he could outmarch them all. Aye, those were the days of his strength and prime, full of exuberant power and speed. In those times, there was none to equal Lord Asheye. Nobeast possessed his reckless daring in battle.
He gripped his staff tight, sighed deeply, then released his hold on the stout yew pole. Ah, but then…no creature had the Bloodwrath like him. What had been a boon in youth and war had become a curse in old age and peacetime. Now the countless seasons weighed upon his silvered fur like a millstone. Now he was paying the price for that wild life he had led. The great badger’s mighty frame was bent with age, old wounds he had taken were a toll on his stiff limbs.
But the worst penalty by far was his blindness. All those blows and injuries he had sustained, whilst fighting heedlessly in the grip of Bloodwrath. Asheye had paid for them with the loss of his sight. He heaved himself from his seat on the rock, stepped awkwardly upon a small boulder and tripped. Blowing sand from both nostrils, the once-great beast reached out, scrabbling vainly for the staff, which seemed to elude his paws. Lord Asheye smiled bitterly, muttering aloud to himself, “As blind as a badger, hah, where’ve I heard that before?”
A stout paw passed him the staff, and helped him upright. “’T’wasn’t me that said it, sah, you’d have prob’ly taken my bonce off with a single biff, if I had, wot!” The Badger Lord immediately identified the speaker by his firm grip and drawn-out speech mode.
“Ah, Mull, take me inside, will you please.”
Major Mullein Braggwuth Barshaw was a tall, distinguished hare. He wore the dark blue, silver-buttoned tunic of Salamandastron’s Commanding Scout Major. Other hares, those of his rank and above, referred to him as Mull. A strict disciplinarian, expert scout and formidable fighter, Mull had been constantly at his Lord’s side in the last few seasons. The pair shared a friendship that went back a long way. Mull steered Asheye toward the main fortress door, chatting leisurely.
“Inside it is, sah, teatime doncha know, hot scones, dab o’ meadowcream, strawb’rry preserve, an’ mint tea, wot! A charmin’ an’ delicious daily ritual, sah!”
The old Badger Lord shuffled past the main door into a vast, rough-hewn corridor, whose walls were adorned with family crests, suits of armour, fearsome weapons and regimental flags. Lowering his voice, Asheye confided to his companion, “Let’s not go into the large Mess Hall. Have them send tea up to my forge room, Mull. I need to speak with you in private. Too much din in that Mess Hall.”
Major Mullein nodded. “Right y’are, sah.” He signalled to a pair of young hares who were on their way to the mess. “Tringle, Furps, nip along and see the Quartermaster Sarn’t, will ye. Tell him to set out two trays of afternoon tea for us, bring ’em up to the forge room, if y’d be so kind.”
The youngsters both threw the Major a smart salute. Furp’s sister, Tringle, smiled impudently at Mullein. “Both with cream’n’jam, Major?”
Lord Asheye glared her way in mock severity. “With extra cream and jam, young miss. Oh, and Furps, remember which is your left paw and which is your right. Don’t go tripping and spilling any, eh.”
Furps bowed awkwardly and stumbled against Tringle. “Oh er, ah, hmm, no trippin’ an’ spillin’, do m’best, y’lordship, I certainly will, wot!”
Both young hares shouted simultaneously, “On y’marks! Get set! Go!” They bounded off at top speed. Major Mullein chuckled.
“Stap me, sah, those two haven’t stopped racing against each other since the day they were born.”
The old badger made a shrewd observation. “That’s because they both want to be runners in your Scout Patrol, Mull.”
The Major was surprised that Asheye concerned himself with such small details. However, he hid his feelings with a languid drawl. “Do they really, I hadn’t noticed, sah.”
Lord Asheye sat on the low, wide sill, beckoning the Major to sit beside him. Mullein had been in the forge room many times, yet he still could not help staring in wonder at the weapons which hung from its walls.
Most of them were made for Warrior Badgers, huge spears, hefty shields, stout longbows with arrows almost as tall as himself, and swords. Such swords they were, legendary weapons of massive proportions, broad-bladed, double-pawed hilts, far too heavy for any but a Badger Lord to wield.
Asheye spread his big, greasy forge apron on the sill between them as a knock sounded on the door. “Ah, the tea. Come in, please!”
It was the first time Furps and Tringle had been permitted to enter this inner sanctum. Their heads swivelled from side to side, trying to take in everything.
Major Mullein hid a smile, cautioning them, “Eyes front, chaps, look where you’re jolly well goin’. Lose that tea an’ I’ll have your tails for dinner, an’ your guts for garters.”
Wobbling slightly, the two young hares made their way to the sill and placed the trays down gingerly. Lord Asheye gave their ears a gentle tug.
“Well done, you two. Now, let’s see who’ll be first back to the mess. On y’marks…get set…go!”
They flew off like twin arrows, with the Major shouting, “I say, shut that door on y’way out! Oh never mind, I’ll jolly well do it myself, wot!” He rose and went to shut the door. “Now, sah, what were y’wantin’ to chinwag about, eh, wot?” Mullein spread a substantial-looking scone with strawberry preserve and thick meadowcream.
Eulalia! Page 2