The Rogue Crew

The face of a Wearat is a sight to instill fear and loathing in any creature. Two narrow eyes, crimson, with small green pupils, a huge, squat head sparsely coated with hair, save for the stiff mane at the back. A short, broad muzzle, with a sheen like polished leather, beneath which yellowed fangs jut in all directions. Truly a beast that should never have been born, an obscure hybrid that cannot be categorised with anybeast.

Some were of the opinion a Wearat was part weasel, part water rat. Nobeast knew. One thing was beyond doubt, however. A Wearat was the embodiment of nightmare, with a vicious nature that knew no bounds. It revelled in blood and death.

One such rare savage was Razzid Wearat, the most barbarous of all seagoing vermin. From his fortress on the Isle of Irgash in the warm southern seas, he emerged like a hurricane of destruction. His ship was the Greenshroud, a long, swift galley. From sailtops to hull, the entire vessel was green. It carried a single bank of oars, twoscore port and starboard. Aft of its square-sailed mainmast were two lateen sails, tall billowing triangles. The mainsail bore the Mark of the Wearat, a trident head, with two evil eyes between the forked prongs. Greenshroud was crewed by vermin corsairs spurred on by the promise of plunder.

The season that Razzid struck coasts and settlements both sides of Mossflower Country became known as the Winter of Slaughter. The speed with which Razzid raided helpless creatures was swift and ruthless. He left in his wake the flames of desolation and death, smouldering ruins which made his name a byword for terror.

Razzid’s Seer and Soothsayer, the vixen Shekra, cast her shells, bones, feathers and stones, advising him on all his wicked enterprises. It was, therefore, his own fault when he ignored her warning to steer clear of the High North Coast. Defenceless creatures, and easy victories, made the Wearat overconfident—he laughed scornfully.

“The only trouble I have is tryin’ to get somebeast that’ll stand an’ fight me. All I ever see is timid creatures turnin’ tail an’ runnin’ away. Right, Mowlag?”

Greenshroud’s first mate, the searat Mowlag, agreed promptly. “Ain’t never seen a beast with the guts to stan’ an’ face ye, Razzid. Yore the terror o’ land and sea, sure enough!”

Razzid kicked Shekra’s collection of omen givers scornfully. “Hah—mumbo jumbo, shells’n’feathers! Set a course for the High North Coast, Mowlag!”

The decision was Razzid Wearat’s greatest mistake, for he met Skor Axehound and his sea otter warriors. Expecting nobeast to stand in his way, Razzid pressed on. Reaching the High North Coast, he made a swift foray inshore, speeded by a blustering, snowy gale at his stern. The corsair crew daubed their faces with war paint, following their captain. Razzid leapt overboard into the rough grey waters, brandishing his trident, with the crew all around him roaring, “A Wearat! A Wearat! Death’s on the wiiiiiind!”

Sea otters were fighters and not fools. The lookouts of Skor Axehound had sighted Greenshroud as she hove into land. They were waiting in force for him. Carrying thick birchbark shields, armed from tooth to rudder with axes, spears, swords, clubs, slings and bows, they ambushed the would-be raiders. Razzid and his crew were caught waist deep in the sea, facing battle-eager beasts, the Warchief Skor and his Rogue Crew. That day the snow-flecked water of the Northern Sea was dyed crimson with vermin blood. The fury of Skor’s otters was so great that the Wearat, and the remnants of his defeated crew, were forced to beat a blundering retreat. Clambering aboard Greenshroud, they tried to get underway. But the slingstones, spears and fire arrows of sea otters hammered their vessel.

Greenshroud finally managed to struggle off, with sails and stern gallery ablaze, lines and rigging popping as the fire took hold, and the added handicap of a damaged tiller. Skor and his warriors stood in the shallows, banging weapons on their shields, challenging the invaders to come back and fight, roaring out their victory song.

“Hoolawhey! Hoolawhey!

Hurry to the slaughter.

Hiyaree! Hiyaree!

Meet us in the water.

Come back here, do not fear,

come and grant our wishes.

Join your friends in this sea,

come and feed the fishes.

Hoolawhey! Hoolawhey!

We will meet another day.

Hiyaree! Hiyaree!

Flee, cowards, flee!”

The invitation was all in vain. Greenshroud headed off southwest, its vermin corsairs cursing the mothers of all sea otters for bearing such fearsome sons and daughters.