The Rogue Crew

Shekra went to work with an air of mystery, which she created by sprinkling powder on the table candle. It produced green and black smoke, which swirled around both her and Razzid. The vixen picked up the black, pitted pebble from the table, showing it to the Wearat. “This stone is thee, Razzid, marked by wounds, yet still tough and hard. Watch where it falls and know thy fate, which only the omens can foretell.”

She cast it back onto the table, together with a lot of other bits. Her fertile brain was racing as she studied the jumble of objects.

Razzid dabbed at his bad eye. “So, what do the omens tell ye, Seer?”

Shekra spoke out boldly, knowing what she needed to say. “Death brings death. The old one must be paid for! Look ye, the stone can go any way, but which way to choose, high north or south and east? Which path leads to death, and which to victory? Choose, O Mighty One!”

Razzid seized the vixen’s paw in a cruel grip. “If yore tryin’ to feed me bilgewater, I’ll hang ye from a mast an’ skin ye alive, fox. Do I make meself clear?” The Wearat’s claws had pierced Shekra’s paw, but knowing her life depended on deceiving Razzid, she tried to keep her voice calm and show no pain.

“I am but the messenger, Lord. Slay me an’ the knowledge will remain unknown. ’Tis thy decision, sire.”

Razzid snarled as he released his hold. “Then speak. What do the omens mean?”

She began pointing at the way her objects had fallen. “See, the black stone lies between two groups, one facing north, the other southeast. The northern group is mainly stones and shells, all signs of strength and sharp edges.”

Razzid picked something from the small heap. “This is neither stone nor shell. A scrap of dried moss—explain that t’me if’n ye can.”

Shekra took it from him, blowing it off into the candle flame, where it was shrivelled to ash. She responded promptly. “Nought but the vision of an old wavedog, whose life ended by fire. He was an old chieftain. His spirit must be avenged by the wavedog warriors. Hearken to what I said before. Death brings death. The old one must be paid for.”

Razzid was staring hard at his Seer. “Whose death?”

“My voices say it would be those who slew the old one.”

Razzid sat back in his chair, gazing at the objects on the tabletop. “Wot’s that other lot for, the ones ye said were southeast?”

Shekra ran a paw over them. “Wood of trees and soft feathers, Lord. It is not clear, but I feel that is where thy time of victory lies. South, and not too far east, where the sun shines and the weather is fair.”

Razzid leaned forward, his curiosity aroused. “An’ where would that be? What place do ye speak of?”

The vixen looked as if she was thinking intently, looking for an answer. Then her ears drooped and she shook her head slowly. “Alas, Mighty One, my powers are not endless. The omens reveal nothing else. My spell is broken.”

The Wearat leapt up, sweeping everything from the tabletop. Suddenly he was dangerous, angry.

“Play me false, an’ I’ll rip ye apart. A Seer who can’t see is no use to me!”

Shekra fell to the floor, trying to scrabble under the table. She was blabbering, “No, no, sire, spare me. I spoke truly—the omens never lie!” She jumped with fright as the Wearat’s trident thudded into the wooden deck close to her skull.

Razzid was roaring. “Where in the south an’ east will my time of victory be, ye useless worm? Tell me!”

It was a stone which saved the Seer’s life. One of the two grey stones she had cast to the deck. Her paw had brushed against it as she sought refuge beneath the table. Now the grey stone was smeared with blood from the deep scratches Razzid’s claws had gouged into her paw. As the brain wave struck her, Shekra pointed, yelling, “The stone, Lord, the stone by thy footpaw! It has turned red, see? My omens were right—it’s a place of red stones. That’s what ye seek, a place of red stones!”

Mowlag and Jiboree had eavesdropped on all that went on in the captain’s cabin. By morning next day it was the talk of the ship. So much so that when Razzid emerged to pace the deck, he was faced with Mowlag, hauling the greasy weasel cook along by his tattered apron.

He booted the fat weasel down on the deck, smirking at Razzid. “Ahoy, Cap’n, lissen to wot this gutbucket’s got t’say.” He walloped the cook’s rear end with the flat of his cutlass. “Go on. Tell the cap’n wot yore mates ’eard ye sayin’. Speak out now, cooky!”

Under the Wearat’s gimlet glare, the greasy weasel could hardly stop himself talking.

“Er, beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n, but my ole granpa tole me that ’e’d been t’the Red Abbot place, a long time back that was, an’, an’ ’e said ’twas a great bi—”

The words froze on his lips as the lethal trident slammed once more into the deck. Realisation hit the Wearat like a thunderbolt. He dismissed the cook abruptly. “Stop talking rubbish an’ get back to yore galley.” Razzid grabbed Shekra, thrusting her into his cabin. Slamming the door, he hissed in excitement, “Redwall Abbey, I’ve heard o’ that place! That’s it—Redwall Abbey!”