The Rogue Crew Read Free

to him. Razzid Wearat would soon be making the voyage to Hellgates—he wouldn’t be needing this charred wreck, so why waste it if it could be made seaworthy again? Sitting down on the shore, Braggio began marking out in the sand a blueprint. This was the plan for a vessel he had long dreamed of. Many seasons of cunning and ingenuity had gone into the idea. Braggio knew it would work.
    The ship was to be named Ironhook. It would be invincible, fast and powerful, feared both on deep sea and dry land. He pictured it sailing out of Irgash harbour, with him pacing the foredeck, a master of vermin corsairs, Braggio Ironhook. This island would become his—the day would come when Razzid Wearat would be nought but a dim memory.
    Contrary to Braggio’s prediction, Razzid Wearat was not dying. It took almost half a season of constant attention from the vixen Shekra before his condition began to improve. Then one morning he called Mowlag to his side. The searat mate knew his master was recovering when Razzid’s claws dug sharply into his shoulder. The Wearat hauled himself almost into a sitting position.
    â€œDid ye think I was goin’ to Hellgates, Mowlag?”
    The mate winced as the claws tightened their grip. “Not me, Cap’n. I knew ye’d live. I’m ’ere t’serve ye—just give the word an’ I’ll do as ye say!”
    Razzid released Mowlag and lay back. “I know you were here night an’ day, my friend, but now I want ye to go out an’ be seen round the island agin. Put the word about that I’m slowly sinkin’ an’ won’t last out the season. Then report back here t’me every evenin’.”
    Mowlag nodded. He could see Razzid’s right eye peering from a gap in the bandaged face. “Aye, Cap’n. Anythin’ special ye wants me t’look for?”
    Razzid beckoned to Shekra, who helped him to sip some water. Licking blistered lips, he closed his eyes. “Tell me how that fool Ironhook is progressing with his work on my ship. Make him think you are on his side.”
    Mowlag rose. “I’ll act as if’n Braggio was me own brother.”
    When Mowlag had gone, Razzid whispered to Shekra, “When will I be fit enough to move about again?”
    The vixen bowed respectfully. “Why ask me when you already know, Lord?”
    A faint chuckle rose from the bandaged figure.
    â€œI would have slain you for answering falsely.”

2
    Brisk breezes caused the window shutters to rattle and clatter round old Redwall Abbey. It was a boisterous late spring. With no prior warning, the rain arrived. Workers left their outdoor chores, hurrying to seek warmth and comfort inside the ancient building. Leaning on the sill of his study window, Abbot Thibb watched Sister Fisk hurrying over the rainswept lawns toward the gatehouse. Fisk was the Infirmary Sister, a youngish mouse the same age as Thibb. Her habit flopped wetly about her as she held on to the hood with one paw whilst clutching her satchel in the other. Thibb was popular with the Redwallers, though some thought that the squirrel’s lack of seasons was not quite appropriate in an Abbot. This did not bother him. He was normally cheerful and fair in his dealings with everybeast. However, Abbot Thibb was not a squirrel to gladly suffer fools and wrongdoers. He saw Sister Fisk stumble and fall ungracefully.
    Thibb struck the sill with a clenched paw, muttering angrily, “Right, Uggo Wiltud. Let’s find out what you’ve got to say for yourself, shall we?”
    He ran from the chamber, slamming the door behind him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he descended rapidly to Great Hall, still muttering under his breath. “A full-sized hefty fruitcake, with marchpane topping as thick as an otter’s rudder, and the greedy hog ate all of it!”
    A burly otter stepped aside as Thibb hurried by. “Arternoon, Father Abbot, where be ye off to in