On an island many leagues to the south, black smoke billowed above the crackling flames of what had once been a peaceful community of squirrels. Vermin, armed to the fangs, roamed in bands through the forestlands, slaying anybeast who dared to oppose them. Screams rent the air, whips cracked as pitiless rogues rounded up those left alive. Bound neck and paw into a straggling line, the bewildered captives were dragged out of the sheltering trees, into the dunes above the tideline. Akkla, the ferret mate, sniggered evilly, watching the prisoners’ horror as they glimpsed their home to be: the red ship Goreleech, riding at anchor in the sea offshore.
“Move yerselves, me beauties, we’ll soon find yer a snug liddle berth aboard the pretty red boat!”
Vilu Daskar sat on the beach, chin on the bone handle of his scimitar, pensively watching while Parug, his bosun, forced the terrified squirrels to kneel and bow their heads before the master of the red ship. Vilu stayed silent until the pitiful heap of provisions and plunder was piled in front of him. Lazily the stoat’s eyes flicked over the crewbeasts standing around the pile.
“Is this the best you could do?”
One, a burly weasel called Rippjaw, shrugged. “Dat’s all we be findin’, cap’n!”
Vilu stood slowly, his eyes fixed on a necklace of yellow beads, which Rippjaw sported about his neck.
“So, where did you get that trinket, my illiterate friend?”
Rippjaw glanced down at the necklace with his good eye. “Oh, diss. I take ’im offa deadbeast, cap’n.”
Vilu’s scimitar made a noise like an angry wasp as he slew the weasel with one powerful stroke of the sharp blade. With a look of bored disdain, he flicked the necklace from Rippjaw’s severed neck onto the pile.
“Must I keep reminding you addlebrained fools that all loot belongs to me? You do not steal from Vilu Daskar.” He turned to the prisoners, as if noticing them for the first time. “Hmm, you’re a pretty wretched lot. No mind, though, you’ll soon learn to pull an oar—either that or die. Well, lost your tongues? Nobeast got anything to say?”
An ancient squirrel, silver-gray with uncounted seasons, raised his bound paws and pointed at Vilu. “The one that follows upon the wave, will steer you one day to your grave!”
The stoat could not explain the shudder that ran through him, but it was gone in an instant. He dismissed it, observing to Akkla, who stood awaiting orders, “I make it a rule never to take notice of threats by those I’ve conquered. If any of them were true, I’d have been dead long ago. Take that dithering old relic and the rest of his tribe aboard the Goreleech and chain them on deck.”
The captives were being moved off when wild commotion broke out at the woodland fringe. More than a score of crewbeasts fought wildly to control a single squirrel. Vilu leaped nimbly onto a grass-topped dune, viewing the scene with evident enjoyment. Noosed ropes held the maddened squirrel by her paws, neck, tail and waist. The vermin dug their footpaws into the sand, hauling on the lines to keep them taut and prevent her attacking them. She was a huge sinewy creature, with unusually black shining fur that glistened in the sunlight. Though wounded and scarred in several places, she heaved and bucked against the ropes, sending vermin sprawling, baring strong white teeth at them.
Stopping safely out of reach on his perch, Vilu smiled. “Whoa! What have we here, a real fighter?”
The searat Grigg, his paws cut and burning from rope friction, reported in a strained voice, “This’n’s killed four crew single-pawed, cap’n. ’Tis like tryin’ to ’old a pack o’ sharks at bay!”
Vilu leaped down from the dune. “Hold her tight, now!” Advancing on the bound squirrel, he soon had his scimitar tip under her chin, forcing her head back.
“Be still now. I am Vilu Daskar and I could kill you with a flick of my blade. Be still!”
Snorting for breath against the noose around her neck, the squirrel fixed her blazing eyes on the stoat, hatred and loathing ringing fearlessly in her harsh voice.
“I know who you are, scumface. Let’s see you put down that blade an’ loose me. I’m Ranguvar Foeseeker an’ I could rip you t’bits without need of a weapon to do the job!”
Vilu pressed his bladepoint harder, causing a drop of blood to stand out against the jet black fur.
“Ranguvar Foeseeker, eh? Hearken then, you’re in no position to throw out challenges, and I’ve no intention of fighting you. I don’t do battle with my slaves.”
Ranguvar tried to push her chin further onto the blade. “Coward! Then slay me an’ be quick about it!”
Vilu withdrew his scimitar, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d live to see the day, a berserk female squirrel! No no, my friend, I’m not going to slay you. What a waste that would be. With mad strength like that you could do the work of a score of oarslaves alone. A few seasons of Bullflay’s whip and short rations will humble you. Down on the bottom deck, front row. The seaspray day and night should cool you down a bit. Take her away!”
“You won’t break me, dirtbrain,” Ranguvar yelled as she was being dragged off. “Don’t close your eyes to sleep while Ranguvar Foeseeker is aboard your cursed ship!”
Vilu Daskar picked up a pawful of dry sand and watched the breeze carry it away, remarking to Grigg, “Huh, insults and threats, they’re like sand in the wind to me, Grigg: here one moment, gone and forgotten the next.”
*
Minus the use of oars, using only her sails, the red ship coursed south. Bullflay, the chief slave driver, and his assistants unchained all the galley slaves and herded them up on the trireme’s high maindeck. The Goreleech’s new squirrel captives were shocked by the sight of the oar-wielders. Starved to emaciation, hollow-eyed and ragged, barely alive in some cases, the wretched slaves blinked against the bright afternoon. Bullflay cracked his long sharkskin whip low, pulling several of the slaves flat as it curled around their footpaws.
“On yer knees, ye worthless fishbait, don’t yer see the cap’n’s present?”
Ranguvar had been chained and covered with a weighted cargo net, through which she watched the scene.
A huge balk of timber had been attached to a rope reeved through a block halfway up the mainmast. Vilu stuck his scimitar into the mainmast at shoulder height.
“I’ve brought you thirty-six new oarbeasts, Bullflay. How many do you need?”
The big fat weasel saluted with his fearsome whip. “I’ll take every one you got, cap’n Vilu!”
The pirate stoat signaled for some refreshment and a seat. Hurriedly four crew members brought his chair, a flagon of his favorite damson wine and a grilled fish. Seated comfortably, he picked delicately at the fish and sipped wine from a crystal goblet, watched by the hungry slaves. Wiping his lips on a silken kerchief, he nodded briefly to his chief slave driver.
Bullflay grabbed the rope which had been reeved through the block and hauled on it until the balk of timber was hoisted level with the scimitar sticking from the mast. “Haul the wood this high, or else!” He let the baulk drop to the deck. The weary oarslaves stood in line for their turn to haul up the balk. Then he picked up his whip and cracked it over the new arrivals. “Come on, you lot, get below. We’ll get yer chained up to an oar nice an’ tidy like. Hahaharr!”
Getting the black squirrel Ranguvar below was an awesome task. Keeping her bundled in the cargo net, a score of vermin dragged her through the decks until she was at the front seat of the vessel’s bottom level. Eight of the Sea Rogues suffered wounds and injuries, but they finally got the berserker chained alone to a long thick oar handle. Ranguvar sat relatively quiet. She waited until the other oarslaves were brought down and shackled into place at the sweeps. She questioned one, a tired old otter, who looked as if he had seen many seasons slaving.
“What was all that about up on deck, the timber an’ the rope? Why did you have to haul it up, all of you?”
The otter blinked back a tear from his craggy face. “Didn’t yer know, mate? Vilu Daskar an’ Bullflay got to ’ave their bit o’ fun. Thirty-six new oarslaves means they got to get rid of thirty-six old ’uns, so they finds the sickest’n’weakest by makin’ us hoist the log.”
“What happens to those who can’t haul the log?” Ranguvar could not stop herself asking.
The otter’s husky voice shook as he explained. “That’s when the real sport starts, mate. They sails the red ship out ’til land’s too far away for a fit beast to swim back to it, then they runs out a plank. Vilu gives the pore creatures their freedom, tells ’em they’re free to swim back t’shore an’ forces ’em t’walk the plank.”
Ranguvar’s fur stood up on the nape of her neck. “Do any ever make it, friend?”
“What d’you think? You saw the state of some o’ those slaves. If’n the big fishes don’t get ’em, the sea does.”
Ranguvar turned and murmured softly, “Well at least you survived it. What’s yore name?”
Bowing his head until it touched the oar, the otter replied, “Norgle’s my name. My father’s name was Drenner. He used to sit where yore sittin’ now, that’s his oars yore chained to. My ole dad was one of those who couldn’t haul the log.”
Slaaaash! Crack!
“Shaddup, yer scurvy bilge swabs!”
Slavemaster Bullflay swaggered up to his rail, directly in front of Ranguvar. He wielded the whip at Norgle, but the black squirrel sat up straight and took the blow. A big skinny rat positioned himself alongside Bullflay. Picking up a drumstick, he stood ready at the big drum which was used to keep the oarslaves pulling in time with each other.
Bullflay winked at him, nodding toward Ranguvar. “See that, Fleabitt? Cap’n Vilu said this squirrel’s a real tough ’un. We’ll ’ave ter pay ’er some special attention, won’t we?”
Fleabitt’s narrow frame shook with unconcealed glee. “Special attention, right, chief. We’ll learn ’er!”
Ranguvar’s piercing stare raked the rat scornfully. “What could I learn from you, cocklebrain?”
Craaack!
Bullflay’s whip struck her. Ranguvar transferred her dead stare to him without even blinking.
“Is that the best you can do, barrelbelly?”
Choking with rage, the burly weasel flogged away at his new oarslave, using all his strength. When he finished, his stomach was heaving in and out, and both his paws were shaking violently with the exertion.
“You . . . you dare talk ter Slavemaster Bullflay like that! I’ll flay yer to dollrags!”
Ranguvar, who had ducked her head to protect her face, raised her eyes. There was death dancing in them as she growled at Bullflay, “You big useless lump o’ mud, one day I’ll kill yer with my bare paws, even if’n I have to bite through these chains to get at yer. Remember that, weasel!”
Bullflay could not bring himself to answer or raise his whip again. Ranguvar’s eyes had frightened him. He strode off down the walkway, laying left and right with his whip at the other oarslaves.
“Silence there, quiet! An’ be ready ter row when my drum starts to beat, if you want t’keep fur on yore backs!”
*
Two hours after daybreak next morning, a searat called down from his watch in the crow’s nest, “Away to the north, a sail, cap’n, a sail!”
Vilu Daskar leaned out over the stern of the Goreleech, shading his eyes, peering hard at the faraway smudge.
“Sail? Are you sure? What kind of craft is she?”
“Too far off t’tell, cap’n sir, but ’tis a sail fer sure!”
Akkla kept the tiller steady, awaiting Vilu’s order.
Striding the afterdeck, the pirate stoat stroked the yellowed bone handle of his scimitar pensively. “Hmm, a sail, eh? How far off are the Twin Islands, Akkla?”
“We could make ’em by tomorrow midday wid all sail an’ full speed on the oars, cap’n.”
His eyes still fixed on the far-off object, Vilu replied, “Too fast, we’d lose her. No ship can keep up with mine under full sail and oars. Take her to half sail and tell Bullflay to set the rowers a steady beat. We’ll let her keep us in sight, and that way we’ll land at Twin Islands tomorrow night. Set your tiller south and a point west.”
The red ship sailed off on her new course, with the whips cracking on all three decks below. Oars rose and fell, pulling the Goreleech through the waves. The fresh captives groaned miserably as they bent their backs under the lash.