It was slightly longer than Tiria’s sling Wuppit and a little broader, a grey-black in colour and rough to the touch. Tiria tested its balance and pliability. Taking a stone from her own pouch, she loaded the weapon, twirling it experimentally, then smiled her approval.
“This is a marvellous sling, sir, far better than my old one. The material is tough and very coarse, good to grip. It would never slip, I can tell. What’s it made of?”
The Badger Lord pointed out the window. “The hide of a great fish, a shark that was washed up dead on our shore. There’s more than a few lances and arrows among my hares, tipped with the teeth and bone shards of that beast. I knew the skin would come in useful for something, so I had it treated and cured. I see by the way you twirl that sling, you can use it. Can you throw far?”
Speeding up the sling’s revolutions, Tiria suddenly whipped off the stone, sending it whirling through the open window. As it sped off into the night, Mandoral watched the sea until he saw a faint phosphorescent splash, far out over the calm waters.
“I have some good slingers in the Long Patrol, but none as good as that. You can use a sling!”
Tiria joined him at the window, her eyes seeking out the rock where the Queen’s ship had sunk so long ago. “All I need now, so that the otters of Green Isle will know me, is the coronet. If the Rhulain went down with her ship, it must still be there. Gold does not rot, nor will it rust away, even in seawater. I will go there once it is light. If the crown is there, I will find it!”
Mandoral glimpsed the light of determination in her eyes. “I believe you will. I can see that nobeast would attempt to stop you. I will come with you, Tiria.”
She bowed courteously. “I will be glad to have you with me, sir.”
Even before dawn had properly broken, a gang of hares had hauled the Purloined Petunia down to the floodtide and set her in the flow. Cuthbert, as the commander of the vessel, cut a bizarre figure. In his dual role as ship’s captain and regimental major, he wore the musselshell patch over one eye and his monocle in the other. Over his Long Patrol tunic, he had donned his tawdry nautical frock coat. Pointing with his swagger stick, he bellowed out orders.
“Haharr, buckoes’n’chaps, take ’er out a point to port, wot!”
Quartle and Portan, who were jointly in charge of the tiller, began to complain.
“I say, sah, it’s high flippin’ tide! How are we supposed to see the bloomin’ rock, wot?”
“Porters is right, Cap’n sah. You can only see the jolly old rock when the blinkin’ tide’s out!”
Seated together on the prow, Tiria and the badger smiled as they listened to Cuthbert roaring at the subalterns.
“Who asked yore opinions, ye blather-bottomed buffoons? You just steer as I tells ye, or I’ll have yore jolly old scuts for sammidges! Tides don’t matter, the water’s clear enough t’spot that rock. Why d’ye think I’ve got a lookout?”
He bawled up to the osprey who was napping on the masthead, “Pandion, matey, go an’ sort out that rock an’ waggle yore wings over it ’til we gets there, will ye?”
As the osprey took off over the rolling waters, Cuthbert continued to berate his hapless steersbeasts. “Ye slab-sided scoffswipers, wot d’ye know about navigatin’, eh? If’n I wasn’t commandin’, ye’d get lost in a bucket o’ water. Now steer a course after that bird yonder, or, so ’elp me, I’ll kick yore bottoms into next season!”
It was not long before the fish hawk’s keen eyes picked up the top of the rock below the surface. Pandion Piketalon hovered over the location, fluttering his impressive wingspan like some exotic black-and-white-barred fan.
Mandoral pointed. “Your good bird has found the rock, Captain.”
Quartle muttered to Portan, “Amazin’, he must have eyes like a blinkin’ hawk, wot!”
Portan guffawed. “That’s ’cos he is a blinkin’ hawk, old lad.”
Dawn breezes wafted the ship gently to the location. Pandion resumed his perch on the masthead, whilst Cuthbert ordered the subalterns to furl the sail and drop anchor. The Badger Lord took a long coil of rope with a chunk of rock attached to one end. Securing it to the prow, he dropped the weighted end into the sea. By this time, the sun was spreading its light over the waters.
Tiria watched the stone falling through the semitranslucent sea. It fell rapidly, bouncing off the sides of the underwater rock peak. When it had vanished into the depths, Mandoral instructed the ottermaid. “You must hold on to the rope at all times. Don’t let go of it, Tiria. When you want to come up, just give one normal tug and I’ll haul you up. Is that understood?”
Tiria winked at him confidently. “Don’t worry about me, sir, I’ll be fine. Otters know their way about underwater.”
She winced as the big badger gripped her paw, his voice becoming stern. “I know you’re an otter, but you listen to me, young ’un. It’s not the same as Abbey pools or forest streams, being down under the deep seas. Nobeast really knows what dangers may lurk down there, so you hold on to that rope tight. If you get into any real danger, then give it two sharp jerks, and I’ll have you out of there.”
Tiria took a firm grip on the lifeline. “I understand, sir, and thank you for all your help.”
She slid over the prow into the cold sea, with the crew’s best wishes.
“Haharr, Tilly me gel, you keep yore eyes peeled down there!”
“Aye, miz, best of jolly good luck an’ all that, wot!”
“Toodle pip, old thing, hope it ain’t too flippin’ cold down there. Rather you than me, I say.”
Then she submerged completely into cold, eerie silence.
BOOK THREE
Across the Western Sea
24
Leatho Shellhound regained consciousness painfully, discovering that he could only see through one eye. The captive outlaw found he could not move his paws; they were bound, outspread, to the bars of a wooden cage. He tried to wriggle free, but the whole structure wobbled and shook. Leatho gave up struggling and waited until his senses were fully restored before taking stock of his situation. The cage was suspended by a thick rope, high on the fortress tower. It hung beneath the windowsill of Riggu Felis’s personal chamber.
The top of Leatho’s head ached abominably from the blow of the wildcat’s axehaft. He tasted dried blood on his lips and guessed that his eyelid was sealed shut by some of that same blood, which had flowed from his headwound. Wrenching his face to one side, he rubbed the affected eye against his shoulder, blinking until it was cleared and he could see properly once more.
Below him, the pier was crowded with otterslaves, hemmed in by armed catguards. Gazing down on the sea of upturned faces, the outlaw’s defiant spirit rose as he roared at the catguards, “Heeee aye eeee! I am the Shellhound! Loose me, cowards, an’ I’ll fight ye all with my bare paws!”
A bucket of water drenched Leatho, causing him to gasp with shock. Riggu Felis leaned over the windowsill, still holding the bucket, his chain mail mask tinkling as it hung down from his ruined face.
“Shout all you like, Shellhound, your fighting days are gone forever. I have plans for you, outlaw. Would you like to hear them?”
Leatho raised his dripping face, teeth bared in a snarl. “Let me out of here and I’ll fight you to the death, half-face. Even with my paws bound behind my back, I’ll slay ye!”
The warlord laughed. “Brave words, that’s all you have left, outlaw. Listen now whilst I speak some words of my own.”
Throwing the bucket away, the wildcat leaned out over the sill, his voice ringing out to those below. “Hear me, I am Riggu Felis, a true wildcat, and Warlord of Green Isle! No longer will my domain be troubled by runaways and rebels. See, I have captured their chief, the bold Leatho Shellhound. He will remain up here until his friends surrender. Either they can give themselves up or they may sneak back here in future days to look up at this cage. They will see the bones of Shellhound bleaching in the sun and rotting in the weather. Gulls and carrion birds will pick at his remains. That will be on their heads. If the rebels do not give themselves up, he starves to death! Nobeast defies Riggu Felis. This is a lesson every creature on Green Isle must learn!”