Weilmark Scaut was a burly, ginger feral cat, hated by all the otters for his arrogance and cruelty. He stood on the pier end, coiling his long whip, watching the little fishing coracle heave to. As a weilmark he was a high-ranking officer of the catguards.
Strutting back and forth, Weilmark Scaut began haranguing the otters. “Stir yer stumps, waterdogs! Git that catch up’ere, an’ stand t’be searched. Move yerselves!”
Whulky and Chab spread their net with its small catch of trout and gudgeon. They both stood to one side, paws spread wide, as a feral cat soldier searched them for concealed weapons (which otters were forbidden to carry) or any type of contraband.
Scaut took five of the eight fish they had caught, leaving them the three smallest. He scowled at the searcher. “Well, are they clear?”
The soldier tossed two sharpened musselshells (which the fisherbeasts were allowed to carry in the course of their trade) down onto the pier. He saluted with his spear. “Aye, they’re clear, Weilmark!”
Scaut watched Whulky and Chab carefully. “Go on then, get goin’, both of ye.”
As they walked away, Scaut’s keen gaze was still inspecting them. “Halt right there, don’t move!”
The two otter slaves froze in their tracks. Scaut walked over and placed his face close to Chab’s, grinning wickedly at him. “You there, guard, lift this ’uns left footpaw.”
The soldier hastened to obey. Scaut struck the raised footpaw with his whipstock, and two perfectly symmetrical, purple mussel pearls rolled out onto the pier.
Scaut feigned surprise. “By my claws, what’s this?”
Chab murmured awkwardly, “Sir, they’re only baubles for me liddle daughter t’play with.”
The weilmark swaggered in a circle around Chab. “Baubles fer yer liddle daughter, eh? They’re the property of yore warlord, Riggu Felis, the same as everythin’ else on Green Isle. Nothin’ belongs to waterdogs, nothin!”
He turned to the soldiers, bellowing, “This beast is a thief, take ’im away an’ bind ’im under the pier fer the night. No vittles an’ a night freezin’ ’is rudder off down there’ll teach ’im a lesson!”
He scooped up the pearls and admired them. “Lady Kaltag’ll like these fer ’er collection!”
Whulky was dismissed to go back to his family. As Chab was being prodded at spearpoint to the pylons beneath the pier, another feral cat soldier came panting along the lakeshore. Throwing a hasty salute with his bow, he called to Scaut.
“Weilmark! There’s trouble down on the river. We’ve got one of ’em pinned down there. They say ’tis the Shellhound!”
Scaut grabbed a spear, leaping down onto the shore. “The Shell’ound, eh? Quick, take me there!”
He dashed off behind the stumbling soldier. “Cummon, cummon, shift yerself. I need to catch that rogue!”
Bound by his neck to one of the stone pylons beneath the pier, Chab chuckled grimly. “Fat chance o’ that, ye pompous bunglin’ furball!”
Leatho Shellhound, crouching among the bushes on the riverbank, watched a cat soldier creeping forward stealthily. In a passable cat accent, Leatho shouted out excitedly, “Lookit, there ’e goes, over by those two rocks!”
As the soldier turned his head to see, Leatho let fly with a stone from his sling. It slammed into the back of the foecat’s skull, laying him out senseless. The brawny sea otter turned to an injured barnacle goose, who was lying alongside him.
“Hah, if’n that feller ever wakes, I’ll be surprised. Now then, matey, let’s take a peek at that shaft!”
As Leatho inspected the arrow that was sticking from the bird’s neck, the wounded goose commented, “It is not a bad hurt I am thinking. Lucky for me it was that the cats are not being as good with the bows than you are with the sling, comrade.”
Leatho worked the arrow loose and staunched the wound by binding it with a poultice of mud and wild radish leaves. “Ye’ll live, matey. Yore right, t’aint that bad. You keep an eye on those scallywags while I tighten this dressin’. Was you the only one of yore skein they hit?”
Flinching slightly as Leatho firmed up his work, the barnacle goose nodded gingerly. “Only I was struck. It was my own fault I am thinking. We of the Skyfurrowers should never be caught napping while we are on the wing. Lagged to the back and lowered my height I had. Silly goose that I am. Two more cats I can see out there, comrade!”
Two feral cat soldiers were creeping toward the limp figure of the fallen one on the shore. Leatho popped up from hiding. Like greased lightning, he slung two more stones. So swift was he that the second stone was in the air before the first had landed. They both fell true. One cat screeched as his tail was cracked near its base; the other rolled over wailing, with a forepaw badly smashed.
The outlaw otter grinned broadly. “That’ll keep the mangy rascals’ heads down for a while, but we’ll have t’be movin’ afore they bring reinforcements. Can ye fly, matey?”
Puffing out its chest, the barnacle goose replied, “Ho yarr, fly I can, though I am thinking it will be some while before I am catching up to my skein. But what of you, comrade, will they not seize you?”
The sea otter sorted through his slingstones casually. “Seize the Shellhound? Hah! The cat hasn’t ate supper yet that’ll ever seize me, old matey. I’ll cover for ye while you escape. Get away from Green Isle, across the wide sea, but I suppose ye know whither yore bound. Whenever ye reach land, though, ye must get a healer, or somebeast that knows physickin’, to look at that neck. Arrow wounds have a nasty habit of turnin’ poison.”
Leatho went into a crouch, twirling his loaded sling. “I’m goin’ to break cover now, mate. The moment I’ve got all their attention, you take off. Understand?”
The barnacle goose offered its webbed leg. “It is thankful to you I am. May the good fortune speed you, comrade!”
Leatho shook the proffered web in his sinewy paw. “An’ may the good winds be at yore back, fine bird!”
He broke cover and yelled at the six or so cats who came bounding after him, “Heeee aye eeeeh! Who wants to catch a Shellhound? Yore mothers were bandy an’ yore fathers were mangy!”
He dropped the fastest of the cats with a well-aimed stone to the jaw, then sped off. Zigging and zagging, ducking and weaving, Leatho shot into the river and vanished underwater.
The cats, terrified of deep water, scrambled along the bank, firing arrows uselessly into the swift current, just as Weilmark Scaut pounded up with six more behind him. Immediately Scaut began yelling, “Wot in the name o’ fangs is goin’ on’ere? Where’s that bandit Shell’ound?”
The senior of the patrol, the cat whose paw had been smashed, threw a limp salute and explained in a pained whine, “Weilmark, we brought down a goosebird, but the Shell’ound rescued it. Then ’e dropped Rubjer stone dead, broke Viglo’s tail an’ smashed me paw, every bone of it I think.”
Scaut struck the speaker hard in the face with his coiled whip, roaring at him, “I never asked yer wot he did. I’m askin’ yer where is he?”
“Yoohoo, Wipwip, I’m over here!”
As Scaut turned to the sound of the voice, Leatho blasted up out of the water like a rocket. He let fly with a ropy length of bedweed, which had a small rock tied to one end. Before Scaut could duck, it caught him, wrapping swiftly round his neck and bringing the rock thudding against the side of his skull. The weilmark fell heavily in a limp heap. Arrows thrummed through the air toward the river surface. But Leatho Shellhound, the outlaw sea otter, had gone.
As the dispirited cats carried their wounded weilmark from the scene, high up, far out of arrowshot, a barnacle goose honked its delight to the skies.