With the sound of the grey northeast sea pounding in their ears, both the sea otters squelched through the desolate salt marshes toward the weather-bent scrub forest.
Daylight ebbed into early evening as they entered the shelter of the trees. With a grunt of relief, Abruc swung his basket to the ground. It was brimfull of edible seaweed, scallops, mussels and shrimp—a full two days’ work, gleaned from the coast of the barren northeast waters. Abruc sat on a fallen pine. Sensing his father’s weariness, Stugg climbed up behind him and began gently rubbing his brow.
Abruc relaxed, sighing gratefully. “Hmmmm, that’s nice. I was beginnin’ to think that strap’d cut the top off me skull. Huh, where’d I be then?”
Stugg giggled. “Wiv a half offa head, silly ole farder!”
The sea otter cautioned his son. “Hush now, not so loud. There might be Coast Raiders about. Huh, they’d cut the tops off’n our skulls, just to watch us die.”
Wide-eyed, Stugg crouched down against his father, speaking in a hushed whisper. “Mamma says Coaster Raiders be’s naughty vermints!”
His father pushed dry pine needles into a small heap, shaking his head grimly. “Naughty ain’t the word for that scum. They’re evil, cold-blooded murderers. Cruelty is just fun to the likes o’ them. Right, young ’un, I suppose yore hungry now?”
Nodding eagerly, Stugg whispered, “I’m starfished!”
Abruc chuckled. Starfished was a word all the young ones used, a cross twixt starving and famished.
He patted Stugg’s head fondly. “Nothin’ worse’n a starfished otter. You stay here, keep yore eyes’n’ears open, an’ lay low. I’ll go an’ find us a snug berth for the night.”
He pulled a sack from under his cloak, tossing it to his son. “Sort through the rest of those rations an’ see wot you want for supper. I’ll be back soon.”
Abruc knew the woods well, he recalled a spot not too far off. It was a good dry place, sheltered by a rock ledge. Silent as a night breeze, he weaved his way through the dark, twisted trees, straight to the exact location. He had camped there before. Halting slightly short of his destination, he paused. Something did not feel quite right about the area. Abruc sniffed the air and listened carefully, his animal instinct aroused. He caught the faint sound of ragged breathing. Drawing his long dagger, he crept forward, peering keenly into the shadows, his neck hairs bristling.
For supper Stugg had selected two flat loaves, some of his mamma’s apple and blackberry preserve and their last flask of plum cordial. If his father lit a fire, they could make toasted preserve sandwiches and warm cordial. The young otter was a pretty fair cook, often having helped his mamma to prepare meals. There was not much else to do but wait in silence for his father’s return. Stugg set out the food and sat next to the basket of supplies.
Abruc came speeding out of the darkness to his son’s side. Crouching beside Stugg, he gripped his paws tightly. The sea otter’s voice was urgent and breathless from running.
“Listen carefully, little mate. Could you find yore way back home to our holt on yore own?”
Stugg was taken aback by the unusual request. “Er, I fink so, what’s a matter, farder?”
Abruc gripped his son’s paws tighter. His voice sounded harsh. “Answer me—yes or no! Could you find yore way back home?”
Stugg had never seen his father like this. He nodded, his own voice sounding small and scared. “Yes, Stugg know d’way!”
Abruc released the young otter’s paws. “Good, now here’s wot y’must do, son. Find Shoredog. Tell him to bring the crew to the spot by the rock ledge, he’ll know where I mean. Say that they best bring rope, canvas an’ poles. Enough t’make a stretcher to carry a wounded, giant stripedog. That’s if’n he’s still alive when they reach here.”
Words poured from Stugg’s mouth like running water. “A giant, a stripedog, a wounded one? I never see’d a giant stripedog afore! What happened? Will he get deaded . . .”
Abruc grabbed Stugg and shook him, something he had never done before. He hissed at him through clenched teeth. “Shut yore mouth, son! Don’t stand here askin’ questions! Go now, run, don’t stop for anythin’. The life of another creature depends on you. Go!”
Young Stugg took off like a madbeast, pine needles scattering from under his paws as he tore homeward through the nighttime forest. Abruc watched until his son was out of sight, then gathered up their belongings and dashed back to the camp beneath the ledge.
Swiftly he heaped dry pine needles and cones with a few twigs. Using the steel of his knife blade against a chunk of flint, he soon had a small fire burning. It was sheltered by the overhanging rock and could not be seen from a reasonable distance. Abruc viewed the scene around him. Two badgers, one very old, the other about two seasons into his adult growth, lay stretched out, side by side. Small and grizzled, the oldest of the pair was obviously dead, slain by various weapon thrusts. As he turned to the younger badger, a brief glance at the churned-up ground and the blood-flecked rock confirmed the sea otter’s suspicions. His jaw clenched angrily. “Dirty murderin’ Raiders!”
The younger badger was still alive. Abruc had seen one or two badgers in his lifetime, but not as big as this fellow. He was truly a giant—tall, deep of chest and broadbacked with massive paws and powerfully muscled limbs.
The sea otter winced as he inspected the fearsome wound to the badger’s head. A long jagged slash, from eartip to neck, had ripped across the badger’s face. Narrowly missing the eye, it had ploughed across the brow, through the wide-striped muzzle, across the jaw line to the side of the creature’s throat.
Abruc, with only a limited knowledge of healing, staunched the blood with his cloak. Lifting the badger’s head, he cradled it in his lap, dabbing away at the dreadful rift and murmuring to the unconscious beast.
“Seasons o’ salt, matey, ’tis a miracle yore still alive! Y’must have a skull made o’ rock. I know you can’t hear me, but don’t worry, big feller, our crew will do the best we can for ye. There’s one or two good healers at our holt.”
Abruc sat rambling away to the senseless badger, knowing he could do little else until help arrived.
It was close to midnight. Rainladen wind hissed through the scrub forest, carrying with it salt spray from the thundering seas. Beside the guttering embers of his little fire, Abruc had dozed off, still holding the badger’s head.
At the front of the otter crew, Shoredog pointed with his lantern, hurrying forward. “There they are, mates!”
Little Stugg reached his father first. “I bringed them, farder!”
Abruc patted the youngster’s paw. “Yore a good ole scout. Unnh, somebeast get me out from under this giant’s head. Me limbs have gone asleep on me from holdin’ his weight.”
Willing paws assisted him upright. Shoredog shook his head as he viewed the injured badger. “Great seasons, lookit the mess the pore creature’s in. I fears there ain’t much hope for ’im. I never set eyes on a wound bad as that ’un!”
Stugg caught sight of his mother and tugged at her paw. “Issa giant stripedog goin’ to die, mamma?”
Abruc’s wife Marinu nodded at Shoredog’s grandma, Sork. “Not if’n we can help it, Stugg. Come on, crew, get some warm blankets around that badger an’ strap him to a stretcher. Easy now, don’t jolt the pore beast too much.”
Everybeast knew that Marinu and Sork were the best healers in all the southeast.
Stugg grinned broadly. Now that he had succeeded in his mission, he proceeded to take charge of the situation, striding about and issuing orders. “You all hear my mamma, pick dat stripedog up careful!”
Marinu was about to pull her son to one side when Abruc murmured to her, “Let the young ’un be, he did well tonight.”