Hangclaw, another rat, limped over to join them. Rooting with his daggerpoint at a splinter in his footpaw, he spat in disgust.
“Right y’are, shipmate, just look at me pore trampers. Why are we walkin’ all the time. Where’s ole Bol got us bound to? We’re traipsin’ around all day an’ ’arf the night!”
Glimbo, the one-eyed rat who had been first mate aboard ship, had been loitering nearby, eavesdropping on the three crewrats. Sneaking up behind them, he gave the rotten log a hard shove with his spearpoint, sending the trio sprawling into the loam.
“Gerrup on yer paws an’ quit whinin’, ye slab-sided sons o’ worms. If the cap’n catches ye, he’ll leave youse here to rest as food fer the ants. Now march!”
Raga Bol had been marching up in front of the others but had looked back over his shoulder so often that the crew could not fail to notice. The Searat captain dropped back until he was level with Glimbo. Catching his mate’s sleeve with the deadly silver hook, Bol swiftly dragged him behind a broad sycamore trunk.
Glimbo’s sightless eye rolled in its socket as he saluted. “They’re all on the march, Cap’n!”
Raga Bol poked his head out from behind the tree and snarled at the backstragglers. “Keep movin’, I’m watchin’ ye!” Then he turned his attention to the trembling Glimbo. “They’re talkin’ about me, wot’re they sayin’? The truth!”
The mate was trembling so hard that the back of his head made a noise on the tree trunk like a woodpecker. “N . . . nothin’, Cap’n, they ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”
He heard the slither of cold steel as Bol drew his scimitar. As Raga Bol pulled him close, Glimbo could see the glint of his captain’s gold teeth. He knew how dangerous the captain’s moods were becoming.
With his scimitar upraised, Bol hissed, “They must be sayin’ somethin’, ye mud-brained idiot!”
Words poured out of Glimbo at breakneck pace. “On me oath, Cap’n, the whole crew’s sayin’ ’ow thankful they are to ye for bringin’ ’em ’ere, where ’tis sunny an’ there’s easy pickins. It’s just that they ain’t used to all this marchin’ . . . some of ’em gotten sore paws.”
Thunk! The scimitar blade cut deep into the sycamore, taking off a tuft of Glimbo’s whiskers. “Sore paws, is it? You tell any beast moanin’ about sore paws that I’ll chop ’em off an’ make ’em march on the stumps! Aye, an’ ye can tell all the crew to quit starin’ at me all the time. An’ ye can tell ’em another thing, too. Any rat I ’ears mentionin’ that giant stripedog, I’ll make ’im eat his own tongue. There ain’t no big stripedog follerin’ me, d’ye hear?”
Glimbo gulped hard, knowing how close to death he had come. Raga Bol wandered off without warning, leaving him to pull the scimitar loose and return it. The mate was surprised to see his captain sit down in the loam and speak in a voice that almost had a sob in it. “I ain’t been sleepin’ at nights. Post extra guards around me when it gets dark.”
Glimbo dislodged the blade and returned it to his captain. Raga Bol grabbed the scimitar, staring suspiciously at him.
“Stop starin’ at me like that, thick’ead. Gerrabout yer business an’ make ’em march faster!”
Glimbo saluted and walked off bemused. This was not the Raga Bol he knew from the seafaring days. The captain was definitely acting strange. He glanced back at Bol, but the captain did not notice him looking, because he, too, was peering back over his shoulder.
Badredd felt the early sun on his muzzle as he lay on a soft patch of moss, with both eyes closed, feigning sleep. He listened to the voices of the gang, identifying each one as they spoke.
“Sure ’tis a luvly morn, an’ a grand ould spot t’be enjoyin’ it in!” Flinky had an unmistakable accent.
His mate, Crinktail, was next to speak. “Which way d’ye want these woodpigeon eggs boilin’?”
Flinky replied, “Keep ’em nice’n’soft, me ould darlin’. I’ve never been fussy on hardboiled eggs.”
Crinktail sounded cheerful. “I’ll cook night an’ day for ye, if’n yew can fool that little fox into lettin’ us stay by this water for a few more days.”
Badredd heard Juppa’s voice chime in. “Aye, this is a prime spot. See if’n ye can fool the liddle idjit to stop ’ere fer a score o’ days!”
Flinky oozed confidence. “Leave it t’me, mates. I’m a silver-tongued ould charmer when I wants t’be!”
Badredd yawned convincingly, then, opening his eyes, sat up lazily and stretched. “Boiled woodpigeon eggs, eh? Bring ’em over here, Flinky, I ’ope they’re done nice’n’soft.”
The stoat gritted his teeth but obeyed the new chief’s orders. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, sir, an’ another grand day ’tis, t’be sure. Now ye enjoy those eggs, there’s plenny more around. We was just sayin’ wot a fine spot ye chose fer us. Yore a wise leader, so y’are!”
Badredd put the eggs to one side and stood up, sword in paw. Scowling darkly, he asserted his authority. “Don’t get to like it too much, you lot, ’cos we’re movin’ on as soon as we’ve eaten. So pack up yore gear an’ stand by, ready t’march as soon as Plumnose gets back!”
Halfchop’s face was the picture of dismay. “But didn’t ye say we wuz stayin’ ’ere for a coupla days?”
The little fox gripped his cutlass tighter. “Well, I just changed me mind. A chief can do that!”
Slipback stood paws on hips, facing up to Badredd. “Changed yore mind, eh, jus’ like that! An’ where d’ye think yore takin’ us, eh?”
Raising the cutlass, Badredd took a pace forward and snarled nastily at the weasel. “We’re goin’ to this Abbey place, if ’tis any business of yores. So git yore tackle t’gether!”
Slipback turned to the others, scoffing insolently, “Hah, looks t’me like the liddle fox needs a magic sword t’make ’im look bigger!”
Badredd’s temper snapped. He swung at the weasel’s unprotected back, chopping off his tail with a single blow.
Slipback screeched in pain. “Yeeeaaaargh, me tail!”
His mate, Juppa, hastily slapped a pawful of bank mud on the severed stump. Slipback lay moaning, half fainting with the agony.
Juppa glared accusingly at Badredd. “Ye had no call t’do that to ’im!”
As the fox once again flourished his cutlass, the gang fell back. He saw the fear in their eyes and exulted in it. “Next time anybeast talks t’me like that, I’ll slay ’im! Oh, I know wot ye’ve been sayin’ be’ind me back. Think ye can fool me, do ye? Well, dig the dirt out yore lugs an’ lissen. I’m rulin’ this roost, an’ wot I say goes! I’m goin’ to own that magic sword, aye, an’ take the Abbey, too. Anybeast who sez diff’rent, let ’em speak now!”
Flinky raised his paws placatingly. “Ah, sure now, who’d be wantin’ t’get themselves slayed by battlin’ wid a fine great warrior like yoreself? ’Tis just that we thought ye was goin’ to stop ’ere a few days.”
It was then that Badredd knew he was really the leader of the gang. A feeling of power surged through him. Now he could be as cruel and commanding as Burrad or Skrodd. Had he not just drawn blood? Curling his lip contemptuously, he growled, “I do the thinkin’ from now on. We’re goin’ to the Abbey. Come on, Slipback, up on yer hunkers, ye ain’t dead yet.”
With a poultice of mud and dockleaf tied to his severed tail, the weasel rose slowly, fixing Badredd with a stare of hatred. “There’s eight of us an’ only one of you, fox. Don’t get too big’n’fancy wid yore ideas, ’cos ye’ve still got to sleep at nights. I wouldn’t turn me back on us too often if’n I was you—ye can’t kill us all!”
Badredd realised the truth in Slipback’s statement, but now that he had all this newfound power he was not backing down. With his cutlass blade, Badredd upset the small cauldron of water over the campfire. It went out with a hiss and a cloud of steam.