As the earth turned slowly, time passed and season followed season many times. Swartt Sixclaw and his horde wandered the land, through woodland, across rivers, over mountains, often lost and frequently sidetracked by dissent and mutiny. But his obsession, to avenge himself upon the badger who had maimed and deadened his famous sixclaw, drove the Warlord onward.

Many things happened to swell the infamy of Swartt’s name. He lost some of his horde in marsh country, fighting a long and protracted battle against toads and reptiles, emerging victorious but with a depleted horde.

Then chance brought him into an alliance with Captain Zigu and his Corsairs. Zigu was a ferret like himself who, having lost his ship on the rocks in foul weather, was forced to range the coasts with his motley band of vermin, some searats, but mainly Corsairs, creatures of any species that chose the marauding life. Zigu was no stranger to Salamandastron; he had seen it from the sea and knew its exact location. He was a valuable, if untrustworthy, asset, and joining forces with him meant that the horde would be lost no more. For Swartt, this sealed the pact.

Southward down the coast the horde ranged, being joined by deserters, mutineers, and other vermin who had been marooned by their searat brethren. Swartt sat upon the beach one morning at the start of summer, picking at a roasted mackerel. He glanced across at Nightshade, who was tossing shells into the air and watching in what position they fell upon the sand.

“Never mind the stupid shells, vixen, look at my horde—just cast yer eyes over ’em. Every one a murderer, they’d slit their own mothers’ gizzards over a morsel of food, hah! ’Arf of ’em prob’ly did, killers all! Now I’m a real Warlord, the best of a bad bunch, an’ I could lick any six of ’em single-pawed!”

Nightshade went back to her conjuring. “Aye, Lord, we’ll do great things together. Shells are magic, they don’t tell lies. See these here, they are our horde. But see this big curling conch; you can hear the tide come and go if you put it to your ear. Look though, it fell standing straight up in the sand—it’s the mountain. See the distance from it that the horde lies; we cannot be far from it now.”

Swartt shook his head as if in disappointment at his seer. “You know that because of what Zigu told you—he knows how close to Salamandastron we are. Go on, then, if your shells are so clever, what else do they tell you? That little red shell that fell far apart from the rest, what does that say?”

The vixen looked at the small red shell and shrugged. “Lord, though it doesn’t say anything, it tells me a great deal. Remember you once had a babe, a male? This shell represents him, and you would do well to beware of it.”

Swartt stared at the little red shell, his lip twisting contemptuously. “Oh, yes, I remember the brat, but that was long ago, he’s probably dead by now. We lost him after the battle on the path.”

Nightshade narrowed her eyes, staring hard at the shell. “You never really lost him. See—he’s come back!”

Swartt kicked sand at her. “Idiot! How can a little red shell hurt me?”

“Pick it up and see, it’s not so little anymore.”

Swartt picked the shell up and found it was quite a big one. In falling it had been almost covered by the soft sand, allowing only a small part of it to remain visible.

The vixen nodded. “It was a little shell once, but it has grown, Lord. Beware of it, I say. Turn it over and look.”

The ferret turned the shell over and scrutinized it, saying, “A few markin’s on it, like scratches. So?”

“Six marks, Lord; six scratches representing six claws!”

Swartt spat on the shell and threw it into the sea. “Stupid rubbish! If that’s the best ye can do then ’tis a pore show. Fall in with the rest an’ git marchin’. Swartt Sixclaw decides his own destiny—only fools believe what they see in shells!”

*   *   *

Zigu the Corsair strode out on the right flank of the horde, along with his former bosun, a stoat called Welknose. Both could see Swartt marching at the head of the horde.

The bosun had taken a dislike to Swartt and made no secret of it. “Warlord, huh! That’n ain’t no Warlord, more like a puffed-up toad swaggerin’ out front there. You c’d take ’im, Cap’n, easily, I knows yer could!”

Zigu was an unusual Corsair. Tall and saturnine, he dressed plainly and affected the manner of a gentlebeast. Despite this, he was shrewd and ruthless and feared by many among the searat fraternity for his skill with the deadly long rapier. His paw resting on the fine basket hilt of the weapon, he strode at a leisurely pace, regarding his bosun’s angry outburst with faint amusement.

“Lack a day, Welknose, shame on you for speaking of our beloved leader in such a dreadful manner. Tell me, pray, why should I ’take ’im,’ as you so quaintly put it?”

“So that you kin be the boss of all this lot, Cap’n. Yer kin bet an oyster to a lobster they’d foller a finebeast like yerself if’n yer tickled Swartt to death wid yer rapier!”

Zigu smiled benevolently at his companion. “Hmm, yes. I see what you mean. Mayhap all of these vermin would benefit from my leadership—but later, my friend, later.”

The stoat wrinkled his long lumpy nose and scratched one ear, saying, “Later, Cap’n, why later?”

Zigu shrugged expressively. “Why not later, prithee? Let our barbaric ally lead his horde against the Badger Lord an’ his mountain; one would imagine fierce battle and bloody slaughter on both sides. Just before I slew him, my old father used to have a saying:

“Haharr haharr hohoho!” Welknose broke into raucous laughter. “Yer a caution, Cap’n, an’ no mistake. I see wot yer means, we let ole Swartt get hisself killed an’ then we steps in an’ takes command!”

“Roughly put but apt, my lumpnosed confederate.”

Welknose grinned fondly up at the tall Corsair. “Yore a real gennelbeast, Cap’n. You talks fancy but fights dirty—that’s real quality, an’ no mistake!”

*   *   *

At the front of the horde Swartt was busy plotting with Nightshade against his Corsair ally.

“Lord, this Zigu creature,” said Nightshade, “I do not need shells or omens to tell me that he will slide that thin blade of his into your back one night if he is not dealt with soon.”

“Oh, don’t worry yerself, vixen, I’ve got me eye on Zigu, but we need ’im to take us to the mountain. ’E knows where it is, an’ the best way of approachin’ it.”

“And after that, Lord, what then?”

“Simple, we let everybeast know ’ow brave our Corsair is, then let ’im take the honor of leadin’ a dangerous charge. If ’e dies, well an’ good, but if he wins the day an’ comes out alive, you know wot t’do, don’t yer.”

“Aye, Sire, we hail him as a hero and let him drink fine wine from the silver chalice, like Bowfleg and Damsontongue.”

“Right, we can’t let bravebeasts go thirsty, ’twouldn’t be good manners!”

Skarlath was too high up to hear what went on below. A mere hovering speck, he noted the moving horde on the shore before winging off toward Salamandastron.