Some were of the opinion a Wearat was part weasel, part water rat. Nobeast knew. One thing was beyond doubt, however. A Wearat was the embodiment of nightmare, with a vicious nature that knew no bounds. It revelled in blood and death.

One such rare savage was Razzid Wearat, the most barbarous of all seagoing vermin. From his fortress on the Isle of Irgash in the warm southern seas, he emerged like a hurricane of destruction. His ship was the Greenshroud, a long, swift galley. From sailtops to hull, the entire vessel was green. It carried a single bank of oars, twoscore port and starboard. Aft of its square-sailed mainmast were two lateen sails, tall billowing triangles. The mainsail bore the Mark of the Wearat, a trident head, with two evil eyes between the forked prongs. Greenshroud was crewed by vermin corsairs spurred on by the promise of plunder.

The season that Razzid struck coasts and settlements both sides of Mossflower Country became known as the Winter of Slaughter. The speed with which Razzid raided helpless creatures was swift and ruthless. He left in his wake the flames of desolation and death, smouldering ruins which made his name a byword for terror.

Razzid’s Seer and Soothsayer, the vixen Shekra, cast her shells, bones, feathers and stones, advising him on all his wicked enterprises. It was, therefore, his own fault when he ignored her warning to steer clear of the High North Coast. Defenceless creatures, and easy victories, made the Wearat overconfident—he laughed scornfully.

“The only trouble I have is tryin’ to get somebeast that’ll stand an’ fight me. All I ever see is timid creatures turnin’ tail an’ runnin’ away. Right, Mowlag?”

Greenshroud’s first mate, the searat Mowlag, agreed promptly. “Ain’t never seen a beast with the guts to stan’ an’ face ye, Razzid. Yore the terror o’ land and sea, sure enough!”

Razzid kicked Shekra’s collection of omen givers scornfully. “Hah—mumbo jumbo, shells’n’feathers! Set a course for the High North Coast, Mowlag!”

The decision was Razzid Wearat’s greatest mistake, for he met Skor Axehound and his sea otter warriors. Expecting nobeast to stand in his way, Razzid pressed on. Reaching the High North Coast, he made a swift foray inshore, speeded by a blustering, snowy gale at his stern. The corsair crew daubed their faces with war paint, following their captain. Razzid leapt overboard into the rough grey waters, brandishing his trident, with the crew all around him roaring, “A Wearat! A Wearat! Death’s on the wiiiiiind!”

Sea otters were fighters and not fools. The lookouts of Skor Axehound had sighted Greenshroud as she hove into land. They were waiting in force for him. Carrying thick birchbark shields, armed from tooth to rudder with axes, spears, swords, clubs, slings and bows, they ambushed the would-be raiders. Razzid and his crew were caught waist deep in the sea, facing battle-eager beasts, the Warchief Skor and his Rogue Crew. That day the snow-flecked water of the Northern Sea was dyed crimson with vermin blood. The fury of Skor’s otters was so great that the Wearat, and the remnants of his defeated crew, were forced to beat a blundering retreat. Clambering aboard Greenshroud, they tried to get underway. But the slingstones, spears and fire arrows of sea otters hammered their vessel.

Greenshroud finally managed to struggle off, with sails and stern gallery ablaze, lines and rigging popping as the fire took hold, and the added handicap of a damaged tiller. Skor and his warriors stood in the shallows, banging weapons on their shields, challenging the invaders to come back and fight, roaring out their victory song.

The invitation was all in vain. Greenshroud headed off southwest, its vermin corsairs cursing the mothers of all sea otters for bearing such fearsome sons and daughters.

In his frantic efforts to extinguish the blaze which threatened to engulf Greenshroud, Razzid Wearat was badly burnt. Shekra had him wrapped in wet canvas; he was carried off screeching with pain and anger. The vixen stayed at his side, having a knowledge of healing. She stopped in the charred cabin to tend his wounds. Rain and snow helped to douse the flames. After a few running repairs, Mowlag took command, steering the vessel southwest, back to more temperate climes. Realising it was a case of stay afloat or sink, the searat mate drove the decimated crew hard, cursing, flogging, and threatening the wretched corsairs. Through endless days and wearisome nights, the damaged craft limped slowly into the far southern seas.

It took a full season until Greenshroud came at last to anchor in the bay at Irgash Isle. Vermin waited on the shore to greet their leader—for was not the fearsome Wearat always returning in triumph? However, this time it was different. Greenshroud, charred, battered and half crewed, was a chastening sight. The searats and vermin corsairs watched in silence as a party bearing a canvas-covered stretcher waded ashore through the sun-warmed shallows. Shekra had the litter well guarded by a score of heavily armed crewbeasts. There was little need for guessing. Everybeast knew who the hidden figure was by the lethal trident which had been placed on the stretcher. It was their chief, Razzid Wearat. The vixen hastened the group over the sand into the timber stockade, slamming and locking the gates as the onlookers surged forward.

There was plenty to speculate about, but everybeast held their silence. Razzid had his spies—there was always the fear of reprisal for loose talk. However, there had long been a contender for the captainship of Greenshroud, Braggio Ironhook. He was a big, brutal ferret, renowned as a killer, with a curved iron hook replacing his left forepaw. Braggio turned to view the damaged ship in the bay, then spoke, his voice loud and bold.

“Well, break out the grog, mates, we got us a broken craft an’ a dead cap’n if’n I’m to believe me eyes, eh!”

An old searat shrugged. “Mebbe Razzid ain’t dead. I saw the canvas move a bit. Wearats don’t die so easy.”

Braggio tripped the speaker as he turned to walk away. “Wot would yew know, ye can’t even stand up proper. I say Razzid’s dead—or leastways, if’n ’e ain’t, well, ’e soon will be. Am I right, Crumdun?”

The small, fat stoat who was his constant shadow chuckled. “Yore right there, Bragg. Y’ain’t afeared o’ nobeast!”

The big ferret swaggered amongst the other corsair vermin, letting them see his lethal iron hook. “Youse ’eard Crumdun. I ain’t afeared o’ nobeast! Of course, if’n there’s anybeast who ain’t afeared o’ me, all ’e has to do is challenge me by speakin’ up!”

Braggio Ironhook had an enviable reputation as a fierce fighter. The corsairs looked at the ground. There was not one who fancied his chance against the ferret.

Braggio spat scornfully on the sand, watching the crew and some slaves hauling the emaciated Greenshroud above the tideline. “Ahoy, Crumdun, let’s go an’ cast an eye over that wreck.”

Inside the stockade, Razzid lay in his private chamber, with Shekra attending him. The vixen had lit a fire in the centre of the floor. She tended the Wearat diligently, smoothing unguents and soothing ointments on his burns. Mowlag stood watching her in the dim light as she poured medicine into Razzid’s unresponsive mouth. It spilled out. The searat mate shook his head. Perhaps his guess had been right—maybe the Wearat didn’t have long to go. He looked very still. Shekra sprinkled powder upon the fire. It began giving off heavy green and yellow smoke. Now she emptied out her pouch onto the floor close to Razzid. Selecting some items from the contents—shells, stones, feathers and bones—she went into a high, croaking dirge.

Mowlag covered his mouth and nostrils, to save having to breathe the cloying fumes of the smoke. “Well, fox, wot’s the strength o’ things? Is Razzid gonna live?”

The Seer cast her materials at the Wearat’s footpaws, then hurried to and fro. She set the chamber door ajar, then opened a window shutter. In a short time, the chamber was completely clear of the greeny yellow smoke and fumes. Mowlag was not impressed. He repeated the question irately.

“Stow the mumbo jumbo, fox. Just tell me, will ’e live?”

Shekra studied how the omens had fallen. “Oh, yes, Razzid Wearat will live. The omens never lie. See this long shell? That is the Greenshroud. Three green feathers landed in it—they are the sails.” She picked out a stone from the shell, explaining. “This pebble, it represents him. See how it is pitted and marked, no longer perfect—damaged but still aboard the ship? Nothing is more certain, my friend. Razzid will survive to sail his vessel again!”

Mowlag silenced her with a wave of his paw. “His lips just moved. Does he want water?”

They both leaned close to the bandaged figure as Shekra soaked some moss in water. She held it close to his mouth. He did not drink but spoke quite clearly in a low snarl. “I . . . will . . . live!”

Braggio Ironhook strolled around the beached hulk of Greenshroud, assessing it closely. There was a creak from the high stern deck, then the rudder moved fractionally. Braggio called out, “Wot are ye playin’ at up there, picklebrain?” Owing to the number of times he had sustained head injuries whilst leading the corsair life, Crumdun was not the brightest of vermin. Popping his head between the after rails, he announced his discovery.

“She’s gonna need a new tiller, Bragg!”

Braggio feigned surprise. “Well, now, who’d have thought that?”

The fat stoat seemed pleased with himself as he continued. “On me oath, she is. An’ foremast, an’ new sails, an’ about fifteen oars, an’ a whole set o’ riggin’. There ain’t a strand o’ rope wot didn’t get burnt. Good job ye brought me wid ye, eh, Bragg?”

Braggio gestured with his hook.

“Ahoy, pudden’ead, shut yore fat gob an’ git down ’ere. I’ve got a job for ye.”

Crumdun wheezed his way down the charred hull. Brushing damp black ash from his greasy vest, he grinned crookedly. “Wot job’s dat, mate?”

Braggio leaned close, keeping his voice low. “Go an’ round up some slaves for me, but do it nice’n’quiet. Fetch those three ole shrew wives, the ones who are good at fixin’ up sailcloth. Aye, an’ them vole brothers that builds carts an’ such like. . . .”

Crumdun saluted and trundled off, but Braggio yanked him back by the tail. “Don’t go roamin’ off, mudface. I ain’t finished yet. Now, lissen. Y’know those ’ogslaves Razzid uses for ship repairin’?”

The fat stoat nodded eagerly. “That’ll be ole Kalstig an’’is kinbeasts. Shall I fetch them, too?”

Braggio nodded. “Aye, bring ’em all an’ make sure they’ve got their tools with ’em.”

Crumdun wrinkled his snout in a secretive smile. “Are ye figgerin’ on makin’ the ole Greenshroud shipshape agin? Are ye, Bragg?”

The hulking ferret touched the tip of his hook to the end of Crumdun’s nose, snarling savagely. “Just one word o’ this to anybeast on Irgash Isle, ye middenbrained lard bucket, an’ ye know wot I’ll do to ye?”

“Aye, ye’ll stick yore ’ook so far up me nose that it’ll come outta me left ear.” Crumdun grinned cheerily. Braggio released him.

“Right. Now, get goin’, addlebrain!”

Braggio Ironhook had always wanted a ship of his own. The idea of being a sea captain appealed immensely to him. Razzid Wearat would soon be making the voyage to Hellgates—he wouldn’t be needing this charred wreck, so why waste it if it could be made seaworthy again? Sitting down on the shore, Braggio began marking out in the sand a blueprint. This was the plan for a vessel he had long dreamed of. Many seasons of cunning and ingenuity had gone into the idea. Braggio knew it would work.

The ship was to be named Ironhook. It would be invincible, fast and powerful, feared both on deep sea and dry land. He pictured it sailing out of Irgash harbour, with him pacing the foredeck, a master of vermin corsairs, Braggio Ironhook. This island would become his—the day would come when Razzid Wearat would be nought but a dim memory.

Contrary to Braggio’s prediction, Razzid Wearat was not dying. It took almost half a season of constant attention from the vixen Shekra before his condition began to improve. Then one morning he called Mowlag to his side. The searat mate knew his master was recovering when Razzid’s claws dug sharply into his shoulder. The Wearat hauled himself almost into a sitting position.

“Did ye think I was goin’ to Hellgates, Mowlag?”

The mate winced as the claws tightened their grip. “Not me, Cap’n. I knew ye’d live. I’m ’ere t’serve ye—just give the word an’ I’ll do as ye say!”

Razzid released Mowlag and lay back. “I know you were here night an’ day, my friend, but now I want ye to go out an’ be seen round the island agin. Put the word about that I’m slowly sinkin’ an’ won’t last out the season. Then report back here t’me every evenin’.”

Mowlag nodded. He could see Razzid’s right eye peering from a gap in the bandaged face. “Aye, Cap’n. Anythin’ special ye wants me t’look for?”

Razzid beckoned to Shekra, who helped him to sip some water. Licking blistered lips, he closed his eyes. “Tell me how that fool Ironhook is progressing with his work on my ship. Make him think you are on his side.”

Mowlag rose. “I’ll act as if’n Braggio was me own brother.”

When Mowlag had gone, Razzid whispered to Shekra, “When will I be fit enough to move about again?”

The vixen bowed respectfully. “Why ask me when you already know, Lord?”

A faint chuckle rose from the bandaged figure.

“I would have slain you for answering falsely.”