Picture by chichapie
Queen Dukwina squeaked scornfully, "It's over, rabbets—surrender or die!"
Buff Redspore glared at the queen. "Nobeast asked for your comments, marm!"
Rake moved casually, flicking the sand with a footpaw as he spoke with Scutram and Miggory. "There's no way out o' this, mah friends. If we fled, they'd pick us off one by one, eh, Lieutenant?" Scutram smiled grimly. "Fled, sah? Fled, did ye say? Sorry, but we ain't much good at fleein', doncha know."
"His spirit will march alongside us,/we'll honour his memory and say,/he died for truth and freedom,/aye, an' that's the warrior's way."
"My name's Sage, like the herb. What's yours, friend?"
Her tough-looking companion replied, "Kite the Slayer, Kite like the bird, and Slayer because of the number of vermin I've slain."
It was said so coolly that Sage felt bound to enquire, "Oh, an' how many vermin have you slain?"
The ottermaid showed Sage her shield, which was scored around its rim with a circular pattern of nicks. "Can't remember the exact count—have to start on my axeshaft soon, though. Just call me Kite, they all do."
"Anyhow, ye'll never guess wot 'appened next!"
Rekaby gave the young otter a long-suffering glance. "No, Swiffo, I'll never guess what 'appened next, but I'd be pleased to hear it from ye."
"By the way, just how many vermin are there?"
The hairy vole, Fiddy, spread his paws wide. "Lots'n'lots o' the scum. Far too many for you to scoff."
Sircolo stared down his beak at Fiddy, then sniffed. "Don't fret, little furbag. I'll give it a good try!"
"Welcome, welcome, welcome, on a fine spring night! Are ye friend or foe or just plain slow? Don't answer that question. Ye ain't too slow, an' ye must be a friend, 'cos if ye were foe, we'd have slain ye long ago!"
He fell asleep, feeling safer than he had in a long while.
"Look to the blade, my point ye must take,/to whence the winds will bring evil in their wake,/for goodbeasts arriving, I bid ye wait,/they bring aid on the day thy need is great./Two warriors that day will answer the call./The most unlikely creatures of all!"
"Complainin' an' moanin', that's all yore good for!"
Ricker pointed indignantly to himself. "Wot me, a moaner an' complainer? Hah, wot've I got ter moan an' complain about, eh? Sent off on an idjit's errand, wanderin' round inna dark, covered in stinkin' marsh slop, an' all because the cap'n wants ter git 'is paws on two stoopid liddle 'ogs. Ho, no, bucko, I ain't complainin'. Lookit me—I'm 'avin' the time o' my life!"
He turned back to Voogal, still smiling. "You'll answer, thick'ead, an' they'd better be answers I like, or things might get a bit hot for ye."
They drifted into sleep on the dark night-shaded stream, cheered up by the fact that they had a good companion, and a real tough one, to boot.
"Chest out! Chin in! Left right together!/Eyes front! Back straight! Can ye smell that heather?"
After the song, one of the sea otters, Garrent, chuckled as he chatted to Big Drander. “Wot sort o' marchin' song is that? Bit sissy, ain't it?"
Drander kept his eyes front, muttering out of the side of his mouth, "Tell that to Cap'n Rake. He wrote it."
Kite Slayer, the tough ottermaid, scowled darkly. "Ain't the sort of marchin' song I'd be caught singin'. Would ye like to hear a Rogue Crew song? One Skor wrote?"
Trug Bawdsley nodded affably. "Jolly nice of ye, missy. Carry on an' warble away."
Without further ado, Kite launched into the sea otter tune. "O there's blood on the axe,/an' there's blood on the shield,/an' blood on the swordblade, too./An' if yore a foe of our Rogue Crew,/they'll be blood all over you!/Blood blood! Blood blood—"
Corporal Welkin interrupted before Kite could sing another verse. "Oh, well done, miss. What a jolly little ditty, a right pretty paw tapper, wot!"
Buff Redspore glared at the queen. "Nobeast asked for your comments, marm!"
Rake moved casually, flicking the sand with a footpaw as he spoke with Scutram and Miggory. "There's no way out o' this, mah friends. If we fled, they'd pick us off one by one, eh, Lieutenant?" Scutram smiled grimly. "Fled, sah? Fled, did ye say? Sorry, but we ain't much good at fleein', doncha know."
"His spirit will march alongside us,/we'll honour his memory and say,/he died for truth and freedom,/aye, an' that's the warrior's way."
"My name's Sage, like the herb. What's yours, friend?"
Her tough-looking companion replied, "Kite the Slayer, Kite like the bird, and Slayer because of the number of vermin I've slain."
It was said so coolly that Sage felt bound to enquire, "Oh, an' how many vermin have you slain?"
The ottermaid showed Sage her shield, which was scored around its rim with a circular pattern of nicks. "Can't remember the exact count—have to start on my axeshaft soon, though. Just call me Kite, they all do."
"Anyhow, ye'll never guess wot 'appened next!"
Rekaby gave the young otter a long-suffering glance. "No, Swiffo, I'll never guess what 'appened next, but I'd be pleased to hear it from ye."
"By the way, just how many vermin are there?"
The hairy vole, Fiddy, spread his paws wide. "Lots'n'lots o' the scum. Far too many for you to scoff."
Sircolo stared down his beak at Fiddy, then sniffed. "Don't fret, little furbag. I'll give it a good try!"
"Welcome, welcome, welcome, on a fine spring night! Are ye friend or foe or just plain slow? Don't answer that question. Ye ain't too slow, an' ye must be a friend, 'cos if ye were foe, we'd have slain ye long ago!"
He fell asleep, feeling safer than he had in a long while.
"Look to the blade, my point ye must take,/to whence the winds will bring evil in their wake,/for goodbeasts arriving, I bid ye wait,/they bring aid on the day thy need is great./Two warriors that day will answer the call./The most unlikely creatures of all!"
"Complainin' an' moanin', that's all yore good for!"
Ricker pointed indignantly to himself. "Wot me, a moaner an' complainer? Hah, wot've I got ter moan an' complain about, eh? Sent off on an idjit's errand, wanderin' round inna dark, covered in stinkin' marsh slop, an' all because the cap'n wants ter git 'is paws on two stoopid liddle 'ogs. Ho, no, bucko, I ain't complainin'. Lookit me—I'm 'avin' the time o' my life!"
He turned back to Voogal, still smiling. "You'll answer, thick'ead, an' they'd better be answers I like, or things might get a bit hot for ye."
They drifted into sleep on the dark night-shaded stream, cheered up by the fact that they had a good companion, and a real tough one, to boot.
"Chest out! Chin in! Left right together!/Eyes front! Back straight! Can ye smell that heather?"
After the song, one of the sea otters, Garrent, chuckled as he chatted to Big Drander. “Wot sort o' marchin' song is that? Bit sissy, ain't it?"
Drander kept his eyes front, muttering out of the side of his mouth, "Tell that to Cap'n Rake. He wrote it."
Kite Slayer, the tough ottermaid, scowled darkly. "Ain't the sort of marchin' song I'd be caught singin'. Would ye like to hear a Rogue Crew song? One Skor wrote?"
Trug Bawdsley nodded affably. "Jolly nice of ye, missy. Carry on an' warble away."
Without further ado, Kite launched into the sea otter tune. "O there's blood on the axe,/an' there's blood on the shield,/an' blood on the swordblade, too./An' if yore a foe of our Rogue Crew,/they'll be blood all over you!/Blood blood! Blood blood—"
Corporal Welkin interrupted before Kite could sing another verse. "Oh, well done, miss. What a jolly little ditty, a right pretty paw tapper, wot!"
Just finished it. Can't believe it, really, that the series has finally come to... an end, a conclusion? Not sure. But it'll live on, of course, as we remember Brian Jacques: a most truly remarkable author for the ages.
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