Prologue

The waves lapped gently at the stony shore, their ferocity a pale comparison to what had gone before. The beach, if the irregular stones of which it was comprised could be attributed such a term, was littered with evidence of the sea’s wrath.

The shattered hull of a mighty vessel was beached where the storm had deposited it. Listing to one side, its only valid purpose now was to provide shelter from the sun that blazed overhead. The broken timber scattered across the beach could only account for about half the vessel. The remainder had been claimed by the sea.

Gulls wheeled overhead and cawed to one another. One, braver than the rest, circled lower until it landed on a plank jutting from the pebbled beach. From its vantage point it surveyed a prone figure, cocking its head this way and that to regard it with one eye at a time.

The figure was that of an otter, that much was clear. His broad frame was clad in a silk shirt and loose-fitting slacks, which were tucked into tall, heavy boots. A sodden bandana was wrapped around his head and an eyepatch rested over one eye.

“Over here!”

The voice came out of nowhere. The gull might have been braver than the rest of its kind but, given how low a bar that was, at the sound of the voice it gave a startled caw and took to the skies with ungainly flaps of its wings. Unconscious creatures were one thing but it wanted nothing to do with those who were not.

The voice belonged to a rat with black fur. Though smaller in stature than the otter, he compensated with a voluminous greatcoat and towering hat, which was topped with a feather that would no doubt have given him more height if it wasn’t so drenched. As it was, it hung limp and flopped about pathetically in front of his face as he ran.

Upon reaching the prone figure, the rat fell to his knees and began beating upon the otter’s chest in a random fashion.

“Over here! I’ve found the cap’n!”

Two mice converged on the rat’s position. Their features were identical but that was where the similarities ended. One was clad in dark colours with a bow and quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder, moving at a scurrying crouch. The other was bedecked in light mail with a mighty sword - mighty, that is, for the mouse’s short stature - strapped to his back, striding with confident purpose.

“You don’t do it like that!” said the latter, pushing the rat out of the way.

“Oh, aye?” the rat snapped, pushing back. “What do you know of it, Cleaver?”

“A damn sight more than you, Oneshot!” Cleaver snarled back, jostling to try and get back beside the prone otter.

The darkly clad mouse watched the two flap ineffectively at one another and shrugged, crouching in the suddenly abandoned spot at the otter’s side.

“Ah, well,” he sighed. “The kiss of life it is.”

One paw covered the otter’s nose as he bent down, mouth slightly agape to do what had to be done. Suddenly the otter’s whole body convulsed. It started from his feet and rippled up his body, culminating in a violent expulsion of seawater from his partially open mouth. The contents splashed full in the face of the hapless mouse, who reeled away, coughing and spluttering.

At the commotion, Oneshot and Cleaver broke off from their squabbling and rushed to the otter’s now vacant side.

“Skipper, you’re alive!”

“Yeah, cap’n, you had us worried there for a moment!”

The otter pushed himself to his elbows and peered blearily at the shapes about him. His gaze took in the rat and the mouse then traversed the beach. He groaned when he saw the shattered hull, all that remained of his prized vessel. Then he turned his attentions to the mouse who was still coughing and spluttering nearby.

“What’s wrong with Bullseye?” he asked.

“You coughed a lungful of water in my face!” the mouse gasped between breaths.

Skipper frowned. “What was your face doing so close to mine for it to get coughed in?”

Bullseye’s dramatics abruptly ceased and he looked suddenly shifty, eyes darting this way and that as if seeking a suitable response. “No reason.”

Further questioning was forestalled by the flapping of wings. A bat fluttered from the wreck of the ship and approached the group, landing on the jutting timber atop which the gull had so recently perched.

Skipper squinted up at it. “What’s the damage, Doc?”

The bat shoot its head. “Irreparable.”

Its voice was a combination of a hiss and a whisper that nevertheless carried easily to the beasts below.

“And the crew?” Skipper asked.

Again Doc shook his head. “We are the only survivors.”

It was a strange nickname for a bat, Skipper reflected, but the gods knew he’d earned it. Doc had patched up more of Skipper’s crew than he could count. But not this time. Not this time. He’d been expecting the outcome from the bat but it still hurt to hear them. Oneshot, Bullseye, Cleaver and Doc; all that was left of his mighty crew. They’d all had other names once but had given them up after deciding that the pirate’s life was the life for them. Now, they only went by their sobriquets.

Every one of them had fought beside him for as long as he could remember. They had the war wounds to prove it, too, but they also had the skills those injuries had earned them. They might not be as young as they once were, or as whole, but he wouldn’t swap them for a dozen healthy beasts.

They’d terrorised the west coast of Northymbra for many seasons, looting and raiding and building up both their crew and their fortune. He’d always bragged that not even the entire royalist fleet could stop him. All it had taken was a storm for the ages for it all to come undone.

Skipper turned to the rat. “Oneshot, you’re the new first mate,” he proclaimed.

The rat grew taller at he pushed himself to his tiptoes with glee. “Really, cap’n?”

“Unless you think someone else should?”

Oneshot glared at Cleaver. “Absolutely not.”

Skipper nodded. “That’s settled, then. We might not have a vessel right now but we’re still a crew.”

“There’s someone at the ship, captain,” came Doc’s warning hiss from above.

Captain, Skipper reflected. The rest of the crew abbreviated it to cap’n in fine old maritime tradition, but the bat was so particular with his words. He glanced at the broken remains of his vessel, wincing at the sight, like seeing a limb separate from its body. There was no-one there that he could see.

“You sure?”

The bat’s huge ears twitched independently back and forth. “Certain.”

Skipper stood and drew his cutlass. As if by some unspoken command, Cleaver drew his greatsword, Bullseye unslung his bow, and Oneshot brandished his caliver. Then, as one, they made on silent feet for the wreck.

As they got closer, Skipper began to hear what Doc had indicated. If he strained his ears, he could just make out bangs and crashes, as of someone throwing items about. The noises became clearer as they approached. Whoever it was, they weren’t being cautious. And if they weren’t being cautious, they probably weren’t listening out for the approach of others either.

Skipper broke into a run. Pebbles skittered away beneath his boots as he picked up speed, the anger rising within him as he advanced. This was his ship, whatever the state it was in, and he would be damned if he’d let another defile it.

At last he rounded the shattered bow, cutlass raised, shouting, “hands off me ship!”

He paused. The others, coming up short behind him, did likewise. Crouched before him, stationary in the act of sifting through the wreck, with a golden goblet in one hand and a silver plate in the other, was a small mouse. He blinked up at the otter captain and then glanced around at his surroundings.

“Not much of a ship,” he commented.

“But mine nonetheless,” Skipper barked. “Along with,” he snatched the goblet from the mouse’s hand and threw it down, “everything,” he did likewise with the plate, which crashed onto the pebbles, “in it!”

The mouse seemed unfazed. “Are you pirates?” he asked, cocking his head.

“Why ever would you say that?”

The mouse shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

Skipper smiled. The young one was clearly not the slightest bit scared of the crew before him. Maybe such a trait would prove useful. “Would it matter to you if we were?”

The mouse gave that some thought. “I could tell people I’ve met some real pirates?” he volunteered at last.

“Oh, yeah?” said Skipper. “And who would you tell? Maybe your mum and dad in a nearby village, perchance?”

The mouse shook his head. “No mum. No dad. Just me. There is a local village but they’re mean to me. I scavenge what I can in exchange for food but it’s never enough. When I saw this wreck I thought I’d find something good to trade for once and I was right!” His face fell. “Too bad you already own it.”

“A local village, huh?” Skipper pressed, not about to be sidetracked by the mouse’s maudlin rhetoric.

“Yeah, it’s not far from here,” the mouse supplied. “Hey,” he said, his face breaking into a smile once more, “are you gonna raid it?”

Skipper almost laughed at the mouse’s change in demeanour at this suggestion. “You’d like that, would you?”

“It’d teach them a lesson!” the mouse enthused. “They never give me half the worth of what I find. They think because I’m little that they can get one over on me!”

“Well, you just tell us where to find it and we’ll be sure to pay it a visit.”

“Take me with you!” the mouse suggested. “I can fight!’

“You wanna be a pirate, kiddo?”

The mouse shrugged. “It has to be better than what I’m doing now. Let me join up and I’ll show you lots of places to raid!”

Skipper slapped the mouse on the back, almost knocking him over. “Okay, kiddo, you’re on. Put that scavenging to good use and find yourself a weapon. You’re our first raw recruit.”

“Aye, cap’n!” the mouse dubbed Kiddo shouted, snapping to attention and tearing off a salute. “You won’t regret this!”

Skipper watched as the mouse scurried off in search of arms. He’d been dealt a blow, that was undeniable. The sea gods had not been kind to him. He had become too cocksure in his prowess, too certain of his invincibility. The gods had given him a lesson in humility and he would take it to heart. For now he had to rebuild.

Rebuild his crew.

Rebuild his ship.

Rebuild his reputation.