Open Vulpinsula & Surroundings The Red Fleet: Playing with the Big Boys Now

[Velnias Blackfish Blythe]

They had been hungry for more. That’s all it had taken to start killing.

The hold of the Crabclaw brimmed with salted meats, pickled vegetables, preserved fruits, flour, sugar, and pounds of butter worth a fortune. Her galley had been refitted as the largest kitchen afloat, and her greasy black pots bubbled day and night. Among the ships of the Red Fleet, she was instantly recognisable from the smoke that billowed endlessly from her wood-fired ovens and stoves.

They could have feasted every day at sea for months. They often did.

They wanted more.

Just going out for a midnight snack, they had joked, as bows were strung and cutlasses sharpened. They had laughed, and jeered, and roared the Crabclaw’s chilling warcry, Death Hungers! Wasn’t Death the most insatiable glutton of all? Wasn’t Death their most faithful and ever-present crewmate?

There had been screams all through the night. Only morning revealed the devastation wrought on the seaside village they had stripped to bones, then crushed into ash and dust.

All because the pirates fancied a change of menu.

The oversized wildcat they called Blackfish was sprawled in a copper four-footed bathtub in nothing but his red breeches, which sat amongst the piles of looted property. A brave, solitary songbird warbled as the sun crested the trees. Blackfish grunted in annoyance, as a rather splendid dream about killing a long-dead rival evaporated, replaced by a headache. He cracked open one green eye, slitted pupil narrowing in discomfort at the light.

The first thing he saw was one of his crewmates relieving himself against the tree where the village chief and his family were hanging. Blackfish wondered if he should tell the weasel - who was obviously nursing just as bad a hangover as he was - to look up. Deciding it would be funny, Blackfish tried to unstick his parched tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Nnngh,” he grunted. “Ey. Loogup.”

The weasel didn’t hear his hoarse groans. Blackfish gave up after another feeble try - the moment had passed, his back ached from sleeping in a tub, and he needed to find out where most of his clothes were.

He found his coat easily - there was a broad-shouldered otter sat in the village square wearing the elaborately decorated centrepiece of Blackfish’s Red Outfit - with its massive gold epaulettes, and the scene of a pack of wolves tearing apart a fox embroidered on the back. The otter’s head had been cut off, and replaced with a coconut. Somebeast had taken a bit of charcoal and drawn a pair of round eyes and a demented smile on it.

Blackfish shook his head, wondering what maniac had gotten so carried away last night. Spotting the otter’s head a few paces away, he squinted at it, then snorted. Oh, he had done that. The otter had been the village’s warrior, until he had faced the Blackfish, and the wildcat’s wicked basket-hilted sword.

The Quartermaster of the Crabclaw had then gotten so drunk he had propped the corpse up with a sturdy stick, drawn a face on a coconut, put his coat over the dead beast’s shoulders, and declared he was Sir Coconut, Lord of Fishstick Village. He had laughed, the crew had feasted and danced around the huts-turned bonfires, and the survivors had wept before the end.

“…tha’ wazza good party,” Blackfish slurred. He needed a drink - hair of the wolf that bit him. Breakfast with seconds, too. Then he’d find out if any crew were dead or missing, and how much loot there was to ferry back to the Claw. Blackfish’s stomach growled, and he moaned his discomfort as though he’d been starving for weeks.

Gates, he hoped the captain was cooking this morning.

 

[Captain Grubguts]

Of course the Captain was cooking. It was the one thing he loved more than eating, and looting. He had such a passion for it, he probably could have been a master chef is he had ever lead a better life. A giant cauldron sat over a roaring fire, with what few tables that were still in one piece sat up nearby; a sort of makeshift kitchen popping up overnight wasn't new with this crew. The smell fish and spices, and a rare hint of orange zest? They were certainly being treated with the good ingredients. The Captain must be in a good mood.

The Captain, Grubguts, was a large and portly stoat- wearing a grease stained tunic and an apron that served more as fashion than function. He was currently towering over a trembling young mouse, who had been the assistant to the village's head chef. The chef's meal had NOT been satisfactory.... So, Grubguts made an example of him. His guts made fine fish bait for their breakfast meal. Grubguts had forbade anyone from touching the boy. They were going to need a new cook for their ship, after all.

"Come on, lad, but yer back into it!" Grubguts barked at the young mouse, who was desperately stirring up some sort of buttery-like spread. "Ye can't have bouillabaisse without a good rouille!" He smacked the mouse on the back, before going over to the boiling cauldron and stirred it. "This'll be done boilin' soon! Ye'd best hurry, lad."

Grubguts looked over and saw Blackfish awake. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. The cat!" He roared with laughter, smacking his knee. He was in an exceptionally good mood. Best not to sour it now.

 

[Velnias Blackfish Blythe]

Blackfish drew near, but not too close to the table of ingredients (Grubguts would not appreciate even the slightest hint of interference), just enough to assess their quality with the discerning eye of a former noble. So, this village had been of some value to their captain after all. Blackfish had seen pirates do unspeakable things for their love of gold, jewels and coin, but what crimes stained their paws were nothing compared to what he had seen Grubguts do for a tin of paprika.

“G’morning, cap’n, that does smell delicious,” Blackfish oozed, assembling a crooked smile on his lips and trying not to twitch his ears as the captain's laughter rang around his aching head. He had to begrudgingly give Grubguts credit where it was due - the enormous stoat’s chef skills were second to none, and neither indigestion nor a hangover ever seemed to affect him.

As for Blackfish’s hangover… he sniffed the air, noting a few crewbeasts must have started fires for their morning brew - they couldn’t expect the captain to do everything for them, of course. The wildcat’s eyes widened to a more wakeful state, and his tail flicked. Living and working with Grubguts so long had imparted onto Blackfish a shadow of the stoat’s uncannily refined senses when it came to food, or in this case, the rejuvenating scent of roasted beans. Somebeast was brewing that new drink, the one that had just been growing in popularity when Blackfish had been exi-… when he had departed the Imperium. Coffee.

Returning two minutes later, with somebeast else’s steaming mug, Blackfish smirked, and winked at the mouse that was sweating and shaking with nerves as he stirred the captain’s concoction.

“You’re a lucky fellow,” Blackfish remarked, his voice warm and uncannily affectionate, in a way that would make the fur on the mouse’s neck prickle. “You must have some real talent, for Captain Grubguts to apprentice you. Mind you pay attention, and you could go far, boy.”

If they had not been who they were, the bulky wildcat might have seemed kindly, like a jovial uncle encouraging the young boy. Yet it had been Blackfish last night ordering the deaths of the mouse’s family, friends and neighbours. It had been him, gutting everybeast the mouse had ever known like the fresh-caught fish on Grubguts’ table. To act friendly with the mouse now was sick.

Blackfish snorted to himself. Well, Mousey would just have to get used to his new life, and maybe one day the boy would call himself a pirate of the Crabclaw with pride. Just as long as he showed promise as one of their new cooks. If not, the captain had efficiently demonstrated that morning just how well he could find uses for beasts that failed him.

The Quartermaster had his own preference for a morning pick-me-up. Pouring a fine dark-amber coloured whiskey from a silver hip-flask into the coffee mug, Blackfish nodded at Grubguts deferentially. “Mind if I pour some of that heavy cream, cap’n? I must teach the lad the recipe for putting me in a good mood in the morning!”

Coffee, whiskey and plenty of cream, and a hearty, fishy breakfast. All of the wildcat’s favourite things!

 

[Captain Grubguts]

"Ye can teach 'im later!" Grubguts snarled, a fire in his eyes and his jovial smile replaced with a glare. "I won't be havin' the lad distracted! Now take yer damned cream and get lost!"

Grubguts muttered some obscenities under his breath and walked over to the cauldron once more. Taking a large strainer in his paw, he started to seperate the fish bones, flesh, and aromatic vegetables from the soup itself, and he caught the broth in a separate pot. Once that proccess was done, he removed the soup from the fire and put the broth on, poaching the fish in said broth while the captive mouse finished preparing the rouille.

"Let's see 'ere." Grubguts dipped a finger into the batter and took a taste of it. "Good stuff, good stuff, lad! Ye might just prove yerself worthy yet!" He gave the poor mouse another smack on the back, nearly knocking him over.

Letting the broth simmer, he hurried over and started to ladle up bowls of soup.

"Alright, yew miserable lot!" He shouted out to his crew. "Breakfast is almost ready! Line up now, all nice 'n' orderly! Yer dear Captain sweated his arse off cookin' since the crack o' bleedin' dawn! Lad! Get them fishes on a platter! And that broth in a bowl"

The mouse nodded fearfully, and hurried over to the broth, using a fork to pull the fish out and plate it up on a large platter, setting it next to the bowls of soup, followed by bringing the broth over and sitting it aside.

 

[Velnias Blackfish Blythe]

Blackfish’s paw held the jug steady as he poured cream over the back of a spoon into his mug. He kept his bright green eyes on the task, knowing if he made eye contact with anybeast he was going to burst into peals of laughter. He stifled a bout of chuckling with a grumbling cough, and sipped his coffee as daintily as a fine lady watching a game of croquet. As second-in-command of the Crabclaw, Blackfish could bully any of his subordinates as he pleased. He reserved such behaviour for when he was angry - otherwise, he tended to act as though the crew were his servants, and he to be their role model both feared and admired. Getting on Grubguts’ nerves though? Now that was a fine sport!

Blackfish made many things in the captain’s life easier - it was Blackfish who dealt with the mathematics behind dividing loot, who worked out what duties were fairly apportioned to whom, who settled disputes, who trained them in close-quarters combat, and many other things besides. This was a pirate ship after all, there were no Articles of War to keep up draconian discipline, only the force of personality, and the semblance of fair treatment. So long as every crewbeast of the Crabclaw believed they were slightly more special, slightly better off than every other crewbeast (and Blackfish was a master of keeping up this illusion), then the ship ran as smooth as… well. Cream down a cat’s throat.

Behind his oleaginous flattery and faux-genteel manners though, Blackfish resented Captain Grubguts. Not because the wildcat sought command of the Claw - far from it! No, he disliked the idea that he was getting too used to Grubguts. This half-dressed greasy low-born lardbelly would have been utterly repulsive to his former self, the wildcat noble who once went by the name Velnias Blythe, with all the history and prestige it carried. Yet Blackfish had grown accustomed to watching the stoat’s wide back in combat, dining with him at the same overburdened table, even seeing the funny side of the captain’s dark humour. The idea that he might actually like Grubguts’ company… it made Blackfish shudder at what he might become.

The wildcat had noticed for years that the type of scoundrel that signed onto the Crabclaw possessed a reflection of some facet of the captain’s personality, and whatever vices they brought with them were amplified in excess by his presence. It had taken him a long time to admit to himself that Grubguts brought out the same thing in him. He was as greedy as the captain - just for more than food. Winning was his chosen addiction above all others. Blackfish loved to win anything - games, minor squabbles, admiration, fear, respect, even causing another beast shock or disgust was a kind of winning - a kind of power he could hold over another.

That was why it was so fun to annoy the captain in small ways. That was why Blackfish was at the front of the queue to be served the freshest fish, and the hottest soup. Gates, but the food was good! Blackfish resented that too, in a way - he had the refined palette of a noble, and Grubguts was the only gourmand outside Imperium control who could cater to him. That made Blackfish dependent on Grubguts to maintain a comfortable standard of living. Being intertwined in mutual need with the captain was far from the Quartermaster’s preference… but it would do, for now.

“Blackfish.”

Blackfish knew who was beside him without even having to look. “Racket. Sprocket.”

The fox twin brothers were alike down to the last strand of bloodstain-red fur. Racket and Sprocket Cruces were long-time Claw cutthroats, with their brawny frames clad in matching outfits of shark leather, and matching gold piercings in their ears. They constantly competed, which made it easy for Blackfish to play them off against each other. So utterly determined to be alike in every way, the Quartermaster had had no choice but to promote them both to the rank of ‘Acting Second Mate’ - or else risk them dueling to the death.

“One of ‘em villagers is still ‘oppin’ about. A squirrel girl wiv a sling. Nearly brained us she did.”

“Splendid, splendid,” Blackfish rumbled, finishing his coffee. The sweetness of the cream, mixed with the bitterness of the coffee, and the fire in his throat from the whiskey - ah! Now he felt more like himself.

One fox drew a throwing dagger, and twirled it expertly, balancing it by the sharp tip for a moment on his finger-pad. “Give ‘er to me, I’ll finish ‘er quick.”

“No imagination, bruv,” the other fox sighed. “What did we ‘ave those poisoned crossbow bolts made for, if we ain’t gonna test ‘em?”

“Savin’ those for the big fight,” the dagger-twirling twin sneered. “Wiv what Ironpaw is plannin’-…”

Both foxes turned their gaze to Blackfish, clearly hoping the wildcat would indulge in some gossip. He smirked. He knew much of what lay ahead for the Red Fleet, whilst these lesser crewbeasts scrounged for scraps of half-truths and rumour.

“You’re right, Sprocket, we really should test the poisoned bolts,” Blackfish agreed as pleasantly as though they were discussing rearranging furniture. “Bring your crossbow. Racket, find my bow if you please, I left it in the jolly-boat.”

Both twins scowled, and spoke in unison. “’Ow did you know it was me?”

“Sprocket’s prettier,” Blackfish retorted with a wink.

The foxes flicked their tails in mutual annoyance, and both gave the Quartermaster a rude gesture. The wildcat really did burst into laughter this time - mostly at the absurdity of how offended Racket was. It was no breach of discipline - this wasn’t the Navy after all, and letting the twins banter and bicker with him would lower their guard for more important matters. As the two of them trod off, Blackfish raised his voice to address the rest of the crew.

“Gentlebeasts! There is sport for us this morning, with a special prize from your generous Quartermaster!” He called. Ears pricked - prizes were no joke with Blackfish. He loved playing with high stakes. “I shall award a special share of the loot to the sharpshooter that brings down a squirrel hiding in the treetops yonder! Be warned - she is armed with a sling, and anybeast that gets brained and reduced to a drooling moron shall be disqualified!”

There were guffaws at Blackfish’s little joke, and he saw an avaricious, bloodthirsty look in many of their eyes. A squirrel hunt, with live, dangerous prey! What a treat today was turning out to be.

 

[Captain Grubguts]

The young mouse captive looked towards the trees, his eyes filled with worry. Perhaps the squirrel girl was one of his little friends?

"Belaaaay that order, Mister Blackfish!" Grubguts called out. "It's just a simple bushtail. Ain't no need to waste time an' resources on 'er!" He said loudly and in a taunting manner.

There was a resounding crack, and a blur of a missile shooting through the air. Said missile, a palm-sized rock, slammed into one of the leg's of the table that breakfast was spread out on. The leg gave way, and the table collapsed. The soup and the broth was spilled onto the ground, ceramic pots shattering, and the fish was quick to follow, already collecting dirt and grass. Blackfish had been the only beasts to get a meal.

The crew fell deathly silent. Some of them hid behind their companions. Some of them made the symbol of the Kitsune and began to pray.

Grubguts stood stock still. His eye twitched. He gripped the ladle in his paw so tightly it snapped in half. With surprising speed and ferocity, his free paw lunged out, grabbing the mouse by the neck and lifting him up, fingers squeezing around his throat.

The mouse gasped and choked, flailing and kicking, but Grubguts grip was firm. He stared out into the woods.

"I'LL GIVE YE ONE CHANCE, AN' ONE CHANCE ONLY TER COME OUT NOW! IF NOT, MOUSEY 'ERE GETS 'IS NECK SNAPPED, AND WE KILL YE REGARDLESS!" He roared out.

 

[Velnias Blackfish Blythe]

There was silence, apart from the drip-drip-drip of spilled soup.

Blackfish scanned the treeline. He was resisting the urge to duck under cover - that sling-stone had been no trifle - it could have shattered bone, and turned brains or guts into so much warm paste. Yet if he cowered, that could be the beginning of the end of being the feared and respected Quartermaster of the Claw.

Gates, he wanted to live though. The wildcat pushed his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches, just to keep his paws from visibly quaking. His retractable claws extended of their own accord. Last night it had all been a rush, and as long as he had kept charging, kept killing, the fury and excitement in his veins had kept his cowardice at bay. Right now though, with an unseen enemy, a crack-shot too… Blackfish hated the tremor of fear in him, and hated how his tail and neck-fur fluffed out. It would make him look larger than he already did, but also give away that his act of breezy, aloof nonchalance was just that - an act.

As the moments passed, and the frightened squeaks of the mouse rose in pitch, Blackfish began to think that the boy’s service to the Crabclaw and her crew was coming to a sticky end. The captain did not make idle threats. Then…

“Let him go.”

She was dressed in a green woodsbeast’s tunic- that must have been how she had gotten so close. Up in a tree, closer than Blackfish could have imagined a creature reaching so stealthily, she was half-hidden behind the trunk, peering out with a look of fear and determination.

“I wouldn’t play with the lad’s life, if I were you, miss,” Blackfish cautioned. “The captain is a stoat of his word, and he won’t be repeating his request to you. Come. Down. Now.”

“Jessie, don’t- ack!” The mouse called, before Grubguts tightened his grip.

“I’ll- I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you if you dare-“ The squirrel yelled, puffing out her chest and trying to sound brave and intimidating. Like the old woodlander legends, Blackfish mused to himself. The kind where a rag-tag bunch of squirrels, otters and mice could frighten a whole warband into surrender with a few expertly slung stones and bravado.

“Stow that, miss, the captain need only twitch his claws to crack his little spine! You’ll die knowing he would have lived, but for all the ‘help’ you gave him!” Blackfish roared. He was making a spectacle of himself with such emotionally charged rhetoric - the perfect distraction for a certain pair of foxes to start circling the tree, one from the left, the other from the right.

“…take me! Let Joseph go and take me!” Jessie cried out in desperation.

“Nnnggh!” The mouse boy that Blackfish now knew to be Joseph protested, his little paws ineffectually clutching at the captain’s meaty fingers, his legs kicking and tail twitching erratically.

The wildcat threw back his head, and laughed. “We’re the crew of the Crabclaw, you must have heard of us! Pleased to meet you, Miss Jessie, is it? We have a reputation for being a bit greedy, don’t we, lads and lasses?”

There were some nasty chuckles and shouts of agreement.

“So why would we settle for one of you… when we can have both?”

“Drop it, bushtail!” Sprocket snarled, in position to put a poisoned bolt through Jessie’s face.

“Nowhere to go!” Racket chimed in from the other side, an arrow nocked and drawn on Blackfish’s bow. He would have preferred to use his knives of course, and draw out the squirrel’s painful death - but he was resourceful too, and the big fox knew he had a better chance of shooting up into the tree, rather than climbing up for close-quarters combat in the squirrel’s home territory. He was used to climbing rigging, not trees, after all.

Blackfish was almost sure Jessie would make her last act in this world a stupid display of amateur heroics… but something passed between her and Joseph, a pleading look not to throw her life away. The sling and its loaded stone fell, the stone dropping to the sandy ground, the sling getting caught in the foliage.

“…I’m coming down. Just… just don’t hurt him!” Jessie called, her voice shaking and barely restraining tears.

Blackfish smiled cruelly. Two new ‘recruits’ for the galley, it seemed.

“That’s a sensible lass,” he said, as he watched her clamber slowly down the tree. “You hurt my Second Mates’ feelings earlier when you nearly brained them, you know. I’m sure they won’t hold it against you if you apologise.”

“S-s…” Jessie barely stammered, before she was taken, the twin brother foxes grabbing her under her arms from either side, and marching her between them towards the captain, both of them eying her with murderous intent. Stuck between the hefty Racket and Sprocket, the young squirrelmaiden looked very, very small indeed.

 

[Captain Grubguts]

Grubguts looked over at Blackfish. Already the gears were turning in his head. He knew exactly what his Quartermaster was implying. He dropped 'Joseph' to the ground, the mouse gagging and gasping for air.

"Jessie 'n' Joseph, ehh..." He growled, walking up to the squirrel maiden. With a single wave of his paw, he dismissed Racket and Sprocket, grabbing Jessie by the chin. "Yer a lucky girl, Jessie. Any beast of my what wastes food in front of me gets a death sentence. But... I'm feelin' a tad generous." He cracked a wicked grin. "Who knows, maybe this old sea rat is gettin a tad soft, but I wouldn't want me dear apprentice to be all by his lonesome!" He cackled. "Besides, yer a crack shot wit' that sling, missie. Would hate to see that skill go to waste!"

He suddenly swung about, still holding Jessie by the chin and tossing her aside, the squirrelmaiden landing in a sprawl on top of Joseph, who was still recovering.

"Get 'em both back to the ship! The mouse goes to the galley, and the squirrel ye can stick in wif the slaves. We're haulin' ass outta 'ere! Ain't got no reason to stick around now!" He clapped his paws together. "Chop chop, everybeast! We're wastin' daylight! Grab the loot and go on!"

 

[Velnias Blackfish Blythe]

The wildcat’s cunning green eyes narrowed as he supervised the haul-out of loot to the boats. Mentally he was running through lists of everything he knew they should be taking back to the Claw. The village had not been replete with riches besides a few ceremonial knick-knacks, but there were fresh fish, fruit and vegetables, some minor luxuries like ale, rum, and the copper bathtub that had probably been part of a trade, and a quantity of practicalities like rope, timber, iron nails, shark hide and whale oil. Nothing worth sneaking under the Quartermaster’s nose, like gems, gilders or gold. No, the most interesting acquisitions from this nameless village, and the only things Blackfish would remember it by, were the two slaves.

“That’s enough of a load, haul away!” Blackfish ordered, shoving his not-inconsiderable weight against one of the boats, and pushing her off the sand into the waves. He shook his head as he watched the pirates row for the Claw, yakking away at each other like old ratwives. They would have overloaded it and sunk to the bottom if he hadn’t been watching. It was like trying to corral a bunch of kits. Big, heavily armed kits with fierce tempers and worse memory. Yet thinking about how young and naive the deckswabs were only reminded him of his own age, which put Blackfish in a poor mood.

“Chuck that rubbish away!”

“It’s mine, I found it, I gets to keep whatever I likes if it ain’t gold!”

The sound of an argument sent the wildcat’s ear twitching. He stalked up the beach, looking quite a terror now he’d finally reassembled his outfit, complete with his basket-hilted sword. He spotted the trouble by the barrels of ale stacked up ready for transport. Two of the younger Claw beasts, a short rat and a beanpole of a weasel, glaring daggers at each other, while their paws straying to the literal daggers on their belts.

“Hold fast there, you two!” Blackfish snarled, almost barreling into the pair and making them jump back in alarm. “Your idle paws are somebeast else’s burden! What’s all this about, then? Sledge?”

Blackfish jabbed a fully-extended claw at the rat, forestalling the inevitable scene of two beasts trying to shout each other down to tell their version of events first.

“I found this ‘ere weapon,” Sledge exclaimed, brandishing what to Blackfish at first appeared to be a kind of bat, a broad flat club. Then, he noticed that its narrower edges had been lined with shark’s teeth glued to its surface. “I wants it! It’s not goin’ in our arsenal, so it’s mine!”

“’S a piece of junk! He’s always bringin’ all this nasty flotsam and jetsam on board and he never stows it proper!” The weasel whined, stomping his footpaw. Exactly like kits, Blackfish thought. “Then I gets blamed for it! I gets stuck with cleanin’ up his mess!”

“Gentlebeasts,” Blackfish rumbled in the back of his throat, the warning snarl in his voice making both corsairs twitch their ears nervously. He almost rolled his eyes at the thought of addressing the lower sea-scum so politely, but it would remind them at least that he was a wildcat of breeding and sophistication. “Sledge is right, he can loot what he pleases… but I have to test any weapons brought onto the Claw for combat effectiveness.”

Blackfish drew his sword and took up a fencing posture, grinning as toothily and wide as the marine predator that was his namesake. “A friendly spar, eh, Sledge? Let’s see what your new club can do.”

The rat dropped the absurd sharktooth-bat to the sand as though it was a red-hot poker.

“I dun’ wan’ it no more!” Sledge squeaked. “I-I jus’ realised, it’s got um… termites. Fallin’ to pieces really. Shoddy craftwork! Tchah!”

The rat spat on it for good measure. Blackfish sheathed his sword, his face sour now that he had no excuse to humiliate the rat further. “Get down the beach before we leave you two behind, then!”

Shaking his head, Blackfish sought out Grubguts. For all the bickering and messing around, they were almost ready to leave.

“Are we rejoining the Fleet, Cap’n?” Blackfish asked, squinting out to sea as though he expected to see sails on the horizon. “Appetizers like last night’s raid are well and good, but the crew are restless for the main course. There’s a lot of rumours spreading, and I think some of the smarter ones have guessed Ironpaw’s next move already.”

Blackfish double-checked to make sure the two of them were out of earshot of anybeast, and lowered his voice. “The Imperium. We won’t be scrounging up bits of dead wood or a couple of scrawny slaves if we can swallow that prize. And if the Old Rat chokes on too big a piece… the Red Fleet will have to find a captain with the guts to match his appetite. Food for thought, yes?”

When Blackfish wasn’t annoying Grubguts, he enjoyed feeding the stoat’s ego on a diet of flattery, exaggeration and romanticised intrigues. Privately, Blackfish doubted that the Red Fleet would accept Grubguts as Lord Captain, should Ironpaw enter an unfortunate early retirement. But why not fuel his captain’s ambition? After all, every other ship’s captain in the fleet would be thinking the same thing. Ironpaw was running them headlong into a war, and rumour had it the Old Rat was Hellgates-bent on killing his own son, who had run off somewhere into the heart of the Imperium.

A family squabble that might be his ruin. Fortunes change fast in war, and every corsair worth his cutlass would be looking to land on his footpaws and grab everything he could in the chaos. If Grubguts and the Crabclaw ended up on top… then the world could be theirs to devour. It was a nice dream, Blackfish thought. He could almost believe it himself. Almost.