other bits. Her fertile brain was racing as she studied the jumble of objects.
Razzid dabbed at his bad eye. âSo, what do the omens tell ye, Seer?â
Shekra spoke out boldly, knowing what she needed to say. âDeath brings death. The old one must be paid for! Look ye, the stone can go any way, but which way to choose, high north or south and east? Which path leads to death, and which to victory? Choose, O Mighty One!â
Razzid seized the vixenâs paw in a cruel grip. âIf yore tryinâ to feed me bilgewater, Iâll hang ye from a mast anâ skin ye alive, fox. Do I make meself clear?â The Wearatâs claws had pierced Shekraâs paw, but knowing her life depended on deceiving Razzid, she tried to keep her voice calm and show no pain.
âI am but the messenger, Lord. Slay me anâ the knowledge will remain unknown. âTis thy decision, sire.â
Razzid snarled as he released his hold. âThen speak. What do the omens mean?â
She began pointing at the way her objects had fallen. âSee, the black stone lies between two groups, one facing north, the other southeast. The northern group is mainly stones and shells, all signs of strength and sharp edges.â
Razzid picked something from the small heap. âThis is neither stone nor shell. A scrap of dried mossâexplain that tâme ifân ye can.â
Shekra took it from him, blowing it off into the candle flame, where it was shrivelled to ash. She responded promptly. âNought but the vision of an old wavedog, whose life ended by fire. He was an old chieftain. His spirit must be avenged by the wavedog warriors. Hearken to what I said before. Death brings death. The old one must be paid for.â
Razzid was staring hard at his Seer. âWhose death?â
âMy voices say it would be those who slew the old one.â
Razzid sat back in his chair, gazing at the objects on the tabletop. âWotâs that other lot for, the ones ye said were southeast?â
Shekra ran a paw over them. âWood of trees and soft feathers, Lord. It is not clear, but I feel that is where thy time of victory lies. South, and not too far east, where the sun shines and the weather is fair.â
Razzid leaned forward, his curiosity aroused. âAnâ where would that be? What place do ye speak of?â
The vixen looked as if she was thinking intently, looking for an answer. Then her ears drooped and she shook her head slowly. âAlas, Mighty One, my powers are not endless. The omens reveal nothing else. My spell is broken.â
The Wearat leapt up, sweeping everything from the tabletop. Suddenly he was dangerous, angry.
âPlay me false, anâ Iâll rip ye apart. A Seer who canât see is no use to me!â
Shekra fell to the floor, trying to scrabble under the table. She was blabbering, âNo, no, sire, spare me. I spoke trulyâthe omens never lie!â She jumped with fright as the Wearatâs trident thudded into the wooden deck close to her skull.
Razzid was roaring. âWhere in the south anâ east will my time of victory be, ye useless worm? Tell me!â
It was a stone which saved the Seerâs life. One of the two grey stones she had cast to the deck. Her paw had brushed against it as she sought refuge beneath the table. Now the grey stone was smeared with blood from the deep scratches Razzidâs claws had gouged into her paw. As the brain wave struck her, Shekra pointed, yelling, âThe stone, Lord, the stone by thy footpaw! It has turned red, see? My omens were rightâitâs a place of red stones. Thatâs what ye seek, a place of red stones!â
Mowlag and Jiboree had eavesdropped on all that went on in the captainâs cabin. By morning next day it was the talk of the ship. So much so that when Razzid emerged to pace the deck, he was faced with Mowlag, hauling the greasy weasel cook along by his tattered apron.
He booted
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