Helga: Out of Hedgelands by Rick Johnson (historical books to read TXT) 📕

with their swords. Despite the sting of the swords slapping her on the rear, Helga had to admit that the melody of the flute, while played poorly, was at least helped musically by the strong backbeat of the sword swats.

In just a few steps, the troop descended into a dingy, stinking chamber. Two massive iron doors, at least seven inches thick, stood open to admit them, with Skull Buzzard guards to each side. Helga gasped at what she saw: dozens of beasts standing nearly knee deep in water, each chained to rusty iron rings attached to the ceiling! Sea-beasts crowded together, packed on top of one another, pressed into the dismal, flooded, suffocating stench of unwashed bodies and molding clothes—Helga nearly screamed at the sight! Not a single breath of fresh air moved in the dreary chamber. Only beasts with hearts of steel could possibly endure in such a place.

“Welcome to the Butter Dock, Slime-bags,” Fetor announced. “Step right in and join the crew of the Daring Dream—they’ve been awaiting your arrival.” Fetor laughed, then continued, “But don’t get too comfortable because you won’t be here long. As soon as we get these lazy scum ready to go, we’ll be heading for Tilk Duraow.”

“You know of Tilk Duraow, I suppose?” Fetor asked with sly sarcasm. “Perhaps its considerable fame has reached your ears? Ah, yes, that great, magnificent, wide open, yawning abyss—that miraculous, glorious bottomless pit, from which come the precious stones to build Maev Astuté! How could your heart not burn to cut those stones?” A malignant smile played across Fetor’s odd crooked mouth, dripping with a constant flow of drool.

“Just imagine with me the immense iron buckets forever passing up and down on their rattling, clanking chains! The creaking and groaning of gears and pulleys! Ah, the music of it! And think of the armies of beasts like yourselves—working on those vertical walls of stone, nearly a thousand feet from base to top—reduced to the appearance of ants crawling upon the massive walls. Some crawl across those wondrous walls on spider-web like ropes; others on ladders lashed together many dozens of feet in length, warped by the distance—Oh! What a joy! And especially for those lucky beasties clinging to the blasting baskets!  Hear them hammering, ‘Tap-Tap-Tap,’ as they drive an iron bolt into the solid rock to make a cavity for blasting powder! Then, who sets the powder and lights it? Why the beastie on the basket!!! Quickly now, light it, and, Heave Ho, get them out of the way! Maybe! HA-HA-HA-HO!”

Fetor paused, slowly wiping drool off his chin, brow furrowed, as if remembering something. “Ah, yes, I almost forgot—everyone gets to enjoy the blessings of Tilk Duraow. The female Wood Cow has been chosen to be a Tilk Duraow runner—so she won’t be going with you.” The Wolf turned to the Skull Buzzards and said, “You two take the Wood Cow to Norder Crossings—but watch her closely, I can see she’s a pack of trouble if you take your eyes off her—Heh-Heh-Heh—which is exactly why she’ll make a good runner.”

“I am not willing to allow her to go!” Christer exploded. “I demand to go in her place!”

“Willing, you say?” Fetor said, bemused. “The question is whether I am willing, my dear fellow, and, sad to say for your hopes, I am not willing to accept your offer of service.”

“You are nothing but a bald, musically untalented tyrant,” Christer remonstrated.

“It will be wiser not to criticize my music,” Fetor warned with a sarcastic tone. “Beasts with their feet in the chains I own do not have a very good record of correcting my playing—or in opposing me in any other way. I suggest you just settle down and enjoy the walk to Tilk Duraow.”

“And if I should refuse that kind offer?” Christer asked.

“In that case, I’m afraid I might have to prevail on your young female friend here to help me make you more reasonable,” the Wolf replied.

The icy note of warning in Fetor’s response was not lost on Christer. Glancing helplessly at Helga, he said, “Believe me, Fetor, I will do as you say, but only that I may one day hope to see you splattered across the rocks of your precious Tilk Duraow. Mark my words.”

 

A Dragonwacker’s Work

Rain at Norder Crossings was never normal. At Norder Crossings it rains like a dam has broken and the lake dumps on the unfortunate beasts below. But this time the rains were especially bad. Rivers were so swollen that caravans could not cross. Bridges were destroyed. Roads washed away. The very important monitor train to the Hedgelands was so long delayed that many merchants and traders were facing ruin. When at last the sun shone after weeks of rain, every merchant in town was in the market square at dawn, pushing and haggling for all he was worth. Everyone was making up for lost time; each moment precious.

Ankle-deep water still filled the streets in some places. Colonel Snart, Monopole of the caravan, slogged along, making final checks of the monitors being loaded.

“That knot won’t get any tighter if you pull on it another week,” he fumed as a weary Wolf fumbled to secure the ropes holding packs in place on a monitor’s back. “Give it to me! I’ll pull it tight—you get over there and help Raskin load those barrels on the wagon. You pull your weight you bumbling idiot, or you’ll be carrying packs just like the monitors.” The tired, cold Wolf bowed to the Monopole and backed away with head bowed.

“We pull out in an hour!” Colonel Snart yelled after the Wolf, loudly enough to be heard all along the line of beasts working feverishly to load the monitor train. “Any more delays and we’ll miss the last of the Trading Days—if that happens, more than a few of you will be breaking rock at Tilk Duraow!”

The impact of the threat was immediate. All along the line beasts increased the speed of their frantic efforts to ready the monitor train for departure. No beast wanted to be sentenced to the slave-works at the Granite Hulks of Tilk Duraow. There, slaves broke and cut rock that was used to build the great castle of Maev Astuté. It was dangerous, often deadly, work. A troublesome beast could easily find himself swinging in a rickety basket at a dizzying height above the ground sawing huge pieces of granite loose. Without warning, chunks could break away and knock the unfortunate beast to the rocks far below. It was an unpleasant business.

Slurrp! Slosht! “Ahhhh, that’s better.” Coming from behind him, the sound caught the Monopole’s attention. A young Wolf sat on the open tailgate of a wagon pouring water out of his boots and wringing water out of his soaked trouser legs. Seemingly unaware that anything was amiss in what he was doing, the good-humored Wolf hummed a song as he tried to dry himself.

Oh the rains are wet and me boots overflow—

A-me-a-my-hum-me-de-me

Me field’s awash and I’m growin’ gills—

Alas, me potatoes are drownin’

A-me-a-my-hum-de-me-de-me—

KA-CHUNK! Colonel Snart whacked the Wolf across the head with the blunt end of his pike.

“Get on with it!” the Monopole screamed at the poor, confused Wolf. “Load the packs, you empty-brained sluggard!”

“Now, I’ll be beggin’ your pardon, lord,” the Wolf replied. “I’m not bound to your cargo, nor likin’ the thanks you gave me for my business. I’m a farmer, not your personal puncher-beast. I bought my goods from Mr. Peets, as I assume you’d be glad I did as he pays your wages. So, I’ll be pleased if you’d leave off with beatin’ on me head!”

“Get your sluggard bottom off of my wagons, if you’re not a caravan beast,” Colonel Snart responded coldly. “That will be my thanks for your business—you’d best be thanking your own good luck that I did not split your skull. Mr. Peets’ affairs are Mr. Peets’ affairs—and as there’s no other place to buy what you need, I’m sure you’ll be keeping your complaints to yourself. Now, move your sluggard bottom off of my wagon.”

Despite the angry words and ill-treatment, the good-natured Wolf smiled as he pulled on his boots. Shouldering his pack, the Wolf farmer picked up his walking staff and moved away from the monitor train. Pausing just before he turned a corner and went out of sight, he called back, “At the end, you know, we all end up at Tilk Duraow. See you there.” Then, he was gone.

The Wolf’s curious comment left puzzled looks on the faces of every beast that heard it, except for Colonel Snart. The color drained from the Monopole’s face and he leaned on his pike, breathing heavily. Sudden dizziness had come over him and he struggled to stay upright, gasping for breath. Looking strangely pale and shaken he wobbled off, muttering. “Wheesh...gashp...wheesh...not Tilk Duraow for me...you’re a lying beast...wheesh...”

Colonel Snart staggered a few steps beside the caravan before stumbling heavily against a huge monitor being loaded by one of the Dragonwackers. Grabbing frantically to keep from falling, the Monopole caught hold of the heavy rope lashings, stopping his fall.  The Wolf had hardly touched the monitor’s pack-harness when the beast lunged violently to the side, toward the Colonel, hissing ferociously and snapping its massive jaws.

“AYYYYAWWWWH!” Colonel Snart yelled in startled surprise as the lizard’s jaws—filled with two-inch, razor-sharp teeth—snapped shut, catching the edge of the Colonel’s coat-sleeve tightly within them. With a turn of his powerful head, the monitor jerked the Monopole toward it, making the next snap of the jaws certain to bloody Colonel Snart himself. The monitor’s horrid-smelling breath—said to be the worst odor anywhere—shot out in huge putrid gusts. Pulled off balance by the monitor’s jerk, Colonel Snart’s face dropped directly into the stream of loathsome breath. Gagging at the vile stench, the Monopole’s stomach churned and he felt as if he would pass out—the usual next step for a beast falling prey to a monitor attack.

The Dragonwacker reacted instantly to the danger. Leaping on top of the monitor’s wide head, he began jumping up and down, pounding the lizard on the head with his heavy boots. “Torff ta Mit! Salamy! Torff ta Mit!” the Dragonwacker yelled, giving commands to the monitor.

Slowly the giant lizard calmed down and, after a few more jumps on its head, the fearsome creature released its bite on the Monopole’s coat. Slick, gooey-looking drool glistened in heavy globs on the Colonel’s clothing where the monitor’s bite had ripped away much of the arm of his coat.

“Den’t ya tetch the druul,” the Dragonwacker warned. “It’s wers’na bite of th’a dragen hir’silf! Here ser, drep’it ceat in th’a buckit. Thi’n I’ll be burn’it fer ya.”

The Colonel heeded the warning, carefully removing his coat and handing it over to be burned. Every beast he had ever known that had been bitten by a monitor had died. Monitor bites were not poisonous, but as their stinking breath suggested, their filthy mouths were filled with all manner of loathsome bacteria. A “fortunate” beast that survived a monitor bite and escaped soon saw his fur falling out and the skin rolling up all around the wound. The deep slashing bite wounds always became badly infected. It was rare for a beast with a monitor bite to survive more than a day or two.

“Luuk here, Mastir, ya git car’liss like that again—rip-snap-gulp, and ya’re a mimery. Ya’s b’in ri’und ta dragins ling eni’ugh ta kniw ta dangir. What’s git inta ya’s skull? Ta dragin’s billy din’t hild ta niceties i’ rank. Ya’s just pewirful lucky that ta meni’ters have just had tar’s li’ading mi’al—ya kniw that mak’s thim sli’ipy and sluggish fir a few hours. But din’t be fuuled—ya disturb tar’ napping, like ya did, and