by Rick Johnson
Silversion
By the same author:
Helga: Out of Hedgelands
The Overending
Silversion
WOOD COW CHRONICLES
VOLUME THREE
Rick Johnson
Dedicated to Nancy,
who understands
Text Copyright © 2015 Rick Johnson
All rights reserved
Images used under license from Shutterstock.com
Escape
Prologue
Tē’d’Tē
Barely Begun
ThunderUp
East o’ Non
A Plan
Colonel Snart
Speak Truth and Fear Nothing
Forever-Fire
Mutiny
We Will Follow the River
Silverpreen
No Trespassing Here
Brimstone Grass Ranch
Noob
Trallé Racing
The Master of the Fleet
Davison’s Account
“He Meant to Kill Me!”
The Club Wolf Landing
No ‘Betters’ or ‘Worsers’
Free Musterteers
Viper’s Hive
The Bucky-Round Starts Up
Leap-Bugs
Leap-Bugs Marching
Silversion
Bound for Walloper’s Hold
Tillanious-Rippan, of Frinnet
The New Bozz Less
Odd Name, Isn’t It?
A Threat to the Realm
The Graven Sot
An Enormous Airship in the Sky
Wreakage Coated With Silver Dust
Any Beast Can Dance
An Improved Version of Silverpreen
Wrackshee Attack
Reunion
Epilogue
Book One
Escape
Book Two
Silverpreen
Book Three
Silversion
Book One
Escape
Prologue
At the conclusion of The Overending (Wood Cow Chronicles, #2), Helga and her comrades unleash dragons on Tilk Duraow’s unsuspecting forces gathered for the evening meal...
Long before sunset, within Tilk Duraow’s lofty, smoke-stained kitchens, the fortress’ last feast was prepared. A crowd of cooks and apprentices lit fires, stirred pots, and seasoned great hunks of shark, cut fresh from carcesses hanging from hooks in the oaken beams of the ceiling. The entire kitchen was in commotion: shark sizzling and popping in an enormous cone-shaped oven. Dozens of pots boiling. Fire crackling and shooting sparks. Yellings and rattlings, runnings to and fro, nothing still or silent. Small wonder that no tell-tale sound of peril might be noticed amidst such general chaos.
When bugles blew the call for the evening’s Roast Mess, sounding over the cliffs and crags surrounding the ancient fortress, the echoes seemed to die away faster than usual. It seemed as if the sound fled over the strange wilderness of great precipices and pinnacles, broken and split by long-ago earthquakes. Fleeing, perhaps, in fear and warning of what was, even now, occurring near those very kitchens.
Tucking the kitchen and dining hall away in the corner of the fortress must have seemed an unlikely danger to the builders of Tilk Duraow. With stone walls up to thirty feet thick in some places, and barely any openings to the outside, strong bulwarks had been placed against external attack. With brazzens of Skull Buzzards guarding the place, the builders did not worry much about internal threats to the kitchen and dining hall. A deeply regrettable design flaw, as it turned out.
The long high-domed passageways leading to the kitchens, and the enormous dining hall just behind it, were the only exits. From the kitchens and dining hall, one passageway led to cellars and pantries; the other to workrooms, the grand parade ground, and the rest of the fortress beyond. For the most part, the walls and ceiling of the passageways were black from the smoke of torches—the only light. Little ventilated and smoky, the passageways were unhealthy in the best of times. But the passageway that ran from the kitchen to the parade ground was particularly nasty, because of the four large dragon pens located there.
The dragon pens, immense and stinking, had a flavor of farmyard flowing into the shrieking, snorting, and snarling of the great reptiles. A putrid sediment of manure and bloody fragments of meals mingled on the floor. Covered in sand, the dragon pen floors were more a stinking, slimy mud than anything else. Although being cleaned daily, a dozen gigantic beasts could make a lot of slime. There were operational conveniences in positioning the dragon pens in this part of the castle, but the unsavory smells also sometimes wafted into the kitchen. The builders apparently never considered what perils there might be, if the dragons actually went there.
Tē’d’Tē
When Helga touched the thick iron bars of the dragon pen, she nearly gagged. Her breath caught in her throat at the dizzying smell. The hot, steamy odor took her mind spinning back to another encounter with dragons. For some moments, her mind was again pumping in a race for life, inches ahead of dragons pursuing her—their moist, sour breath shooting in clouds around her. Nearly transfixed by the memory, it took desperate effort to breathe. She felt nauseous.
With the power of pure will, she forced herself to breathe again, allowing the horrible stench of dragon breath to mingle with the air she pulled into her lungs. It was not easy. How close she had come to being eaten by beasts very similar to those now inches away from her! Even with heavy iron bars keeping the beasts at bay, their slender tongues, dripping with deadly drool, darted between the bars, nearly flicking against Helga’s face as she began to climb. So close were the burning yellow-pink eyes, that they seemed to suck at her. She dared not look at them. Closing her own eyes, she climbed. The entire plan of escape from Tilk Duraow depended upon her ability to reach the top of the dragon pens.
Climbing was difficult. The pens rattled as if from an earthquake. Shaking and vibrating, the pen walls bowed out as the dragons pushed and clawed, trying to reach the morsel—Helga—that was so tantalizingly close. The iron bars groaned under the pressure, creaking ominously, threatening to give way.
The cross-hatched pattern of iron bars provided narrow, slimy footholds. A hooked rope, thrown to catch on the top of the pen, facilitated upward motion. If the climb was challenging, however, what came after that was utterly terrifying. Somehow she must walk across the tops of the pens—on an iron frame no more than six inches wide—without falling amidst the ravenous beasts.
“Oh, Ancient Ones,” Helga said softly to herself, “I’d like it best if I could live, but there’s worse things than dying, and I’ll not be on the worse side of things. I’ll try until I can’t anymore—and let that be an end to it, if it must!” Fixed now on her resolve, Helga’s mind cleared as she focused on what had to be done.
The roaring and screeching of the dragons, only inches away, vibrated through her bones. Swaying and writhing, the wall of the pen lurched like a maddened beast. Feeling a frightful tug on the leg of her pants, Helga cast a glance down and saw a long dragon tongue wrapping itself around her pant leg, trying to pull it through the bars.
Jerking her leg free, she climbed faster. With several more strong pulls of her powerful arms, she scrambled atop the pen’s frame. Quivering from head to foot, she crouched on her haunches, gasping for breath, teetering on the top of the pen. Now several feet out of the dragons’ reach, the pens still rocked with their ferocious attempts to reach her. Putrid steam, pouring from their mouths in hissing plumes, swirled around her.
There was no time to waste. The horrendous bellowing and screeching, and the rattling of the cages, surely would eventually attract the attention of guards. Gathering herself, Helga carefully stood up, precariously balan
cing on the narrow iron frame. The stinking air, moist with the dragons’ hot breath and steam rising from their manure, made the smooth iron slick as ice. Carefully she moved toward the gate of the first pen. There were three pens and three gates altogether—each pen holding four dragons.
Carefully watching her steps and concentrating to maintain her balance, Helga did not see the dragon leaping at her from behind. Although the leap fell short of reaching her, the force of the gigantic reptile slamming into the pen knocked her off balance. With a stifled cry she pitched forward, wildly grabbing at the frame to keep from slipping into the dragons. Dropping into a lunging crouch, her feet again found footing, breaking her fall. For a moment she huddled troll-like, as she stabilized her balance on top of the frame.
Sensing her vulnerability, the dragons increased their assault on the pen, throwing themselves again and again, leaping, snarling, snapping. For a moment, gut-wrenching terror threatened to beat Helga’s wits to a pulp.
A dark blur of motion suddenly shot past Helga from above. In the dim, flickering light, she could see that a Weasel, dropping down from somewhere above, had landed on the frame just ahead of her.
“Hey there, dragon-bait, get your hide movin’! Sittin’ there just cuts up your mind and you need it now—more’n ever!”
The unexpected voice snapped Helga back to full attention.
“Get your butt up and stand!” the Weasel shouted above the din. “Eyes forward—don’t look at your feet! And by the Ancients, don’t look at the dragons!”
Weaving precariously, Helga struggled to her feet. Dragons seemed to be coming at her from all directions now—from both sides of the shared pen wall where she stood.
“Corkscrew! Corkscrew!” the Weasel shouted. “Turn around—Corkscrew!” Seeing that Helga did not understand the command, the Weasel stood on one foot and pivoted, shouting, “Corkscrew! Corkscrew!” as she did so. “Stand on one foot and pivot—it’s easiest that way. Go back the other way!”
Helga briefly considered ignoring the instructions of the unknown Weasel. Was she friend or foe? But there was no time to hesitate. Soon enough, guards would be shouting alarms. Bending one leg so that she balanced on the other, Helga swiveled around.
“Sweet Ella!” the Weasel yelled. “Calm down! Walk! Eyes ahead!”
Still a bit confused about what was going on, Helga called on all her nerve. Her immediate task was to get to the gate latches as quickly as she could, and fixing her eyes straight ahead, she cooly moved ahead.
“Go! Go!” the Weasel called, “I’ll keep them busy back here!” The tall, sinewy Weasel sprang upwards with a frenzied energy that matched her considerable size. Extending her well-muscled arms, she caught hold of the rafter far above the pen, and ran along it some distance, before leaping back down to the top of another of the pens. Whirling, spinning, springing from pen to pen, to rafter, to pen again—the Weasel worked a strange fascination over the dragons. Driven to a state of frantic excitement, they ran here and there, snorting and screaming, completely consumed with hopes of catching the Weasel. With the dragons now occupied with the Weasel, Helga went about her task. The Weasel’s effortless dancing and swirling along the frame renewed Helga’s confidence.
“Don’t watch the dragons,” the Weasel called. “It’s all about you and the road you’re walking, just you and the road. Eyes on your destination, not in front of you.”
Walking skillfully now, Helga moved from pen to pen, releasing the latches. The Weasel danced back and forth, here and there, distracting the dragons, as Helga worked.
Although she worked rapidly and efficiently, internally Helga’s mind and emotions roiled in turmoil. Who? What? How? But these questions were overwhelmed for the moment by the stampede of dragons as the gates swung open! The Weasel’s entrancing movements now led the dragons to the open gates.
Whether panicked, hungry, or simply running free as instinct commanded, the roaring, screeching monitors raced through the passageways, just as planned. The dragons ripped through the Tilk Duraow kitchen in a wild, raging rush, and on into the dining hall where the Tilk Duraow guards and staff were gaily enjoying the evening’s Roast Mess.
The agonized confusion that echoed through the thick stone walls spoke of the complete chaos the dragons’ onslaught ignited. The cries of terrified Skull Buzzards fighting for their lives and the screeching of dragons reverberated heavily, as Helga swung down from the top of the pens.
She had just gained her feet on the solid floor, when the wiry jet black Weasel dropped beside her from above.
“Come on, hurry!” Helga said urgently, “we’ve got to get back to Christer and Klemés—they’re waiting to seal off the area.”
Running quickly, Helga and the Weasel flew back to where Christer and Klemés were waiting. Flying past them with hardly a nod, Helga and the Weasel kept going until they were well past the stone doors that Klemés was waiting to seal shut. Klemés gave a surprised smile as the unexpected Weasel ran past him, but because of his urgent task, made no comment. When they were well out of the way, Helga and her new friend stopped to catch their breath.
“Out of the frying pan, into the fire, they say,” the Weasel said, smiling. “But, I wager it’s the Buzzards who are in the frying pan just about now, except that the dragons don’t fool around with pans and such.”
“What are you smiling about?” Helga replied, aghast at the lighthearted spirit of the Weasel speaking of what was likely unimaginable carnage.
“Sweet Ella!” the Weasel exclaimed. “And what are you regrettin’ this fine day?”
“Look at what we’ve done!” Helga said fiercely, a sudden revulsion of feeling attacking her heart. “Don’t you see the slaughter we’re doing? Are you completely without pity?”
“Great Sweet and Wicked Ella!” the Weasel exploded, showing some emotion for the first time, but not as Helga would have liked. “Did you climb that pen and risk your hide with the idea of consultin’ with the Buzzards about releasin’ the slaves? Leave your lily-livered frettin’ in your pocket if you set off on adventures like this! Your frettin’ would make me sick—’ceptin’ I know you’ve probably never seen what they did to us here. You’re all worried about gettin’ too rough and cuttin’ the Buzzards up a bit. Mighty understandable, but mighty poor consideration of the sufferin’ I and my mates been through.”
Helga gave the Weasel a startled look. “You and your mates?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“Tam’d Tank’s the name,” the Weasel replied, but friends call me Tē’d’Tē. I’ve been a slave here at Tilk Duraow for more than ten years—seen a fearful bit of death and horror, none of it done by me or my mates. So, forgive me if I’m not carin’ much about what’s goin’ on just now beyond those walls.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “and I didn’t see you runnin’ to stop Klemés from makin’ sure none of those Buzzards escape.”
“You know Klemés?” Helga asked. “Is he one of your mates?”
“Why sure,” Tē’d’Tē smiled. “Who do you think helped me to escape this place?”
“You’re an escaped slave!” Helga exclaimed. “If you are, what are you doing here?”
“Sweet Ella!” Tē’d’Tē said with feigned surprise. “You didn’t want me to show up just a few minutes ago? You’d rather I was off somewhere nice and safe, eating my dinner as a free beast? It’s a little late now for that, friend,” the Weasel smiled.
“No,” Helga said, turning the Weasel’s words over in her mind. “Of course I’m glad you showed up when you did! We’ve got the same enemies in this place, and I expect we need each other now just about the same.”
“Yep, that’s about it,” Tē’d’Tē replied. “Stuff your philosophy. Now that the time’s come, I mean to do what I mean to do. I expect you are the same as me. You came here to do this. There’s times when breaking the back of evil is the only way—some’s so deep and terrible in denying love to others, the root must be ripped up for all to see! I stayed here waiti
ng for the chance to do this. When Klemés helped me escape, I couldn’t just run off and leave all my mates here to suffer. I didn’t know what I could do, but I resolved to stay and see if I could do something more than what Klemés is able to do—a few escapes now and then. For some reason we’re both here meaning to do the same thing—let’s get on with it.”
“How long have you been waiting?” Helga asked, so enthralled by the Weasel’s story, that she was barely listening to what she was saying at the moment.
“I’ve been hiding in the rafters above the dragon pens for two months,” Tē’d’Tē said, “stealing what food I get from the dragons.” Seeing Helga’s surprised look, she added, “What better hiding place is there, than the one place in the fortress no one would imagine?”
“Why didn’t you tell Klemés or others that you’re here?” Helga asked.
“I didn’t want to bring anyone else in until I saw a good possibility for success. Telling others too soon would just make things more difficult and dangerous. But today, you forced my hand—I couldn’t stay hidden any longer.”
“And you steal food from the dragons?” Helga whistled. “Every beast knows that dragon drool is deadly—even a little scratch from a dragon bite and you don’t survive more than a day or two. And you’re stealing their food?”
“Later,” Tē’d’Tē said with a smile. “That’d be sharing tools of my trade—and I’m not quite ready to do that. Besides, we’ve got more work to do.” She pointed to Helga’s pant leg. “And by the way, you better let me cut that pant leg away—you know you can’t let that dragon drool touch your skin.”
“Yaaak!” Helga howled, “you’re right—gotta get it off! There’s a knife in Klemés’s cell. We can cut the pant leg off there. Then we’ve got to get moving, there’s a long way to go before any of us get out of here alive.”