by Rick Johnson
“Two fleets?” Tē’d’Tē said. “Where’s Gullery Spit? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Had you heard of Silverpreen before you arrived here?” Davison asked. “No, you hadn’t. There’s been a bit of geography left off the maps these past years. You see, when silver was first discovered on this side of the Dunesback Weir, Frunge’s mother was one of the first to develop a successful mine. The land beyond the Weir had always been considered a wasteland, but when silver was discovered, fortune seekers rushed in. It was wild and dangerous for many years. They called Frunge’s mother ‘Madame Luck’ because every mine she opened, produced massive amounts of silver. She was a widow, and when Club Wolves came to establish order, she met a dashing young officer who happened to be the brother of the High One.”
“Snart!” Tē’d’Tē exclaimed.
“Yes,” Davison affirmed. “Although Madame Luck never married Snart, he became her closest friend. Frunge and Snart grew to be inseparable. You may easily imagine, how an immensely wealthy woman, in a place where law and order were only being created, might have been able to create order to her liking.”
“So that’s how Frunge became Owner One,” Tē’d’Tē said.
“Only in part,” Davison replied. “It took the three of them—Madame Luck, Frunge, and Snart—to create Silverpreen as it is today. In a few decades, it’s gone from a sleepy collection of miner’s shacks, dugout cabins, adventurers, and gamblers to the biggest, richest den of thieves I ever heard of.”
“How did they do it?” Tē’d’Tē asked, wondering at the transformation.
“If you take unlimited funds, which Madame Luck had; mix that with unlimited power, which Snart was able to arrange; and add a bit of Frunge’s unlimited greed, you end up with Silverpreen,” Davison explained.
“Why would the High One let it happen?” Tē’d’Tē said. “Didn’t he see what was happening?”
“There’s some truth in Frunge’s perception that the High One cares only about his building project,” Davison said. “He doesn’t like to be bothered with what he considers boring administration. So, while increasing his wealth was a boring topic to the High One, it wasn’t at all boring to Frunge and Snart. When Snart offered to oversee the newly opened territory and suggested Frunge to serve on the Most Revered Council, it did not take much more for greed and cunning to win out.”
“So the High One happily builds his castle and Frunge and company happily run things to suit themselves,” Tē’d’Tē commented.
“Pretty much,” Davison agreed. “Or more to the point, Frunge runs it to suit himself. Snart is an old soldier who loves to serve his current commander and carry out a successful campaign, whatever it is. It’s really not about wealth for him. He loves to see his campaign on behalf of Frunge succeed. He likes to see his commander’s wealth and power grow.
“Officially, the region beyond the Dunesback Weir is an Exclusorate—meaning it’s only open to those allowed to enter. An Exclusor appointed by the High One decides who is invited.”
“That would be Frunge,” Tē’d’Tē commented, and that’s why it’s not shown on maps.”
“Good guess,” Davison replied, “and that’s why I have a second base of operations at Gullery Spit. Gullery Spit is a seaport on Gullery Island, a week out to sea from Silverpreen. Gullery Spit was uninhabited—off the main sea lanes until it was discovered by pirates. They quickly made it a main base of operations. Because of its seculed bay, Gullery Spit became their headquarters. The freebooters fortified it strongly, and year by year it became more important.”
“And no one has tried to stop them?” Tē’d’Tē asked.
“Oh, it has attracted attention all right,” Davison laughed. “The success of the pirates supplies the wealth that makes some of Silverpreen’s grandest citizens. In Silverpreen, no one cares if your wealth is from legal or illegal sources. In Gullery Spit, there’s no distinction between legal and illegal. That provides about all the advantage you could want in developing a business. So Gullery Spit has about anything you could desire.”
“And what does that have to do with you?” asked the Weasel.
“I needed a place to build my second fleet,” Davison smiled.
“What do you mean?” Tē’d’Tē asked.
“Frunge likes the riches that flow out of Gullery Spit, mostly into Silverpreen,” the Wolf continued. “He’s happy to let the pirates run as they will, so long as they poach on the other beasts’ ships. The informal agreement is that he won’t send Battle Stallion cruisers after them, if they won’t bother ships bound for Silverpreen, or owned by Silvers and Preens.”
“And you somehow get a second fleet out of the deal?” Tē’d’Tē asked.
“With a little help from Squint,” Davison replied. “He’s an interesting fellow I picked up a while back. He knows how to mix compounds that do interesting things.”
“Like what?” Tē’d’Tē asked.
“Any ship that enters Silverpreen Bay has to have a letter of invitation signed by Frunge. Squint made a special solution that gives paper a “memory” when it’s soaked in the solution.”
“Paper with a memory?” the Weasel said.
“Here’s how I use it,” Davison answered. “The invite letter’s a general form that has space to write the ship’s name, the captain’s name, and Frunge’s signature. I get one of the invite letters and soak it in Squint’s solution. When it’s dry, I take it Frunge and have him fill it out for a new ship I’m building. He fills in the information and signs it. Then I take it to Squint. He lays it against a piece of plain paper and heats the papers gently on the stove. A duplicate letter, down to the imperfections in the ink, appears on the second sheet of paper!”
“Sheeeewwwweeee!” Tē’d’Tē whistled. “So you have official papers for as many duplicate ships as you want!”
“Whoa—slow down,” Davison chuckled. “Remember that the letter names a specific ship and captain; probably don’t want too many copies of the same ship sailing around. Now that might draw attention!”
“But a few copies then?” the Weasel asked.
“One copy of every ship!” Davison responded. “I’ve got an entire duplicate fleet based at Gullery Spit.”
“And duplicate captains, too?” Tē’d’Tē smiled.
“Yes, I’ve been careful to recruit captains that look similar enough to pass,” Davison replied.
“What will you do with two fleets?” Tē’d’Tē questioned.
“For now, the Gullery Spit fleet is engaged in piracy—staying within Frunge’s rules. No Battle Stallion cruisers come close to me, so no one in Silverpreen yet suspects what I’m up to. My profits have paid for building the second fleet.”
“So my friend is playing with cutthroats,” Tē’d’Tē observed.
“I call it knowing the value of the chance I have been given, and not letting it slip through my fingers,” Davison said. “I have enough ships now to shut down Silverpreen whenever I choose.”
“And Frunge allowed that to happen?” Tē’d’Tē said.
“Frunge himself gave the orders to make it possible!” Davison laughed. “Every ship I’ve built, every captain I’ve hired, every crew—I’ve got written orders from Frunge to order them. The fleet now under my command—which he has unwittingly ordered—is now so large that even his whole force of Battle Stallion cruisers couldn’t stop it.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Tē’d’Tē said, throwing her head back in the chair. “How can you be so sure that no one knows about this?”
“The deal with the Gullery Spit pirates is ‘don’t bother us, and we won’t bother you,’” Davison said. “So long as no one breaks that rule, everybody’s happy to have nothing to do with each other. In fact, that’s why Frunge wants me to do a little piracy against the High One’s ships. There’s plenty of game for pirates to chase elsewhere, without getting crosswise with Frunge. So, if he wants to create trouble for the High One’s ships, he has to hire some help—that’
s me.”
“So, where do I fit in your plans,” Tē’d’Tē asked.
“You know the area around Maev Astuté, don’t you?” Davison asked.
Tē’d’Tē gave the Wolf a startled look. “Sure. I grew up along the northern coast not far from there.”
“And you spent enough time there—causing trouble, I might add—to know more about it than any other beast I know,” Davison observed.
“So what?” the Weasel replied.
“I want you to deliver a secret letter to the High One!”
“Get inside Maev Astuté!” Tē’d’Tē gasped. “Are you serious?”
“Saying such a ridiculous thing, why wouldn’t I be serious?” Davison smiled. “I haven’t put in more than five years playing my dangerous game for small potatoes. I’m going for broke. I think we can take down not just Silverpreen, but Maev Astuté, too! I don’t care if you get inside the castle or not—just get my letter to the High One.”
“So you can overturn the whole thing?” Tē’d’Tē exclaimed.
“Yes, the whole thing—stand it all on it’s head,” Davison replied. “And you have a key part to play.”
“He Meant to Kill Me!”
“Where are they?” ThunderUp growled. “Snart said the rebels would be here by now! Sitting here day after day is driving me crazy!” The Badger had been waiting a long time—nearly a week. Waiting with a growing sense of sullen impatience; a mixture of boredom and wounded pride eating at him. Angry and feeling hungry, he pulled out his tin of Jut Bolo, tossed a pawful in his mouth, and crouched down on his haunches to await the effect. As his head began to twitch, and water poured out of his eyes, for several minutes the burning sensation in his throat took his mind off his troubles.
When the experience passed, he sighed and looked down at the narrow trail far below. As it climbed toward Destroyer’s Gap, he could see several miles down its length. Nothing stirred on the trail. Even if the rebels’ departure from Tilk Duraow had been delayed for some reason, they should be there by now—if they were coming at all.
“All my work for what?” he nearly yelled, slamming his fist against the side of the wagon he was leaning on. Turning away from watching the trail, he considered what to do. His eyes narrowed in anger, as they swept across the work he’d done to prepare a fitting ambush for the rebels. The long wait had provided him plenty of time to prepare, and he hadn’t wasted it.
After leaving Colonel Snart, for three days ThunderUp had explored the trail leading to Destoyer’s Gap, looking for a suitable site for an ambush. The deeper he journeyed into the mountains, the steeper and grander became the canyon the trail followed. The immensely deep fissure, blasted out by water, wind, and sand over eons, fell away for perhaps five thousand feet below the the trail. The trail to Destroyer’s Gap was not a place for a false step.
Late on the second day of his exploration, ThunderUp spotted a scattering of tumble-down cabins far up on one of the mountainsides above the trail. Climbing up to the place, perhaps five hundred feet above the trail, he found the decaying ruins of an abandoned mine. A small distance from the rotting shacks, nestled among eroded cliffs of yellow and red, a rusting derrick and pulley-wheel rose above a dark opening in the side of the mountain. A large iron bucket, once used to lift waste rock to the surface, was now upturned and half-buried under by a collapsed building.
As he scrambled up to the old mine, he was nearly swept away when a stream of loose rock slid down the slope. Turning his back against the falling stones and grasping an old iron stake, he held on for dear life until the slide stopped. Fortunately, the slide was mostly sand and small stones, so he wasn’t injured. Taking the warning to heart, however, he switched direction and took a less direct, but safer route to the mine site. As he picked his way around the side of the mine waste piles, he could see that the massive piles were dangerously unstable. The wooden dams built on the hillside to hold back the mounds of rock had mostly rotted away. Frequent sandstorms had also carved away at the foundations of the piles. The piles seemed to be tettering on the edge of complete collapse. “Perfect! Perfect!” he chuckled. “This is the place.”
Deciding that the huge upturned bucket was the safest shelter, ThunderUp chose it for his temporary home. Crawling under the partially buried lip of the bucket, he found enough space to bed down. It was a good choice. During the night a ferocious sandstorm swirled through the area. Had he been caught in the open, the experience would have been much worse. Even within the shelter of the bucket, he had to cover his face with a cloth to keep from being suffocated by the fine dust flying everywhere.
The following morning, his plan rapidly developed. The old iron platform and wagon that had once been used to dump waste rock onto the piles were still intact. Although the platform was rusting away, the basic structure was still strong enough to support a loaded wagon.
“One wagonful of rock, pushed off the platform—when it hits the dump piles, they’ll collapse and slide down the mountain. Pity any beasts below,” he smirked. Nearly laughing with glee, he spent the day getting the wagon in place. It pleased him to discover that the platform was designed with a slight downward slope to help workers move dump wagons into place easily. Removing the safety stops at the edge of the platform, he pushed the mine wagon into position and set the brakes. Then he filled the wagon with large rocks.
“Come to me, little fleas,” he muttered as he looked over his work. “You think you’re so smart—taking over Tilk Duraow. But you’re nothing but fleas to me. You’ve bitten, and now you’ll be squashed. When you come up the trail, you’ll never know what hit you.” Patting the brake on the dump wagon, he chuckled, “Mess with Belonga, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
That had been nearly a week ago. With food running short and his water gone, the Badger’s mood was growing darker by the moment. “Betwattled I am! Here I sit—ambush ready to go and no one to ambush,” he cursed. He could not wait much longer. “Don’t mind going hungry for a few days for the sake of Belonga, but won’t last long without water,” he thought. The brackish liquid seeping out of the mine walls looked bad, and tasted worse, but it was all he had.
He decided to wait one more day. If the rebels did not show up by then, he would make his way back to Tilk Duraow. Perhaps he would get another chance at the rebels. It was devilishly boring, however; endlessly watching the barren landscape. Any beast might begin to think weird thoughts in such a situation, and the idea occurred to him to experiment with the cacutti stones.
“Why didn’t I think of that before?” he smiled. “It won’t hurt to use just one of the cacutti—it’d be good to see what actually happens. That’ll help me know better how to use them when the time comes to attack.” Being a sly beast, the Badger realized that it might not be best to light up a forever-fire stone out in the open. “I’ll light it inside the mine, so any beast coming up the trail can’t see it,” he thought.
He carefully pulled a piece of sulphurous cacutti and the bottle of thappa out of the bundle Snart had given him. Lighting a candle he had in his pack, he carried the materials deep inside the mineshaft. Placing the cacutti on the floor of the tunnel, and with his candle at the ready, he poured a small stream of thappa onto the stone.
The instant the thappa made contact with the cacutti, ThunderUp felt a slight tremor in the air. There was a thunderous fizzing sound, as the chemical reaction produced an effect like the most brilliant lightning—except in brilliant purple.
A monstrous cloud of furiously expanding dense bubbles spread away from where the cacutti had been. An involuntary leap backward saved the Badger from being instantly consumed by the foam. The roaring fizz took away his hearing as certainly as if a blast had gone off next to him. The swirling cyclone of foam destroyed everything it touched, giving off a peculiar smell—simultaneously burned and moldy. Wherever it moved, solid things melted away like wax. Rock, timbers, metal—became a flowing mass of gooy liquid. As the timbers melted and the stone walls flowed, the foun
dations of the tunnel were removed. Solid stone rumbled and cracked under the pressure.
Stumbling backward as fast as he could, inches ahead of the foam, ThunderUp dived for the tunnel opening. Timbers above him heaved and splintered, rocks and debris fell, and the tunnel entrance collapsed before he reached it. Dust fell in clouds and he gasped and choked for air. “Belonga! Belonga!” he howled. With the tunnel dissolving wherever the foam touched, the mountain groaned and rocked. Nearly thrown off his feet, he slammed against a melting timber, leaving his sleeve smeared with foam. In a flash, his coat sleeve was melting away.
“AAAAAAA! NOOOO!” the Badger wailed, ripping off his coat. Then his shirt. But a painful burning tingle was now on his finger. “AAAAAAAA!!!!” he yelled, watching his index finger melting away. Not bleeding—just melting like wax. With a terrifying fascination, ThunderUp watched his finger dripping away. Realizing it had to be stopped, the Badger pulled out his knife and was just about to cut off his finger when the ground heaved under his feet. Splitting apart like pieces of sliced bread, layers of stone sheered past one another and a large crack opened above him. Outside light spilled into the tunnel as the mountainside buckled. Giving a mighty leap, ThunderUp grasped the edge of the crack and pulled himself up. It was not wide enough, however, to accommodate his body, and he was left hanging above the foam flowing inches below his dangling feet.
Clinging to the crack; arms and head outside, but unable to pull his body through, the Badger gasped and pleaded for help. No one heard.
It was probably the fact that ThunderUp’s bulky body did not fit through the crack that saved him. As he learned later, had he managed to escape through the crack when he intended, he would likely have been swept away in the avalanche of debris that occurred when the mountain heaved again some minutes later. With a tremendous rumble and a mighty ripping, the mountainside split in a long jagged tear, sending most of the old mining camp and dump piles tumbling into the canyon. Pulling himself out through a hole now made large enough for his bulk, ThunderUp dropped to the ground gasping for air. Looking at his finger, he saw that it was no longer melting. The digit simply ended in a purple stub, looking like the remains of a candle that has burned out.