by Rick Johnson
“I don’t know!” ThunderUp repeated. “I never saw anything—I left the fortress and never knew anything more until they arrested me in Silverpreen. I can’t tell you what I don’t know—and that’s the truth!”
“So, you don’t know anything,” the Wolf said darkly. “Amazing luck for one who says they were the only survivor of a dragon attack, yet manages to get all the way to Silverpreen, and attempts to board a ship without any papers. Looks like you’re trying to get away from something.”
“I’m not telling you anything, slime-breath!” the Badger growled. “I’m a Wrack—and used to think that working at Tilk Duraow and owning beautiful snugs was the best way of life there was. But I’ve seen how it really is now. I don’t believe it anymore. You’re a dung-slug serving the masters of the dung pile. I’m not helping you with anything!”
Enraged, the Wolf ran to get his rod, intending to run ThunderUp through. Before he could reach it, however, Christer and Helga burst out of hiding. Grabbing the iron rod, Helga swung it hard into the Wolf’s gut. WAP! OOOF! The Wolf doubled over, and Helga followed with an uppercut to the jaw. BAM! The Wrackshee leader crumpled into a heap, unconscious.
The sudden attack on his chief distracted the Weasel’s attention for an instant. Not seeing ThunderUp unleash a powerful punch, KA-POW, the Weasel, too, was flattened.
“Thanks!” ThunderUp gasped. “Don’t know who you are, but sure glad you showed up when you did!”
“No talking now,” Helga hissed. “We don’t have time. We’ve got a serious game to play.”
Taking the Wrackshee leader’s iron rod, Helga whirled it above her head in the traditional Wood Cow flicker-pole fashion. It was an even more amazing display of speed and agility than the Wolf had shown. Bringing the pole to a stop, Helga smiled grimly at her companions.
“All right, here goes. You two, drag the Wolf and the Weasel outside. Dump them on the road in full view. Follow my lead from there.”
Walking out to the head of the caravan, the dragons snapped and hissed at Helga, trying to grab her with their teeth. Walking near to them to show she had no fear, she suddenly whirled the rod above her head. After a dazzling show of skill, she brought the rod down, sticking it through the head of one of the dragons, from ear to ear. The dragon dropped dead in its harness.
Surging like an ocean wave, the Wrackshees swayed this way and that, unsure what to think or do. Circling the wild figure that had appeared out of the cave, they muttered and cursed, but were fearful and confused as well. For a few moments, the milling crowd seemed to teeter on the edge of decision.
Withdrawing the rod, Helga whirled it again above her head. Slamming it down on the ground, she called out in a voice of authority, “Hey-Arr! Who rules now?”
“Bozz Less is down! Huzzah for the new Bozz Less!”
“Look here at my clothes,” Helga demanded. “I want you to look at how cut up I am—see the blood? We are survivors of the dragon rampage at Tilk Duraow! We battled the dragons and escaped. If you doubt me, look at your gutless, pitiful leader lying at my feet, and that dragon carcass over there. You don’t want to doubt me. Not a single beast was left alive at Tilk Duraow, except us! Don’t doubt me.” She looked slowly from beast to beast. Each one bowed in submission. Helga nodded. “Now, who’s next in command here?” she said.
“Myself, Bozz,” said a Coyote, stepping forward, and dropping to one knee in front of Helga. “Men’ace, at your service,” she said.
“Rise, Men’ace,” Helga replied. “Answer me four questions, if you will.”
The scene now was surreal to the extreme. Snorting, hissing dragons, rearing and tearing at their harness, shaking deadly drool everywhere. One dragon dead in its traces. The Wrackshees kneeling in the road, stopped in their tracks by this strange warrior who had suddenly appeared, standing in shredded, bloody clothes; their former leader defeated, crushed under her boot.
“Where are you bound?” Helga asked.
“Silverpreen to High Boulders Ranch, as fast as the dragons can run; one stop at Tilk Duraow—that was our orders, Bozz!”
“And what are you carrying to High Boulders Ranch?” Helga asked.
“Silverpreen is in chaos,” Men’ace replied. “In view of the insecure situation, Owner Two directed that the silver reserves be removed from Silverpreen and taken to High Boulders Ranch. We were to hand off the prisoner to the authorities at Tilk Duraow on the way. Then report to the Bozz More at the Ranch. There’s been more trouble with the rebels in the east. The Wrack Lord’s base at the Shèttings has been attacked. In the absence of the Wrack Lord, the Bozz More will lead the Wrackshees.”
“Something has happened to the Wrack Lord?” Helga asked.
“We don’t know how bad things are at the Shèttings,” Men’ace replied, “but there’s been no word from the Wrack Lord. So, until that changes, the Bozz More has called on the Bozz Less to come to him at High Boulders.”
“I’ve never heard of Wrackshees running silver caravans before,” Helga said. “That’s Skull Buzzard duty.”
“Aye, and it is,” Men’ace replied. “But there’s no Skull Buzzards left in the west. They’s all chasing rebels in the east, or going to the Shèttings, or called to Silverpreen to help the Club Wolves restore order there. There’s so much trouble now, that the Skull Buzzards are stretched pretty thin.”
“I see,” Helga said. “We must fulfill the wishes of Owner Two immediately. Cut the dead dragon loose and get us underway, as soon as the repairs are complete. The prisoner has been falsely accused, and he is now free and under my personal protection. This other beast is Christer, my brother. Place the two beasts lying on the ground in the prisoner’s wagon. I’ll see that they get a fair hearing before the Bozz More. You’ll continue to be my second in command, Men’ace, and my chief advisor. I’ll look to you for advice and counsel. Now, we need to depart as quickly as possible. Please see that my wishes are carried out.”
Smiling, happy that his position had been affirmed, Men’ace bowed and went off to fulfill Helga’s commands. With the Wrackshees returning to their posts, and getting ready to depart, Helga, Christer, and ThunderUp had a few moments to themselves.
“Are you crazy?” Christer hissed, when they were alone. “What’re you doing—gone over to the Wrackshees? And me, your brother? What’s with that?”
“Just jumping to the next rock,” Helga replied. “Trying to get us out of here. Once we broke cover to help ThunderUp, there’s no going back. Look, we’re in the middle of this thing, and it’s working so far. We’ll figure out what next when we see the next rock to jump to. Right now, there isn’t one.” She paused and gave Christer a wry look. “And, if you’re not my brother, what do I say?” she asked.
“I thought that, given everything we’ve been through, I might merit something more than, ‘Oh, he’s my brother,’” Christer replied.
“I’d give my life for my brother,” Helga smiled. “That’s pretty high status.”
“Yeah,” Christer said, “but will I still be your brother when this is over?”
“No,” Helga said, “I’ll have to think of some other status that will annoy you just as much!”
“Just don’t make it less than your brother,” Christer replied. “I’d give my life for you, too—anytime.”
“Well, now that we’ve both made that cheery promise to each other,” Helga said, “let’s get back to making sure we don’t have to do that just yet.” She looked at ThunderUp, who had been doing his best to look like he wasn’t listening to the conversation. “Do you know anything about where we’re going?” she asked.
“I don’t know much more than what Men’ace said,” the Badger replied. “I heard a few directions being yelled among the Dragon-Wackers as we came along. We follow this road, ignoring all the intersecting roads, until we get to Fit’s Lost Fit. I think that’s about an hour’s journey from here. At Fit’s Lost Fit, we take the road left. The entrance to High Boulders Ranch is uphill from there, on
the heights above the river, just upstream from a town called Viper’s Hive. That’s all I know.”
“What about Tē’d’Tē?” Christer asked.
“I guess we’ll have to pick that up again later,” Helga said. “We never imagined a situation like this. Impossible to just walk away from it now. If the Ancients are with us, we may be in a position to…”
“To what?” Christer asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Helga said. “But this caravan is going to take us close enough to the Bozz More to pull his beard. If we get that close, I think we can cause a little more trouble than just tugging his whiskers.”
“You’re right,” Christer said. “And I’m sure that they won’t think a thing about a couple of Wood Cows and an escaped prisoner showing up and acting like we own the place.”
“By the Ancients!” Helga laughed. “You know me better than that! Before things get dangerous, I’ll jump to the next rock.”
“And things aren’t dangerous now?” Christer chuckled softly.
“No, not yet,” Helga said, with a smile. “I know what I’m trying to do now. Things get dangerous when I don’t have a clue what’s going on, or what to do. When that happens, it’s time to worry.”
“All right,” Christer responded. “Here comes Men’ace—looks like we’re ready to move.” He looked at Helga and put his arm across her shoulder. Leaning close to her ear, he whispered. “I won’t forget my promise to you.”
“Neither will I,” Helga replied. “Neither will I.”
Odd Name, Isn’t It?
“The repairs are made, Bozz, and the dragon carcass dumped into the canyon,” Men’ace reported. “We’re ready to roll at your orders.”
“Well done,” Helga said, smiling at the Wrackshee, while trying not to gag from his hideous odor. “Come with me,” she continued, “I want you to ride with me. You’re clearly the most intelligent beast here. I can see you know more about this operation than you’ve been given credit for. I think this meeting with the Bozz More can be a very good thing, if we plan it carefully. You’re too smart to be back there dealing with petty details. I want you beside me.”
Climbing aboard the Bozz Less’s wagon, Helga settled in with Men’ace sitting beside her, and Christer and ThunderUp in the seats facing them.
“Tell me about yourself,” Helga said kindly, looking intently at Men’ace, as the caravan began moving again.
“Not much to tell, Bozz,” the Wrackshee replied. “As you see, I’m a pretty well used up old Hound. Been working for one Bozz after another for more than thirty years. Seen a lot. Understand more than I see. Served well, but never got a look to be a Bozz myself.”
“Too smart to be a Bozz, I’ll wager,” Helga said.
The Hound was silent for a moment, then said, “Every Bozz I ever had, relied on me more than he knew. I saved all of them from themselves at times—you know, too blasted important to think or be wrong. But I saved them. Did it matter? Nope. I’m just a Hound—and a bit too likely to think for myself. Can’t risk it, making him a Bozz.”
“Well, I’d do it if I could,” Helga replied.
“Won’t happen, no way, no how,” Men’ace said. “I’m just an old Hound that don’t know nothing.
“But you know it all, don’t you?” Helga pressed, seeing her opening. “Like I said, your problem is that you’re just too blessed smart to be a Bozz. You scare them.”
A smile spread across the Hound’s face, but he said nothing.
“Tell me about the Bozz More,” Helga said.
“The Bozz More is the most powerful Wrackshee leader after the Wrack Lord,” Men’ace began. “The Wrack Lord oversees all the Wrackshee operations. But, more importantly, he’s in charge of relations between the Wrackshees and the High One. Anything to do with the slaving system that supports Tilk Duraow and Maev Astuté is his business. The Bozz More is in charge of relations between the Wrackshees and the Silverpreen Owners.”
“And how does that go?” Helga asked.
“Many of the Wrackshees think it doesn’t work very well,” Men’ace replied. “We live a hard life. Most of us rarely see our families—always raiding, or marching, or fighting. Wrack is still as poor as it ever was, although they tell us things are always getting better. In the neighborhoods of Wrack, no one says that.” Nodding at ThuderUp he added, “Some Wrackshees, like your friend here, manage to get out and find better work. But most Wrackshees end up shoveling snails until their brains turn to sand, or taking up their snugs and going slaving. But the truth for beasts like us on this caravan, is that our pay is always late, or disappears; food is deplorable; we sleep in mud or on rocks most of the time; and even the Bum’s Masher is flat—might’s well drink water!”
“Doesn’t sound very promising,” Helga commented. “Go on.”
“There’s smouldering discontent, a sullen resentment,” Men’ace continued. “There’s a half-conscious sense that all the want, suffering, being away from families—is due to the powers that be.” He paused, looking intently at Helga.
“You see how far I’m trusting you,” he said. “Everything I say is treason. Yet, somehow, I trust you. I think perhaps you were sent to us for a reason—suddenly you appear, defeat our Bozz, slay our lead dragon—this is something new.”
“Well, I don’t claim to be sent to you—but I’m grateful you feel that way,” Helga replied. “I’m here to help in any way I can. The first way I can help is to listen. Tell me more.”
“You may not believe it,” Men’ace responded. “But I tell you, that is why these hardened slavers and warriors have accepted you. If that were not the case, you would be in the prisoner wagon now.”
“Point taken,” Helga replied. “If the Wrackshees are so unhappy, why does it continue?”
“The Wrack Lord is disrespected, without yet being hated,” Men’ace said. “So it is also with the Bozz More and the Bozz Less. There is no spirit of revolt. What would replace what we have? Things could be worse—everyone know that. Now there is discontent, where loyalty is needed for an order to continue. Each Bozz has his own plots and intrigues, while the common beasts have nothing to plot or intrigue about.”
“What can be done?” Helga asked.
“For a slaver, what remains when one Bozz replaces another?” Men’ace replied. “To be a slaver, no doubt,” he continued. “The rough life of a slaver, answering to the scum of the earth, eating slop, gives us nothing but demoralized discontent.”
“You think there is no hope, then?” Helga said.
“The hope may be that you weren’t killed back there,” Men’ace replied. “Demoralized discontent may not be much, but it sometimes creates enough confusion and apathy that beasts just let things happen. And if it’s true that the Wrack Lord is no more and the Shèttings have fallen; not to mention Tilk Duraow being destroyed, and rebels running wild in the east—well, it’s hard to tell what might happen.”
“Any guesses what the Bozz More thinks about all this? Helga asked.
“That depends on the purpose of all this silver we’re carrying,” Men’ace replied. “With Silverpreen in chaos, and trouble in other places also, there will be a power vacuum. Why did Owner Two decide to remove all the silver reserves from Silverpreen? Was he just worried about security? Or did he have another purpose?”
“What other purpose?” Helga asked.
“What if Owner Two is planning a bidding war with Frunge—that’s Silverpreen’s Owner One and the High One’s most trusted counselor—What if they’re both trying to undermine the High One? There are rumors that, with all the trouble lately, the High One has opposition within his own advisors. Some of them like the High One’s Old Kinshy ways, and others think he’s a self-promoting buffoon living in the past.”
“And there’s probably greed mixed up in there somewhere,” Christer commented.
“Yes,” Men’ace agreed. “It’s a struggle of the old order represented by the High Ones, Maev Astuté, and the sacred climb; against th
e new order represented by the Silverpreen Owners, silver mining, and preen. In the end, whoever controls the Skull Buzzards, Club Wolves, and Battle Stallions, will have the support of the Bozz More. But this caravan is carrying over seven hundred casks of silver. That’s everything there was in Silverpreen! So, looks to me like maybe Owner Two and the Bozz More are playing their own little game as well. If you have more silver than even the wealthy elite can imagine, you may think this is your chance to take out the High One.”
“Do you really think so?” Helga queried.
“Yes. I think Owner Two and the Bozz More are planning to take on Frunge—and vice versa. Winner take all.”
“I was right,” Helga smiled. “You’re very intelligent, with a great imagination. I guess we’ll find out if you imagine correctly, or not.”
“It’s not just imagination,” Men’ace replied.
“What do you mean?” Helga said. “Do you have proof?”
“Do you know what name is listed for this caravan on the papers that authorize it?” Men’ace asked. “Silversion. Odd name, isn’t it? My guess is that’s a combination of the words ‘silver’ and ‘subversion.’ Not proof, but sure makes sense to my way of thinking.”
A Threat to the Realm
Tē’d’Tē shook her feet as she walked away from her interrogation by the Skull Buzzard commander.
“Any dust I picked up from that brute’s boots, I’m not taking with me,” she said. “Too much of that kind of dust already weighing folks down.”
The Captain of the Guard grinned. “You’re an interesting beast,” he said. “You’re the first Frinnet I’ve ever known—not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” Tē’d’Tē asked.
“I don’t know what I expected,” the Captain replied.
“How can that be?” the Weasel said, “I’m not what you expect, but you don’t know what you expected?”
“I’ve never seen a Frinnet before,” he said. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” Tē’d’Tē said with a smile. “I don’t have a clue what you mean. Tell me.”