by Rick Johnson
“Well,” the beast said, shaking his club. “The Bozz More doesn’t fear any beast, no matter how fancy they talk. He’s not a bit happy about what he hears is happening over here. Now, you’re coming with us.” Turning to the crowd, the beast snarled, “Forget what you saw here. The only thing you need to remember is this: Forget what you saw—or else!”
An Improved Version of Silverpreen
Stuffing his mouth with one more piece of Fried Shook-Whats, the Bozz More burped loudly, and rubbed the grease dripping from his jowls across his face. Long yellow-brown lines marked the accumulated grease and dirt collected in all the creases of his many-folded chin. Although the Goat was not especially fat, he was capable of putting away massive quantities of food. Eating nearly constantly, he had long ago given up napkins and other niceties of cleanliness, finding it easier to wear the residue where it fell. Completely bald from the neck up, his entire head glistened with oil and grease. Dressed in a tight corduroy suit, held together by silver thread, the words BOZZ MORE were emblazoned on massive silver buttons. Afraid to ever be left alone in the dark, a supply of candles poked out of the suit’s pockets.
As was his habit, a roaring fire blazed in the hearth, not more than five feet from where the Bozz sat. Sitting just far enough away from the fire to keep from being singed, but close enough to perspire, sweat trickled down his face. Loving the feel of the trickling sweat, he heaped more fuel on the fire. Settling again at the table, he had just attacked the last Shook-What on the platter, when there was a knock at the door.
Ignoring the knock, he munched the crunchy snake-biscuit in leisurely fashion, then set to work cleaning up his dishes. As the knocking continued, he licked grease and crumbs from the piles of dishes, knives, and forks surrounding him. Piling them neatly, ready for reuse, he let out a loud burp. “BUURRRPT! UURRPT! Mercy, what is that infernal knocking! Can’t get anything done! BUURRRPT! Ah, that’s better. Oh well, the burdens of management…Yes, Yes, come in! What on earth makes you think I can’t hear?”
The door opened and two Wrackshee guards struggled into the room, barely containing a furiously fighting Weasel. Howling, butting her head, hitting and kicking as best she could with her bound arms and legs, Tē’d’Tē was dragged into the room.
With a nod of his head, the Bozz indicated that the Weasel should be dumped on the floor in front of him.
“So this is the villain?” the Goat asked, with a laugh. “Why you’re a young beast. I’d thought that someone making so much trouble must have some years on them.”
“I’ve enough years to know what’s what!” Tē’d’Tē said.
“We’ll see about that,” the Bozz said, then paused, as the the door opened. A servant came in with a platter, and the Bozz smiled. “Ah, time for refreshment,” he smiled. “This is my favorite sweet—black bread, spread with lard and powered sugar. Have a bite with me, and we can talk while we eat.”
“No thank you,” the Weasel replied. “Struggling to her feet, Tē’d’Tē hopped toward the Bozz and slammed her body agaist the table, sending the dessert platter and several other dishes flying across the floor.
“My, a feisty young beast!” the Bozz said. “So this is how you make such trouble! Well, the sort of trouble you make is easily handled. You’ll never be heard from in the Fringe Territories again. You’ll be forgotten in a week. And within a month, Owner Two and I will open the Territories up as if you never existed.”
“Open the Territories?” Tē’d’Tē growled. “What are you going to do?”
“Surely you noticed that the unfortunate loss of the High One has, shall I say, weakened the old order in the Hedgelands?” the Bozz replied. “After all, my beasts picked you off the streets as if you were a fallen apple. That never would have been possible under the High One. But, I guess, when the Skull Buzzards are sent off to build roads and granaries, it can’t help but weaken security.”
Picking up one of the desserts that had not fallen on the floor, the Goat ate it with relish. “Owner Two and I had thought that we might have to offer some tokens of friendship to the High One’s Most Revered Council in order to be so successful,” he continued. “But the High One’s death and all this Graven Sot silliness has made things so much easier for us.”
“So, you were going to bribe the Council?” Tē’d’Tē snarled. “For what? Better snacks?”
“Ha-Ha-Ha!” the Goat replied. “What would you say if I told you that we’re going to open up the Fringe Lands for new ranches? There are so many new, up and coming Silvers and Preens over in Silverpreen that things are getting a little cramped, when it comes to their ranches. Most of the prime places for a proper Silverpreen-style ranch are taken. We’ve had our eye on the Fringe Lands for a long time, but the High One was too strong for us to muscle in. When his support in the Most Revered Council began to erode, however, we saw an opportunity. Now that he and Frunge are both gone—well, it’s a whole new ball game.”
“What will happen to the Fringe Folk?” Tē’d’Tē asked, thinking of all the dear friends she had there.
“They’ll be relocated, to a place better suited to their needs,” the Bozz said.
“Relocated—you mean forced to leave!” the Weasel scowled.
“Well, they really can’t stay where they are,” the Goat continued. “Such beautiful land—best anywhere, really. All they do with it is grow vegetables. It’s a waste. We can do better for the Silvers and Preens than that!”
“You’re hell-reptiles—all of you!” Tē’d’Tē growled.
“Owner Two and I are actually making a very fair exchange,” the Goat smiled, shaking his head. “You just don’t understand. The Fringe Folk use only one-twentieth of the value of the land they are on. We are moving them to land that is nineteen-twentieths worthless. So, you see, it’s really a trade.”
“Where are you sending them?” Tē’d’Tē cried.
“They’ll be moved across the Twelve Fords,” the Bozz replied. “There’s plenty of room for them over there.”
“But there’s nothing but rocks, snow, and ice beyond the Twelve Fords!” Tē’d’Tē cried. “They won’t be able to survive!”
“Well, they’re now squatters where they are,” the Bozz replied. “The Fringe Lands are going to be ‘ranches only’ from now on. It’ll be the first and only place where the better sort of beasts can spread out and have things the way they like them.”
“Meaning no one else around,” Tē’d’Tē muttered.
“For some of the better sort, ranches are now the most prized possession. No crowding. No need to put artificial barriers up to keep the filthy commoners out of sight. And you may have heard that Silverpreen has had some nasty problems recently,” the Goat replied. “Which, actually, is such a benefit to our new project in the Fringe Lands. It will be expensive to restore Silverpreen to it’s former glory, if it can even be done. Fortunately, Owner Two had long planned to build this new sanctuary for the better sort. So, the timing is perfect! He’s leaving Silverpreen to the other Owners and striking out on his own. Silverpreen is finished as a top-flight haven for Silvers and Preens. They’ll flock over here once we get going.”
“Do the other Owners know about this?” Tē’d’Tē asked, sure that she already knew the answer.
“I think we can safely predict a bit of surprise among the other Owners,” the Bozz said. “But they will be so busy fighting among themselves about what to do with Silverpreen and how to save something from that mess, that they won’t be in a position to do anything about our plan. I fear they may find the city’s reserves a bit depleted.”
The Goat laughed, “And, oh my, how would they even try to come after us? They will hardly be able to restore order in Silverpreen itself! Who will help them? Now that the new council of idiots in Walloper’s Hold has the Skull Buzzards building roads, and the Battle Stallions—well, who knows what silliness the new council has in mind for them! They certainly won’t be sending them out to stop Silversion.”
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��Silversion?” Tē’d’Tē asked.
“That’s the name of the new Silvers and Preens sanctuary we’re creating,” the Bozz smiled. “Here, Silvers and Preens will be able to stand on mountaintops and know that no other beast has that view. Think of it as an improved version of Silverpreen.”
“Or using silver to subvert everything good that the Fringe Folk hold dear, more like it,” the Weasel growled.
“Well, say what you will,” the Bozz said. “I don’t care what happens to the Fringe Folk. We’re making a fair trade with them, and more importantly to me, this will be a new day for the Wrackshees. A dragon-train will soon be here that has enough silver to build Silversion. Who do you think will do that work and have those jobs? Wrackshees. The days of living by slaving and shoveling snails will be over—well, except for a little needed to get labor for the new silver mines.”
“New silver mines, of course, how could we live without those?” Tē’d’Tē snarled.
“There does need to be silver,” the Bozz explained. “And, now that the Fringe Lands are fair game—which we have bagged—we can start mining in the Frinns.”
“Mining in the Frinns!” Tē’d’Tē yelled, kicking and spitting at the Bozz.
“What is it to you?” the Bozz chuckled. “The Frinns are worthless hills where nothing grows.”
“The Frinns are above my home village,” Tē’d’Tē snarled. The leering, greasy face of the Bozz stared down at her, increasing her fury. “If you start mining up there, all the waste will flow down on Frinnet. My folk will be ruined!”
“Will anyone care?” the Bozz asked, smiling. “I can assure you that my folk will be thrilled. When the plans for Silversion are announced,” he chuckled, “cheers from the Wrackshees will drown out the cries of the Fringe Folk, as well as any grumbling from the Frinnets. That will be the end of it. Now, I say ‘Goodbye.’ The guards will show you out.”
Guards stepped forward and hauled Tē’d’Tē away. One by one, doors opened and closed. Hallways became narrower and steps steeper, going round and round like a corkscrew. The Bozz was at the center of such an elaborate security system that Tē’d’Tē thought he must know little of the sunshine and stars. Then a large door opened on grating hinges, and Tē’d’Tē was led outside.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“The Mud Dungeon,” a guard replied.
“Sounds unpleasant,” Tē’d’Tē commented.
“It’s only dangerous if it rains heavily,” the guard said. “Usually you just sit in mud. But if it rains heavy, it fills up with water. Looks like you’re tall enough to ride out the rains we get around here,” he laughed. “If you was any shorter, you’d be in trouble.”
Passing down an alleyway, the sound of snarling and hissing dragons reverberated.
“Ah-Yett!” the guard cursed. “The blasted dragon-train is parked in front of the dungeon entrance. We’ll have to hold up and wait until they move.”
As they neared the dragon-train, it became obvious why the dragon-train has stopped where it did. Two beasts were being removed from the prisoner-wagon and taken into the dungeon.
“Looks like you’ll have some company,” the guard chuckled. “Always better like that. When there’s more than one prisoner down there, they take turns sitting on each other’s shoulders to get out of the mud for a while. Makes it a little more pleasant,” he guffawed.
“Let’s make use of the delay,” the other guard said. “It’ll take a while to get those other beasts settled in their new quarters. While we’re waiting, let’s hit the Skull Varnish barrel—I see the dragon-wackers are already at it. Let’s join ’em and get a mug of Varnish. This beast’s not going anywhere.”
Dragon-trains always opened a barrel of Skull Varnish when they arrived at the end of a journey. The dragon-wackers deserved a reward for completing a dangerous run of the dragons without any beast being hurt. Running the dragons was a deadly business, and it took first-class dragon-wackers to keep the dragon-trains running.
Dragging Tē’d’Tē to the head of the dragon-train, the guards hung her by her chains from a hook on the stone wall. Laughing as the Weasel cursed and spat after them, the guards moved off to join the dragon-wackers around the Skull Varnish barrel.
Tē’d’Tē had hardly stopped her fruitless struggles on the hook, when her eyes met those of a beast she knew. Helga! What on earth was she doing? She looked to be hanging out with the Wrackshees as if they belonged to her! The meeting of their eyes told Tē’d’Tē everything she needed to know, and she made no sound.
Moving over to the Wrackshees gathered around the barrel, Helga said, “Drink as much as you want, good beasts! That was the most amazing run of a caravan I’ve ever seen! You’ve earned a good mug, and then another—and, well, as many as you can hold!”
“HURRAH! LONG LIVE THE BOZZ LESS!” the happy beasts yelled. Joining in the fun, Helga talked and laughed with the beasts, back-slapping and joking. With every slap on the back, she urged the raucous beasts to drink their fill, but avoided the Skull Varnish herself. Told that the Bozz Less wanted to interrogate their prisoner before they took her to the dungeon, the guards found it easy to forget their duty.
Within a couple of hours, the alleyway was littered with sleeping dragon-wackers, as well as the two guards assigned to Tē’d’Tē. Motioning to Christer and ThunderUp to help her, Helga and her friends moved carefully over to where Tē’d’Tē hung on the hook. Quietly lifting her down, Helga and the others stealthily carried Tē’d’Tē away into the darkness.
When Helga judged that they were safely away from prying ears, she said tersely, “We’re going to keep moving. My little ruse has run its course. If the Bozz More saw me, he would soon realize I was an imposter. We’ve got to get as far away as we can before we’re missed. Sorry, Tē’d’Tē, but we can’t risk trying to break your chains right now. We’ll have to carry you until we’re at a safer place.”
Puffing, gasping, stumbling in the dark, they ran through the semi-darkness, a sliver of moon their only light. There was no talk, only the pounding of feet, hard breathing, and the occasional rustle of brush. After perhaps a half hour of sheer flight, Helga signaled a stop.
Leaning on a tree, panting, giddy, head throbbing, gasping for air like a fish out of water, she wheezed, “We’ll listen for a few minutes…If there’s no sound of beasts pursuing us, we’ll try to break Tē’d’Tē free.”
“Not to worry,” Tē’d’Tē whispered. “There’s more to holding me than they’ve done. They ran the chain around my feet, then up around my neck, and around my arms. All this moving and running has jiggled the chains so that I think I can wiggle my head out. The way it’s looped, if my head gets free, I can slip out of the rest. Let me work at it a little.”
Twisting and turning on the ground, the Weasel moved her body in ways that looked painful. With some help from Christer and ThunderUp, Tē’d’Tē inched the chain closer and closer to the top of her head. Finally, in a move that made Helga wince just watching it, the Weasel arched her back to a nearly back-breaking point, and the chain slipped over her head. With her head free, the chains loosened all the way down. Stepping free, Tē’d’Tē stretched her body, shaking out the stress and pain in her joints.
“Now what?” she grinned, when she felt able to move again.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Helga replied. “Men’ace described a river that he said ran near the Bozz More’s base. I’m not sure exactly where it is, but he said it runs down to the sea. I think we go for that.”
It was then that all the beasts heard it. The distant unearthly yowling—Scraa-Waaan, Scraa-Waaan—moment by moment, rolling unmistakably nearer. ThunderUp instantly recognized the sound, and cried, “Run! Run! Run like you’ve never run before! It’s scrawns! They’ve set scrawns after us!”
“Scrawns!” Helga cried. “I thought that was scary story stuff!”
“Yes, and they’re real! Wrackshees trained them for hunting a long time ago,” Thun
derUp said, already running far ahead of the rest of the group. “Run I tell you! Run!”
Scrawns, good-sized lizards that could run like the wind, had jaws so strong they had to be pried loose once they closed on something. When used in hunting, the scrawns would run down their prey and clamp their jaws on their victim. Although they rarely killed their prey, prey could no longer run away when one or more scrawns grabbed hold. Prey weighted down with scrawns was easy to capture.
The comrades scrambled helter-skelter, thrashing through tangles of vines, getting cut up by branches as they flew through the brush. The brush grew denser and denser, making their flight more and more difficult. Scraa-Waaan, Scraa-Waaan—the hideous yowling now seemed to be closing fast. At that moment, a vine that Christer did not see, caught under his arms and threw him backward to the ground. Landing hard, he was dazed for a moment and didn’t move. Running back to him, Helga slapped his cheeks, yelling, “Christer! Wake up, you dizzy beast! There’s no time for naps!”
Rousing himself, Christer struggled to his feet, but he was too unsteady to run. Throwing his arm around her shoulders, Helga helped Christer begin moving again. It was too late, however. With a suddenness that caused them to stop breathing, the lead scrawns broke into sight. The racing lizards swiftly crossed a nearby clearing in the pale moonlight, and barreled down on Helga’s group.
Realizing that standing and fighting the onslaught was now their only hope, Helga, Christer, and Tē’d’Tē picked up sticks and stones. Bracing themselves for battle, a last glance of determination, tinged with fear, passed among the cornered comrades.
The leading scrawn, several yards ahead of his fellows, was now nearly close enough for Helga to make out the color of his frill in the dim light. Tense and ready with her club, Helga gasped when the lizard suddenly screamed—SCRAAAAA—and fell to the ground writhing in agony. SCRAAA. SCRAAA. SCRAAA. Again and again the leading scrawns screamed and crumpled into an agonized, jerking mass of flesh. Seeing their leaders fall, the rest of the scrawn turned tail and ran the opposite direction.