by Rick Johnson
At that moment, a large rough timber door swung open at the back of the warehouse. A second Norder Wolf appeared, accompanied by several dangerous-looking, long-tusked Rummer Boars. “Well, Snuck, looks like you’ve got some nice fresh butter there—we’ll be glad to take over now.”
“O.K., you Slimeheads,” Snuck said, turning to the captives. “You just trot on over there by Bro-Butt—he’ll be your host from now on, until you get to Port Newolf.”
There was involuntary, suppressed laughter among the captives at the mention of the second Norder Wolf’s name. Snuck turned and gave the prisoners an evil smile. “Yes, laugh away, Slimeheads. My brother is my Butter Trader, so I call him Bro-Butt. Find that humorous if you want—I won’t deprive you of the last laugh you’ll have for a very long time. What’s going to happen to you next won’t leave you laughing.”
A Likely Tilk Duraow Runner
Bro-Butt cracked the lash as he and the Rummer Boars drove Helga and the captives roughly through the large heavy door and onto a long stone passage descending into a dank, dimly-lit stairway leading downward through a tunnel in the rock. The stairway was narrow, requiring the beasts to move single-file, and was constructed merely by hewing rough footholds from the stone. Walking on the slippery surface was treacherous in the best of circumstances, but for chained beasts, it was especially difficult. A few of the Rummer Boars carried oil lamps to light the way. The burning oil wicks sputtered in the oppressive dampness of the tunnel, casting barely enough faint light for the beasts to see the steps they were taking. Otherwise, the tunnel was completely dark. Water dripped everywhere in the tunnel like a light rain shower and tiny rivulets ran down the walls—pooling on the steps, or running down the stairs in slow streams. As the beasts descended into what seemed an endless dark abyss, even Helga, brave and stout-hearted beast though she was, felt her heart race in the pitch blackness. The heavy, fearful breathing of the captives, with the constant backdrop of chains dragging across the rock, echoed in the tunnel—as if no other sound existed in the world.
The passage descended in fits and spurts: going down steeply at times, leveling off at times, and climbing somewhat at times. The overall effect was to leave Helga unable to judge if their journey was generally downward or not. Helga was certain, however, of another unsettling observation. As the flickering light played across the wet yellow sandstone walls, Helga could see that the sandstone was flaking away in places. The constant dripping and erosion from small rivulets was slowly undermining its strength. Here and there, the constant erosion created and steadily enlarged holes and seams in the walls and roof of the passage. Walking along, chips and flakes of sandstone dropped with a “Plink” in the puddles, and at places, large rocks lay pell-mell or in piles where entire sections had fallen away. Helga felt certain that someday—how far in the future was anyone’s guess—the roof of the passage would collapse completely. The image of the tunnel collapsing into rubble added to the unsettling anxiety she felt as they continued through the dark, dripping passage.
Fortunately, they were not long in descending the passage. Less than an hour, Helga judged, after they had begun their journey through the passage, a voice called out, “Hullo, my frippers! What’s the lark?”
In the faint light of the oil lamps, Helga could make out the face of a snub-nosed, flat-browed Wolf floating just ahead in a rowboat.
“Frippers hailing for a Butter Skimmer,” Bro-Butt replied. “Butter for the High One and a spit of grog for you.”
The dangerous-looking Wolf, armed with an immense club, wore an ill-fitting uniform, which, in the darkness, made it look like his head was plopped on top of a shapeless mass. His small, pinched eyes, peering through spectacles, showed red in the lamplight. A leather helmet, perched precariously on his head, tilted so badly over his left ear that it threatened to fall off at any moment. The overall effect, Helga thought, was more ludicrous than sinister. But that calming assessment did not change the fact that she stood in a line of chained slaves, with whip-lashing thugs behind and a well armed Wolf in front.
“Who on earth is that,” said Christer, stifling a laugh.
“It’s no laughing matter,” one of the Pogwaggers replied. “That’s a Club Wolf sentry boat—one of the Norder Wolf patrols that keep unwanted notice away from their tidy little trade in slaves.”
Bro-Butt pulled a small metal flask from his coat pocket and gave it to the Wolf, who took a couple of long draws, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform, and belched. “BUUURRCHUTUP—BUZZCHUPTT!” Smiling happily, the Wolf put the cork back in the flask and dropped it into his uniform pocket. “How there, frippers! I’ll whistle you up a Skimmer, now there!”
The Wolf gave a low, warbling whistle, which had hardly died away when—WHOOOSH! Just off-shore, pine knot torches were touched with a match and burst into flame. The sudden blaze of brilliant light came from a long, grimy barge gliding in from the lake.
Helga’s eyes involuntarily winced at the sudden blaze of brilliant light, but she soon adjusted and was astonished at the odd-looking boat coming in to tie up. Two immense, rough-looking Wolves, each leaning on a ferry-pole, were guiding what appeared to be a filthy freight wagon made into a boat. Huge, oversized wagon wheels—perhaps 10-feet in diameter—made the boat seem smaller than it was.
Each of the Wolves appeared to be about as thick through the chest as they were broad at the shoulders. Their exceptionally long noses pushed out amidst scraggly, matted, dirty beards that hid virtually every other facial feature. One of the Wolves, with a beard showing the deep reddish-tan of youth, stood near the right front of the skimmer. The other Wolf, poling the barge from the rear, had a greasy beard, iron-gray with age. Dressed in similar dingy blue shirts and butternut overalls, the Wolves’ rough, untanned lizard-skin belts held every kind of knife. Glistening-sharp hatchets hung from shoulder slings.
“’Ow much butter ya got there, good Bro-Butt?” the iron-gray Wolf hailed as the barge landed.
“Five, Stench—and every o’ of them muscle n’ not a lick o’ trouble,” Bro-Butt replied. “Well, that is, except for one,” he continued, pointing to Helga, “now that Wood Cow there, why, she’s born a likely Tilk Duraow runner! Why, the dragons’ll run like they’ve never run before with her as bait. She’s got blazes in her and when she lets loose—she’ll run like a mad beast!”
“Yee-Gad! A Tilk Duraow runner!” Stench gloated. “What a fine lot o’ butter you’ve brought us this time, Bro-Butt! Yee-Gad! If the Dragon Boss really takes her for a runner, she’s worth a fortune!” Smacking his lips, the older Wolf looked Helga up and down with his wild, cunning eyes. “Yee-Gad! A Tilk Duraow runner in our very own skimmer, Reek! Why, think of it!” he laughed, snapping his fingers at the younger Wolf. “We never transported a runner before—it’s the cargo of a lifetime!”
“Tam-Yap!” Reek snickered. “We may not have a lot of slaves to sell—like the crew of sea-beasts the Wrackshees just brought into the Butter Dock, but they don’t have a runner! I saw the whole crew of ’em and not a one of them that could run with the dragons.”
“What sea-beasts?” Helga exploded. “What crew of sea-beasts are you talking about?” Helga, in a fury, struggled against her chains again, and again brought the lash down on her.
“Quiet, Wood Cow!” Bro-Butt warned. “Too many more words out of you and you won’t get the chance to be a runner. You’ll be sent straight to the Death Cliffs at Tilk Duraow. They go through a dozen stone-cutters a day—minimum.”
Helga was not deterred, however. “What sea-beasts?” she demanded again. “What ship’s crew has been taken by the Wrackshees?”
“Why that would be the Daring Dream,” Reek snarled. “A fine crew of strong, hardy beasts from the Far Aways. They’ll do fine as stone-cutters on the Death Cliffs—why the crew’s big enough to give probably a couple week’s supply—Har-Yat-Har!” he chuckled with a cruel smile.
Several Rummer Boars set about pushing the captives to board the skimmer
. The Rummers loaded the captives and tied them securely to poles that circled the skimmer’s deck. Once the captives were securely tied, the Rummer guards slumped down on the deck to rest and take a few spits of grog, while the Wolves poled the barge out onto the Ocean of Dreams. In a few hours, the skimmer would unload the slaves at the Butter Dock beneath Port Newolf. From there, the captives would join the other slaves awaiting sale. Soon after the slaves reached the Butter Dock, a Rummer Boar fleet was expected to arrive at Port Newolf, laden with trallés looted from the rich cargo ships plying the Great Sea.
Trallés, huge high-domed tortoises, were highly-prized among the wealthy class as sporting mounts. Every rich trader and merchant had a stable full of the finest trallés that could be bought. All manner of mounted sports relied on trallés and no wealthy beast who yearned to be noticed in highest society could do without a first-class trallé stable. The bazaar in Port Newolf anxiously awaited the regular visits of the Rummer fleets. A pack of dubious merchants made vast fortunes trading in the shadows where trallés bought slaves to cut stone for the High One’s great project of building Maev Astuté. In the black trade of trallés and slaves where no one could be trusted, the High One’s rule was that no one got paid until all were paid. Rummer Boars were the sureties in this system—shepherding the flow of trallés and slaves through the dealers, and the gold into every waiting dark pocket along the way. When asked once about the line of work he was in, the greatest Rummer Boar of them all, Sabre Tusk d’Newolf, is reported to have replied, “Accounting—just say we’re accountants, keeping all the pluses and minuses correct and making sure everyone gets paid—including us! HAR-HAR-HAR!”
Bro-Butt watched the loading work with a satisfied look. His pockets would soon be full of gold. Slaves delivered to the Butter Dock and the arrival of the Rummer fleet, would lead to various transactions in Port Newolf, all monitored in the efficient, thugging manner of the Rummers. When all was complete, Bro-Butt’s Rummers made their way back to Snuck’s Ear with payment for him and his brother. Ah, the delightful world of successful commerce! Smiling happily, Bro-Butt watched until the skimmer and its cargo had faded into the darkness of the Ocean of Dreams.
Turning away from the Club Wolf drawing on his flask of grog, Bro-Butt picked up his oil lamp, and laughing gleefully at his success, headed into the passage leading back to Snuck’s Ear. “YAH-HAR-HAR—YAH-HAR-HAR-HAR!” In the stillness of the great cave, the rough laughter echoed back down the passage and across the Ocean of Dreams for several minutes. How much more the echo, when, sometime later, the passage collapsed upon him, an entire section of rock sliding forever forward, crushing everything in its way—forever sealing both his fate and the slaving passage from Snuck’s Ear to the Ocean of Dreams.
Cargo for the Butter Dock
There was a low rumble, the water around the skimmer began to jiggle frantically, and the barge began vibrating as if some giant unseen hand were shaking it. POP! CRACK! CRASH! KAAR-SPLOOOSH! Shaking violently, the skimmer tossed and rose up on waves that threatened to capsize the boat. A deafening noise reverberated in the closed confines of the cave—echoing and echoing again as the sound raced down unseen chambers and bounced back again and again.
Aboard the skimmer, now some distance out on the Ocean of Dreams, Helga saw the flickering light of the oil lamps on the Club Wolf sentry boat disappear, as the entire rock face looming over the passage through which she had so recently passed, cracked and broke free. Visible for an instant in the flickering lamplight playing across the rocky chamber walls, Helga watched in shocked fascination as the rock slab toppled slowly outward, as if the mountain above was slowly turning its head to look at her. Then, a split second later, the rock slab fell free and a massive shower of debris completely buried anything familiar about the site. The thunderous sound of the collapsing rock made Helga think her head would explode from the shock wave. Huge waves, instantly splashing outward from the rock slabs slamming into the water, swamped the barge, soaking every beast on deck in the frigid water. In tandem with the soaking waves, a vast cloud of dust spread out over the Ocean of Dreams, shrouding the skimmer in a hideous, choking haze.
Simultaneously, a choking cloud in the dust spread outward over the lake. Coughing and wheezing, knee deep in cold water, all the beasts on the half-submerged barge howled with dismay at the drastically altered situation in which they found themselves. To the good, the swamped, but sturdy skimmer was still afloat. And except for being soaked in freezing water, none of the beasts aboard was injured. On the bad side of things, it was unclear if the skimmer was of any further use and they were now in absolute darkness, the huge wave having drowned the lamps and the choking dust adding a feeling of oppressive dark.
“LANDROLLERS, REEK! GO TO HIGHUP MODE!” Stench called out from the darkness. We’ll raise up the skimmer and drain ’er out! I know from poling that the water is shallow around here—not more than a maybe six or seven feet deep. That’s shallow enough to drain ’er out!”
“Zero wrong, Stench!” Reek laughed, “I’d been thinking that your old brain was all made of dung! But you’ve got a good idea, this time.” Helga could hear Reek sloshing across the deck toward the center of the skimmer. Soon, amidst the coughing and sneezing caused by the dust, Helga heard the grinding-clanking of a set of gears going to work. Little by little, she noticed the barge seemed to be lifting up. Slowly, inch by inch, with every turn of some unseen crank Reek was turning, the skimmer rose higher and higher.
“The water level is falling! What on earth is he doing?” Helga said to Christer excitedly. “Is that crank he’s operating?”
“I don’t know what he’s doing,” Christer responded. “But somehow, he’s raising up the boat and the water is flowing out!”
“Landrollers, Slime-Face.” Stench snarled out of the darkness nearby. “You don’t think Reek and I are gonna walk when the skimmer hits land, do you? We’ve got super-sized wagon wheels that can be cranked up and down—long as we’ve got good strong slaves to pull us, no place we can’t go!” Stench paused, then laughed harshly. “Har-Yet-Yet-Har! In highup mode with the wheels extended all the way, we can sit 20 feet off the ground if we want! Har-Yet-Yet-Har! And sure comes in handy for draining ’er out, too! Har-Yet-Yet-Har!”
The skimmer lifted higher and higher. Although she could not see what was happening in the pitch darkness, she could hear Reek cranking furiously, some gears screeching, and timbers creaking as the skimmer rose. As the barge rose, Helga felt the water pouring off the flooded deck. Soon she was sitting, the water drained away, shivering in her soaked garments.
“Now what?” Christer muttered, noticing several dim yellow haloes of light coming towards them. Helga’s eyes were scratchy as she peered through the fine dust hanging in the air, trying to see who or what was approaching. The lanterns of several Club Wolf sentry boats illuminated the skimmer as they converged at the troubled boat.
“Hallo, frippers,” a voice hailed, as one of the sentry boats pulled alongside. “Heard some fierce commotion and came to investigate. Tradin’ or trippin’ today? Call out your game.”
“We’ve got cargo for the Butter Dock,” Stench called out, returning the hail. “Fresh butter for Tilk Duraow. We’re strong in our timbers and sound in our crew, but our wicks and lamps are drowned. Can’t see a blasted thing in this infernal haze. We’d be mighty pleasant if you’d guide us to the Butter Dock.”
“Chew the foot, frippers! Lights comin’ over!” Several lanterns were lit and handed to Reek, who reached over the side to bring them aboard.
Reek hung the lanterns and the sentry boats pulled away from the skimmer. “Follow us,” one of the Club Wolf sentries called out. “We’ll see you into the Butter Dock in no time.” Moving across the lake, gradually the dust began to settle somewhat and it became easier to breathe. Little by little, Helga could see more of her surroundings in the lantern light.
Weird shadows flickered across the haze-shrouded lake. As the skimmer followed th
e sentry boats, a fantastic menagerie of ghostly shapes appeared amidst the shadows, then faded away again. One after another, fantastic shapes flickered, ghostlike, in the haze for a few moments, and then, were replaced by others. It was as if the skimmer were threading its way through a labyrinth of grotesque alien worlds—or as if it sailed through an entire country of ruined villages, filled with stark blasted walls and huge broken buildings fallen into hideous shapes. What surely was a place of monstrosities and terror in good light became a sinister, haunting realm of nightmares in the hazy flicker of lantern light.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Helga said somewhat irritably to Christer, who was chuckling loudly next to her. “How can you laugh in a place like this?” she demanded, as his laughter increased in tempo.
“HA-HA-HA-HO-HO-HO!” Christer guffawed. “HA-HA-HA—this is the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time—HO-HO-HO! I haven’t thought about any of this stuff in years! HA-HA-HA! This is just too funny!” Christer was laughing so hard that his large bulk shook wildly.
“What on earth has gotten into you?” Helga asked irritably. “What are you laughing at?”
“Please, Helga,” Christer blubbered through his roaring laughter, “please, it’s just seeing that idiot Sam tickling Miss Frightful—HA-HA-HA!—at least that’s what we called her—she was our teacher when—HO-HO-HO-HA-HA-HA—when we were wee beasts!”
“But where are they?” Helga asked in exasperation. “I can’t see anything!”
“Some of the rocks look just like Sam and Miss Frightful—looks like Sam is tickling her! HA-HA-HA! I haven’t thought about that in years, but the rocks remind me of it. HO-HO-HO! Oh this is too much—and over there’s that hilarious dream I once had where I was riding a bat!”
“That’s why they call it the Ocean of Dreams,” Reek commented. “The weird shapes here grab your mind and make you see things—if you can dream it, you can see a rock formation that resembles it! Hard to believe, but true. Every dream or nightmare you’ve ever had might come back to you here—they kind of reach out and just grab your mind. It’s really eerie at first, but the more trips you make through here, you get used to it.”