by Rick Johnson
No one could explain why the Wolf farmer’s comment had so affected the normally powerful and confident Monopole, although it was the subject of many whispered conversations as the caravan beasts worked.
Fifty-four monitors yoked in teams of two made up the caravan, connected one-after-another in a train. Carefully loaded to carry the maximum burden, each monitor had two packs of equal weight, and as similar in bulk as possible. The packs were lashed securely to sturdy wooden frames placed across the backs of each monitor team to further balance the load.
The monitors themselves took neither food nor water during the journey. Immediately before being yoked and loaded, the monitors were fed an immense meal. Huge hunks of shark were thrown into the monitor pens and a greedy frenzy took place as the monitors gorged themselves. The gruesome spectacle served the purpose of temporarily making the vicious creatures docile and sluggish.
As the feeding frenzy subsided, Dragonwackers lead the sleepy beasts to the caravan loading area and yoked up the teams. Then loading proceeded rapidly while the sluggish beasts dozed. Once the monitors’ stupor wore off, the caravan had to depart immediately. Once awake, the Dragons began looking for their next meal—and the ready scent of the Tilk Duraow runner at the head of the caravan was the means of getting the caravan moving.
A Rebel, an Untamed One
“She’s a likely looking runner,” the Monopole commented, “I’ll raise you ten.”
“Don’t let the strong looks of her legs turn your brain upside down,” Mudpot replied. “She’s a Wood Cow—strong as you like, and looks to be fast, that’s for sure—but a rebel to the bone. She’ll be fighting the rope every step of the way. We’ll start with her, but mark my words—we’ll be replacing her before we make the Steep Crossing, and not because the Dragon’s get her either! This one’s a fighter like we’ve not seen in a long time. Them type’s get their freedom. You keep raising your bet and all you’re doing is giving me your money.” The Dragon Boss laughed. “So, come on, Colonel—raise me as you please!”
Colonel Snart considered the coin he was about to throw on the ground in front of Mudpot. As was their custom in the last few minutes before a Dragon Train left Norder Crossings on its passage to the Hedgelands, the Monopole and the Dragon Boss made bets about the likely fate of the various Tilk Duraow runners. Sometimes several runners were needed to complete the caravan passage to the Hedgelands—but now their attention was focused on the Wood Cow that Mudpot had selected to be the lead-off runner.
Mudpot, a jet black Weasel, was Boss of the Dragonwackers and a good judge of the runners condemned to lead the Dragon Trains. He had seen many a runner win freedom in the so-called ‘Feast or Freedom’ run—and many more end up as chow for the monitors. The Monopole, on the other hand, had never ridden a single mile with the Dragonwackers. The dirty, dangerous business of ‘running the Dragons’ repulsed him, although he liked the profits of the ‘tidy little trade’ as he called it.
“She can run like the wind,” the Monopole declared, throwing a coin on the cobblestone street before Mudpot. “A successful run of the Dragons requires speed, not obedience,” he continued. “It is your job to make sure she cannot escape. We are wagering on her speed and endurance, not your watchfulness and brains—if we were wagering on your care and intelligence, I would not be betting so much,” Colonel Snart laughed. “So long as you have her in a strong harness, so that she cannot break away, her only safety from the monitors is speed and endurance. She will be running for her life, not plotting an escape.”
So saying, he tossed another coin on the ground, casting a sarcastic grin in the direction of the beast being wrestled into a harness at the front of the monitor train. A crew of three burly Dragonwackers struggled to subdue and harness the thin and wiry Wood Cow. Groping for the harness fastenings, one of the Dragonwackers slipped on the muddy cobblestones and went down in a murky puddle. “FUUL! Cursi ya, Trash Cow!” the Dragonwacker yelled as he picked himself up, muddy water dripping from his leggings.
“Never mind the cursing,” Mudpot said, “it’s not words, but muscle that wins the day in this business.” Stepping forward, he added his force to the job of containing the wildly resisting beast. Taking a small key from his pocket, he locked the clasp that secured the chain harness.
“She’s powerful strong, that’s for sure,” Mudpot observed, returning to where Colonel Snart waited. “There’s no question about her endurance—but that gold-red sparkle in her eyes bears watching. She’s a rebel, an untamed one. She’s got more than speed. She’s got a will to break free—that’s what makes her a good runner. But it also puts the will of a demon in our midst. If she does not slip her harness or destroy us, this will be the fastest run of the dragons ever.”
“Speed is a risk,” the Monopole agreed, “but that cannot be helped. These infernal rains have put the caravan weeks behind. We will all be ruined—I will be ruined—if the monitor train does not make a fast crossing to the Hedgelands. The traders are like a pack of hounds at my back. If the caravan does not make the passage before the trallé traders have left, the Norder Crossings merchants will replace me as Monopole. Speed is a risk—but slowness is a bigger risk.”
Colonel Snart tossed a handful of coins at Mudpot’s feet. “There—that’s my wager on this runner, Mudpot,” he said. “My future as Monopole rides on the success of this run of the dragons. If I must bet my future and my fortune on the spirit of a demon, so be it.”
Mudpot bowed before the Monopole and scooped up the coins.
The key to a successful run of the dragons to the Hedgelands was speed. Once the monitor caravan was loaded and the monitors were fully awake again, the monitor train had to make the passage between Norder Crossings and the Hedgelands before the monitors grew ravenously hungry again. A skilled Dragon Boss knew precisely how to make the run to the Hedgelands with great speed. Mudpot was the best of them all. Stuff the monitors with shark, load while they dozed, then as they began to stir, set a swift—and tasty-smelling—runner at the front of the caravan. For the runners it was a chance to escape the fate of the slave works at Tilk Duraow. As the runner ran for life and freedom, the monitors raced after the scent of their next meal. The faster the runner, the faster the caravan traveled. If the runner was fast and strong enough to endure the grueling race, he or she might stay just ahead of the monitors all the way to the slave works and win freedom. Runners that faltered or stumbled became an impromptu snack for the monitors. A Dragon Boss wanted the fastest, strongest runner possible. A failed runner meant delay and other problems as the lead monitors snacked, and then turned sluggishly sleepy—while the rest grew dangerously restive. The delay could be even longer if replacement runners turned to “shakes and gibbers”—quivering piles of terrorized flesh unable to stand, let alone run. When “shakes and gibbers” struck it could hold up a Dragon Train for days while new runners were brought from Norder Crossings.
Godgie Stomp
As the monitor train departed, Helga, the Tilk Duraow runner in the lead, moved out fast, staying a healthy 2-3 feet ahead of the lead monitors. Snorting, hissing, long forked tongues flicking rapidly, claws clicking over the stones; the monitors rushed madly along at Helga’s heels. Despite their stubby legs, the monitors scuttled after her with surprising speed. Many an unfortunate beast had learned—too late—that monitors had lightning speed.
The monitor train moved fast over the well-constructed caravan road, stopping for nothing. Mudpot, hunched forward in the Dragon Master’s seat above and behind the lead monitors, cracked a long whip furiously, urging them to the greatest possible speed. The reckless fury of the Dragon Master sent the monitor train weaving and lurching forward like an untamed wind.
“TEEA-CHT! YAHT! YAHT! TEEA-CHT! FLY YA SLITHER-BOBS! FLY! YAHT! YAHT” The long lash curled again and again, whistling through the air above the monitors before cracking loudly—just nicking the tail of each monitor on alternate lashes. The monitor train flew wildly down the road, rattling an
d clattering, careening around corners and sweeping through villages and towns—scattering beasts in the road to the right and left as they dived to safety.
The noise of an approaching monitor train emptied the streets of villages long before the monitors actually ran through. Mothers pulled their wee beasts away from the windows and slammed the shutters tight. Mudpot’s constant cries of “TEEA-CHT! YAHT! YAHT! TEEA-CHT!” mingling with the fearsome hissing and blowing of the monitors at the runner’s heels could give wee ones nightmares for many a day. And no beast wanted to be bitten by a monitor or, worse, lunch for the monstrous lizards. “PASS AWAY YAS’T FLEA-PICKERS! YAS’T BE OUTTA THE WAY OR YA’LL BE DRAGON FOOD! TEEA-CHT! YAHT! YAHT!”
Yet, as the monitors raced past, creating a terrifying spectacle with their hissing and Mudpot’s profane yells filling the air, even the mothers who frantically shielded their children peeked through cracks in the shutters. Frightened though they were, there was a fascinating attraction in the terrifying spectacle passing by.
The only thing a runner was supposed to do was run for life itself—and Helga ran as she had never run before. Mile after mile she sped along as if in an unbroken series of all-out sprints. Gasping, flushed, pumping the air with her arms—swilling a little saliva around in her dry mouth as if it were water—the hot breath of the monitors just at her rear. She stumbled at times, but never broke stride. It was twenty-three miles to the Hedgelands and only a wild-beast’s dash could save her.
At intervals along the caravan route, specially built water towers spewed wide streams of water across the road for twenty yards. Passing under these ‘water spits’ cooled off the monitors and the runner and let them get a drink without stopping. As the caravan plunged straight through the falling water, monitors flicked their tongues, pulling in water, and Helga tilted her head back to catch water in her mouth as she ran—and the dragon train splashed on without breaking pace.
Immediately after the second water spit, the caravan route cut through a range of steep hills. Gasping and blowing, arms pumping furiously, straining at her harness, Helga labored up the steep ascents and descents, desperately working to keep up the pace. A creeping fear grew within her that even the fearsome terror of the dragons hissing just behind her could not keep her going much longer. She knew that one of two things could happen. She could slow her pace and rest. That was suicide. She could keep running. That might be only postponing the inevitable.
“Please Ancient Ones”—the ragged words came out in gasps, “Help me—I must not stop. Help me run and run and run…” In Helga’s fear-laced imagination, the hissing of the monitors always seemed to draw nearer, nearer, nearer...Nearly delirious with pain and fatigue, she panted the same words with each breath: “run, run, run, run...”
At last the caravan route left the steep, deeply cut land behind and the road broke out onto the Godgie Stomp Flats—a broad rocky plain, with scrubby vegetation, bordered by high mountains. Unlike the deep canyons and ravines that had just been passed, the broad slightly rolling plain was mostly level. In the distance, off to the left, a curious cloud of dust was rising from just beyond a slight rise in the land, sufficient to hide its source. It was moving fast, like a fire spreading rapidly toward the caravan route. Despite the urgency of her frantic flight, the distant rising dust cloud had an uneasy fascination. There could be no doubt that the dust cloud was moving rapidly toward the dragon train. There also could be no doubt that something remarkable—stupendous—must be causing it. Whatever it was, Helga could easily see that the path of the dragon train would intersect the course of the dust cloud in a matter of minutes.
The caravan could not easily alter its motion, despite Helga’s growing apprehension. And, of course, a halt would be certain death for her. Frantic terror kept her plunging forward. Gradually a curious clacking rumble joined the sound of her ragged, gasping breath, the pounding of her feet on the road, and the clattering, hissing caravan trailing behind her. Casting brief fascinated glances toward the dust cloud as she ran, an astonishing sight gradually unfolded before Helga’s eyes.
Mudpot had also heard the eerie sound and seen the rising dust long before the source came into view. He knew immediately what it was. “Godgie Stomp!” he cursed silently to himself. “Godgies running! Stomp coming!” As a slight tremble ran across his hardened face, a huge frenzied herd of Godgie lizards surged into sight over the rise that had previously hidden its advance. Tens of thousands of Godgies were running pell-mell toward the road at terrific speed. “Godgies stomping!” Mudpot yelled. “We’re lost! We’ll be sliced to ribbons! We’ll be chopped to bitsy pieces by their claws!” But there was little that could be done. Mudpot’s yells seemed swallowed within the increasing roar of thousands of claws clacking across the rocky ground.
Against the eerie sound that was rapidly increasing to a terrific roar, Helga kept doggedly on in her race for life. One glance at the onrushing horde of Godgies told Helga there was no escape for the caravan. As far as she could see, the plain was dark with the streaming horde of onrushing Godgies. It was as if a massive ocean wave were coming and there was no escaping. She could stop and be torn to pieces within moments by the monitors at her back or keep running in the hope the Godgies might turn aside at the sight of the monitor train.
The dragon train route crossed the path of the annual Godgie migration to their nesting grounds. Godgie lizards—long, sleek, and capable of incredible speed—weighed only about four pounds. The free-spirited Godgies usually lived apart as loners or in small bands. But in the annual migration to the nesting grounds, they joined in herds of tens of thousands—sometimes as many as 200,000 in a single herd. The migrating herds bolted across the Flats at a frenzied pace. There was no food on the Godgie Stomp Flats so the herds crossed rapidly to reach the nesting grounds on the other side.
The running of the monitor trains usually avoided the annual Godgie Stomp, but the long rains this year had delayed the caravans far too long. As soon as the rains stopped, Mudpot ran out his monitor train, hoping to beat the first herds of the Stomp. It was running a risk to cross now, but financial ruin was the alternative. Waiting until the final stomping herds had passed would delay the caravan for several more weeks. It was a gamble that the Dragon Boss and Monopole had taken and the gamble had now been lost. As Mudpot watched the vast Godgie herd descending upon his caravan, he knew the caravan was doomed.
Racing toward the monitor train, tens of thousands of Godgies swarmed in a maddened surge across the plain. Gooodg-Oog-looo! Oog-Oog-looo! The low “goooodg-oog-looo” calls of the surging Godgies, combining with the clacking claws of the advancing multitude, ripped the air with a surreal unbroken thunder. Although the Godgies were relatively small, the vast stampeding herd caused the earth to fairly tremble.
As the leading edge of the Godgie horde closed on the monitor train, Mudpot could see the gleaming yellow eyes and rapidly flicking tongues of those in the front rank. The great mass of rushing lizards followed the leaders at the front and the leaders followed ancient instinct. Whether the leaders were actually leading the surging herd or being pushed by the unstoppable pressure from behind did not matter.
When the flood of lizards hit the caravan, the Godgies streamed over and through the monitor train as if it were just another part of the landscape. Hissing and twisting violently as the Godgie’s claws raked across their backs and heads, the monitors lashed out with their jaws. Straining at their harness, they broke free and all-out bedlam ensued.
Mudpot, at the center of the dust and chaos, was overrun and knocked to the ground by the frenzied jumping and skittering herd. A shower of sand and gravel kicked up by the Godgies’ feet pelted Mudpot in the face. Any vision of the horizon or the sky lost beneath the endless, ever-widening waves of Godgies, he struggled to rise, yelling and trying to swing his whip. Choked by dust, clothes slit to ribbons by numberless clawed feet running across him, bleeding as if cut twice across every inch of his body, he sank helplessly beneath the onsla
ught.
The monitors, famished after their long run, struck out ferociously at the Godgies swarming over them. Frenzied confusion erupted as the hungry monitors lashed out with their massive jaws. One hapless Godgie after another was snapped in half by the monitors’ razor-sharp teeth. But the vast herd kept coming, oblivious to any danger.
When the first wave of Godgies hit the caravan, the monitors went berserk. Snapping and slashing with their teeth, they twisted with all their strength in their harness, trying to catch the Godgies in their powerful jaws. In the first seconds of this chaos, one of the monitors directly behind Helga jerked at the harness with such power that one side of it snapped. Sensing the new freedom of movement, the monitor gave a sharp slashing bite at the other side of the harness with his teeth. The tough harness did not break under the bite, but it was weakened enough that when the monitor yanked back the other direction to catch a Godgie it, too, snapped.
The leading team of monitors was now free and began feasting on Godgies. It would have been better for them to run. Like a single massive wave, the Godgie horde overwhelmed the monitors with the sheer power of an unending rush of bodies. Snapping and chomping at the Godgies, ever fighting, never wearying, still not even the ferocious monitors could stop the Godgies or turn aside their flight. Soon, they, too, lay silent beneath the still surging horde.
When the harness had snapped, Helga had pulled with all her might and she, too, became free from the caravan harness. Unlike the monitors, Helga sensed that her only hope was to keep running, just as she had been running—but this time at the head of the Godgie Stomp! Flying like the wind, with Godgies running all around her, Helga again was running as if her life depended on it. She realized that running with the Godgies was the only way to keep from being trampled by the Stomp. And off she went, forcing her exhausted body to its maximum speed, running neck and neck with the Stomp.