by Rick Johnson
When they reached the bottom, and realized where they had begun, they could hardly believe they had come from such a height so quickly. The descent was exactly like running down stairs. At every several dozen yards, the boat slammed over another stone step or ledge. The shock of these violent drops—some as many as twenty feet—threatened to throw every beast out of the boat. Only a savage, life-or-death grasp on the handholds saved them from being flung into the surging rapids.
Shooting at high speed through the rushing wilderness of rapids, Plug found himself steering the boat without conscious thought. His paw, working the steering lever, was a blur of motion—right, left, left, elevate, left, elevate, right—there simply was not time to think.
Despite the blue sky now visible far above, the deep shadows imposed by the steep canyon walls brought on a premature twilight. Tilk Duraow, however, was in full sight, towering in the heights above. Catching a glimpse of the now ruined fortress, wet and glistening from the storm, dazzling in the rays of sun breaking through clouds, Klemés briefly wondered in amazement. “How easily the eye is tricked by appearances,” he thought. “The dead vulture has beautiful plummage.” A blast of cold water showered over him, however, and the thought fled.
In a few moments more, they rounded a bend and disappeared under the mountain. The descent into dark was gradual and not absolute. As NeyMooz had said, lanterns gave off pale, undernourished blue light—more like large embers wheezing for breath, than real illumination.
When the river flowed underground, it narrowed still more. Between the faster current and its own power, Speedbreaker was literally flying through the water now. Although the violent drops over the ledges in the river had bounced some of the water out of the boat, more had also poured in. To add to the crew’s misery, the roof of the river’s passageway dripped constantly. Here and there, gushers of water spewed from cracks across the boat as it passed. The entire sensation was like traveling through a steady drizzle, with a periodic heavy dousing. The light-hearted work song gave way to damp, dreary slogging.
Then, as if a brake had been applied, the river’s rapid descent downward slowed. They found themselves entering a large cavern, with a long stone barrier stretching across the river just ahead. In the dim light, it was impossible to tell exactly the nature of the barrier.
“Looks like some kind of structure that spans the river,” Thick said, who was in the front and had the best view. “I’d say, it’s a solid structure above the river, and more like a sieve below. Looks like the river flows through it pretty well.”
“Probably to keep the sharks from escaping,” Klemés said.
“Reverse pedaling,” Plug commanded. “We’ll hold position here for the time being while we decide what to do.”
“That must be the landing,” Klemés said in a low voice.
“Yes, I think it must,” Plug replied. “I don’t hear any music—do you suppose that means there’s no Club Wolves about?”
“Perhaps,” Klemés said. “But let’s have Wittover ready with his ’rangs, just in case.”
“I’m ready,” Wittover answered.
“All right, then, here we go,” Klemés said. “As slow as we can, with Plug still be able to steer.”
The landing appeared to be deserted. No Club Wolves were present. The slight gurgling of water slipping around obstacles in its course was the only sound. Reaching the landing, they found neither opposition, nor welcome. A strange, profound silence pervaded. Putting out his paws and grabbing the landing, Thick stealthily pulled the craft to a stop. After the thunderous trip through the passageway, the soft rushing of the water past the canoe seemed curiously loud in the nearly ominous silence.
“Fibble—fibble—twauk.” The feeble, barely audible sound caught Klemés’s ear as the gusher-canoe touched the landing. Looking about, and seeing nothing indicating danger, he motioned to the others to stay in their seats. “Keep at the ready,” he instructed in a low voice. “I’ll check things out. Be ready, Wittover, if there’s trouble.” Wittover nodded assent, laying several boomerangs on his lap.
Stepping carefully out of the canoe, the Wood Cow moved slowly toward a building cut into the rock at one end of the landing.
“Fibble—fibble—twauk—binnng.” The strange sound came again, seemingly not from the building, but beside it.
Moving cautiously, Klemés was not long in discovering a Club Wolf slumped on the ground, leaning against the building. Musical instruments lay scattered all around him. Idly plucking at a fiddle with one of his fingers, but not actually attempting to make music, the Wolf appeared dazed and broken. Dirty, uniform disheveled, and hollow-eyed, it was clear the Wolf was not a threat.
“What happened, young fellow?” Klemés asked softly, walking up to the Wolf and squatting down beside him.
At first, the Wolf appeared not to notice the Wood Cow, and kept plucking the fiddle absent-mindedly. After several attempts to rouse the Wolf from his stupor, Klemés grasped the fiddle and attempted to take it from the Wolf’s paws. For the first time, the Wolf showed fight. In the end, a real scuffle developed, and Klemés, gaining possession of the fiddle, administered several blows across the head of the Wolf, before he calmed down.
Dropping to the ground again, the Wolf held his head in his paws, wailing wretchedly, “The sharks! Oh, the sharks! I must keep playing, don’t you see! I must keep playing—it is my duty!”
Upon hearing the scuffle erupt, Plug and the others had beached the boat on the landing and run to Klemés’s assistance. As they approached, Klemés motioned for them to stay back, and they stood silently watching.
“Steady, young fellow, steady,” the Wood Cow said.
But the Wolf continued repeating, “Oh, the sharks!” over and over. Klemés thought that he had never known such despair before, as he heard in the tone of the young Wolf’s wailing.
Putting his arm around the Wolf, the Wood Cow pulled the young soldier close to him, holding him tight, like a terrified child. For a long time, the two just sat there together, the Wolf’s wailing gradually giving way to subdued whimpers.
“I can’t keep it out of my mind,” the Wolf said at last. “It’s always there—no way I can forget it. It’s like it lives in my vision, no matter whether my eyes are open or closed. It haunts me.” He shook his head as if wanting something to roll out of his ears. Frustrated when nothing came out, the Wolf once again began moaning and wailing about “the sharks” and his “duty” to keep playing.
“Young fellow,” Klemés said at last, “do you know who I am?”
“No sir,” the Wolf replied.
“I am your commander,” Klemés said boldly, “Captain Klemés ma di son Colé. I have been sent to investigate what has happened here, and help the survivors. May I depend upon you?”
As if affected by a great wind, the dazed and disheveled Club Wolf leapt to his feet, and stood at attention. “Yes, sir! At your service, sir!” the Wolf shouted in military tones.
“At ease, soldier,” Klemés said. “Now tell me what has happened here.”
“Well, sir, we—that’s the garrison here at the landing—we was here one night—I think it was seven or eight days ago now, although I can’t be sure. Things were just as normal as they are, when a Skull Buzzard, his uniform torn to shreds, and covered in blood, comes stumbling down the stairs.”
“You mean the stairs from Tilk Duraow, is that it?” the Wood Cow asked.
“Yes, sir, the stairs down from there. Well, the Buzzard was in a howling, raving frenzy. Seems that somehow the dragons got loose up there and tore through the Evening Roast.” The Wolf went pale, and seemed hardly able to speak for a few moments. Then, apparently remembering he was under interrogation by a superior, he snapped back to his story. “Anyway, sir, the Buzzard said there was blood everywhere and that the dragons just sliced and diced every beast up there.”
“And where are the Buzzard and your comrades now,” Klemés asked gently.
“Oh, sir, it were
an awful thing!” the Wolf said grimly. “That Buzzard was such a sight—nearly stark raving mad with terror—that he got the garrison going with him. He convinced some of us that the dragons were coming down the stairs after us, too!”
“And so the garrison deserted, eh?” Klemés asked.
“Only some of them, sir. Oh, it was awful, sir, just terrible! They got in the boat with that Buzzard, as bloody as ever can be, and it weren’t ninety seconds after they left the landing that the sharks was at ’em. Not even a stick of wood left from the boat—gone, snip, snap, that was that.”
Even Klemés felt weak in the mind as the story progressed. “What happened then?” he asked.
“Well, sir, after the shark attack, none of the rest of the garrison dared to think about escape across the lake. We knew that going any other direction, we’d likely be caught and charged as deserters. So, the rest of us resolved to wait several hours, and if no dragons appeared, go up the stairs and see what the situation was.”
“What did you find?” the Wood Cow asked.
“We found the door locked!” the Wolf cried, losing control of himself again. “LOCKED! SEALED! Someone sealed it from the other side! They meant to leave us down here! Do you know what it means to be left down here—no one coming to relieve us ever again? What are we supposed to do?”
“Where are the others?” Klemés asked.
“In there,” the Wolf said, pointing to the rock building set into the wall of the cavern.
“Show me,” Klemés said, indicating for the Wolf to lead the way.
Walking to the building, the Wolf opened the door and called out, “Muster call! Officer present!”
No response came from within the building. The Wolf turned to Klemés and said, “Discipline has faltered a bit under the strain, sir.”
Stepping inside, the Wood Cow found four haggard, delirious, Club Wolves. Their sunken eyes and slack jaws confirmed the story Klemés had heard.
“How long since you’ve eaten?” Klemés asked.
“No one’s eaten since that Buzzard first came,” the Wolf responded. “Scared to death—nowhere to go—sharks always sliding past in the water out there—hear them, don’t you? Don’t you hear them? Those sharks always sliding by, waiting...Don’t you hear them? Gotta get back and play my fiddle, sir, I gotta get back and play my fiddle.”
“Yes, I hear them,” Klemés said kindly, although he heard no sharks.
“Now, my good fellow,” he continued. “I need you to shape up right now. You’re a good soldier and you know your duty.”
“Yes, sir,” the Wolf responded, straightening up and giving Klemés a brave face.
“That’s a good fellow,” the Wood Cow said. “Now, you and I are going to go in there and rouse your comrades. They’re as good as you and there’s no need to have them lying about. Together, we’re going to figure out how to get us all out of here alive. I’m your commander now, and if you listen to me, we’ll all get out of this alive.”
“Will we be charged with desertion?” the Wolf asked.
“No ones going to charge you with anything,” Klemés answered smiling. “You’re in a different unit now, and we do things differently. I think you’ll like it better. Now, is there any food down here at all?”
“Yes, sir,” the Wolf replied. “We actually have all the food we haven’t eaten in these past days. There’s food—just appetite’s not been around to make us cook.”
“We’ll see to that, young fellow!” Klemés said, motioning to Plug and the others to join them. When the others came, the old Wood Cow made introductions all around, assuring the Wolf that it was now all for each other. “In my unit, the law is ‘none’s the better than the other, and all’s well that helps all.’ Live by the first, and act by the second, and we’ll all get out of here in good shape.”
The young Club Wolf’s name was Jo’nee, and soon, with the help of the cheering assurances of the new ‘commander,’ and some savory cooking, he managed to revive the hopes of the other despairing Club Wolves. Although largely forgotten and ignored by the higher ups at Tilk Duraow, the Club Wolf garrison did benefit from the better than average rations due to those serving at the fortress.
“Not exactly elegant, but better’n average for garrison grub,” Jo’nee observed, as he opened the larder with Thick. Thick’s eyes glistened as he looked over the victuals that even a lowly Club Wolf garrison was provided at Tilk Duraow. He had been a chef before being captured by Rummer Boars while traveling and sold to Wrackshee slavers. He hadn’t had a chance to do much cooking during his years in Tilk Duraow, and he jumped at the chance to help with the cooking. Plunging amidst the shelves and barrels, they pulled out the best to be had.
With a crackling fire pushing off the damp and cold, the beasts’ spirits began to improve. Before long, Klemés’s new ‘unit’ as everyone now joking referred to themselves, was eating better than any had in several days. Thick, whose name came to him for a worthy reason, polished off an entire Dried Shark Fin, Sneezed in the Flames and dressed Limberly Style, by himself. In the end, however, it was the Butter-Smashed Tartlet, Toasted on a Skewer, that sent him into a sound slumber. Slumped forward over his plate, unable to lift another bite to his mouth, the exhausted cook snored softly.
“Time enough in the morning to clean up and figure out what next,” Klemés chuckled, as even he gave in to the urge to sleep with a fully belly, and no worries hurting enough to keep him awake.
No ‘Betters’ or ‘Worsers’
“Now up! Here’s a cup of Hot Mort—how’d you sleep?” Klemés said to Jo’nee as he roused him from his slumber.
“Oh, passable—” the young Wolf replied sleepily, sitting up, and roughing his head with a paw, but not opening his eyes. Blinking, then rubbing his eyes, he saw his commander standing over him. Springing to his feet, he stood at attention. “Sorry, sir! You caught me napping, sir! Won’t happen again, sir!”
“It’s all right, Jo’nee,” the Wood Cow laughed. “Come now, it’s high time you dropped all this silliness. I’m your commander only in the sense that everyone seems to look to me because of my age. I don’t mind you respecting my age, but I won’t have you treating me like some lord over you. I command only as you see wisdom in what I do. In my unit, every beast must see with his own eyes, and think with his own brain. If you ever see unwisdom in what I’m doing, it’s your duty to tell me. That’s the command I give you, and the kind of commander I want to be. No more ‘Yes, sirs’ from you—is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!” Jo’nee blurted out, then stopped. Smiling at the Wood Cow, he burst out laughing. “Honestly, Klemés, sir, I’d rather call you as my betters instructed me, if you please, sir. I’ll do as like, of course, but bein’s how you’re the first beast who’s treated me well in years, it’d do me honor to call you sir, if it’s allowed.”
“Well, dear friend,” Klemés replied, putting his arm across the Wolf’s shoulders, “I’d prefer you didn’t. There’s no ‘betters’ and ‘worsers’ in my unit. Those ideas are all worn out and of no further use to us. Show me respect, if you will, by calling me your friend, and allowing me to be your friend. It doesn’t take some high-falutin’ title for you to show respect.” Seeing that the young Wolf understood, and that no more discussion was needed, Klemés changed the subject.
“I woke you just now, before the others are up,” the Wood Cow said, “because I’d like to hear what you think about our situation. Soon, the others will be awake and we’ll be discussing our plans to get out of here. But, before that gets started, I especially wanted to hear from you.” Seeing the smile spreading across the Club Wolf’s face, Klemés smiled also. “Respect goes both ways,” he said, with a nod to the Wolf. “Now, tell me what you think.”
“Knowing that Tilk Duraow is no more,” Jo’nee began, “the first thing I think of is freedom. I’m pretty sure I speak for the rest of my mates when I say, we’re all happy to know that’s over. None of us liked what went on there. None of
us have any stake in slavery and the High One’s projects. We’re conscripts, every one. Do you know what that means?”
“I’ve heard it’s a terrible business,” the Wood Cow replied.
“The idea is that everyone is subject to service in the High One’s regiments,” Jo’nee said, “but it doesn’t work that way. The rich pay a sum to Colonel Snart—he’s in charge of the troops—and they’re left alone. The rest of us are taken—the ones they can easily catch first, the others hunted down when they flee. Then the conscripts are chained in long lines and driven to the induction center. Once there, we’re signed off to a ship or post, for life. We may eat well enough at some posts, such as here, but it’s a life no free-minded beast could bear easily.”
“So you think your fellows are with us?” Klemés asked.
“As sure as I can be of anything!” Jo’nee replied. “Now that we know it’s possible, we’re so grateful to have a chance at any other life, we’ll take the chance to go with you.”
“You’ll never be able to go back to the High One’s service, you know,” the Wood Cow observed.
“And whose service have you been in these last years, if I might ask?” Jo’nee asked with a wry look.
“The High One’s,” Klemés replied, thinking of his long years in Tilk Duraow.
“And does it hurt your feelings to leave that possibility behind?” Jo’nee said.
“Not in the least!” Klemés chuckled.
“It’s the same for us,” Jo’nee said. “Which is why I think you’ll be glad to have us. Bear’Seems—you remember, he’s the one with the eyes as big as moons—we all just call him Seems—well, he’s an engineer. If anyone can figure out a way to open up Tilk Duraow from this side, Seem’s the one.”
“Whose takin’ my name without my permission?” a portly Wolf asked, sauntering over to join Jo’nee and Klemés.
“Morning, Seems,” Klemés said, “grab a cup of Hot Mort and help us out here. We’re trying to figure out a way to get into Tilk Duraow from here, rather than go all the way back around to the outside entrances.”
