The Overending

by Rick Johnson

  The only notice that the wider world had that anything had occurred was the ground vibrating, as if from some tremendous explosion. The Miner Bears, waiting back at the Grungg Pit felt it. Bem, Boss, Jax, and the freed slaves 800 feet above the Shèttings felt it. The High One, although he did not feel the ground shake, soon felt his kingdom shaking to the very core—a basic pillar of his rule was crumbling.

  Bad News for Fropperdaft

  The duties of the High One were sometimes almost more than he could bear. He hated, for example, meetings of his Most Revered Council—the ‘Blowhard’s Club’ as he thought of it. What need did he, Fropperdaft—Peerless Berzerker of the Crowning Glory; Grandee of Maev Astuté; High One of all Hedgelands, etc., etc.—have of that swaggering gaggle of advice-mongers? Dolts and Loonyheads, every one. Sigh. It was a showpiece of tomfoolery, but necessary to endure. How else would he give the illusion of caring what other beasts thought? Even an absolute tyrant has good reasons to put on a show.

  As he prepared himself for another meeting of his Most Revered Council, Fropperdaft reflected that, in a way, it had been a stroke of genius when some long-ago predecessor created the Council. It was a wonderful vehicle to suck the wits from self-seeking beasts who, otherwise, might cause trouble. Slap a high-and-mighty label, like ‘Most Revered,’ on most beasts’ foreheads, with a good supply of silver to their pockets, and seats at the most exalted table in the realm, and their wits very quickly evaporated into illusions of grandure. “Yes,” Fropperdaft reminded himself, “necessary evils are necessary, just make sure that necessary does not overshadow the essential.”

  The essential for Fropperdaft was time with his forge, books, and experiments. An inventor, engineer, and forge-master without peer in the Hedgelands, the High One simply couldn’t focus on his duties unless he was hammering redhot iron and working the bellows at his forge. The Throne Room of Maev Astuté reflected this quality of Fropperdaft. His one essential was time with his forge, books, and experiments. An inventor, engineer, and forge-master without peer in the Hedgelands, the High One simply couldn’t focus on his duties unless he was hammering redhot iron and working the bellows at his forge.

  The Royal Throne itself was set off in a convenient corner, more of a nuisance than a necessity, since Fropperdaft talked with most visitors while working at his forge. An open fire blazed in the forge, ringed with stone. Above it, a magnificently carved stone hood carried smoke up a chimney. An oak barrel, filled with cold water, sat next to the forge, and there were numerous differently sized anvils, hammers, and other tools. Fropperdaft normally used a three-pound hammer when he worked metal. Seeing him wield that hammer left no doubt who was the strongest, most powerful beast in the room. The way he worked with metal and wood made a statement.

  He loved the screaming whine of steel teeth cutting hard wood, and his planing knives were sharper than a surgeon’s blade. Forcing a fierce saw upon protesting wood, Fropperdaft craved the smell of wood toasting as the hot blades ran through it. He sharpened all the blades himself—both to make sure the blades were sharp, but also because the sharpening stone threw off a blaze of the sparks he loved. For it was sparks that gave the High One his greatest comfort.

  It was both soothing and exciting to grip a spongy, white-hot mass of malleable iron, and pound it into any shape he desired. Fropperdaft worked iron in the good old style, without face-guards or leg-screens. Wearing very little else than absolutely required for royal dignity, the feel of sweat trickling down his neck as the iron wailed under his hammer gave a rush of power like nothing else. The bellows wheel spinning, sparks cascading, metal glowing and flashing where it was struck, the heat would have felt painful to a normal beast. But as he pounded—SLAM-SLAM-SLAM—the iron rolled and turned at his will, giving way as Fropperdaft required. What better sport and relaxation for a supreme tyrant than a thunderstorm of sparks; gold and silver rain, bursting into dazzling clouds?

  Often the High One worked at his forge while he met with his Ministers and other visitors. His face lathered with perspiration, red and violet blades of flame framing his body, tortured iron screaming, would not any visitor be impressed? Some who observed Fropperdaft as he worked at his forge swore that the very sparks reflected his changing moods—larger or smaller flaming shards, the sprays more intense and irregular, the colors changing, as Fropperdaft willed it. Whether such rumors were true did not matter since such an environment provided the only setting in which Fropperdaft could endure meetings of the Most Revered Council.

  With the fire lighted, the bellows blowing furiously, and showers of sparks cascading everywhere, the tiresome speeches and reports could be borne, if not pleasantly. To stand at his forge pounding white-hot metal, with the Blowhard’s Club gathered around him, dodging sparks and nearly hoarse trying to be heard, also gave the High One an unequaled feeling of power. No one doubted who was in charge. When speeches or reports became too annoying, the High One pounded and worked the bellows so furiously that no matter how the idiots blathered, he could not hear them. And everyone knew it.

  Lately, the High One had found the meetings of his Most Revered Council to be particularly annoying. When things went badly, the fussing and strutting of the Council Members were especially tiresome. That some things had not gone well recently was obvious to any dunderhead. But the Most Revered Council was not content until each Member had analyzed, dissected, scrutinized, and, most importantly, calculated every minute detail of the troubles or loss. Fropperdaft had another such session to look forward to today. He planned to have a very hot fire burning when the Blowhard’s Club convened and planned to send immense showers of sparks flying.

  What most annoyed the High One was that the Most Revered Council spent hours discussing the portions of problems that were least interesting to himself. The Blowhard’s Club had been driving him nearly wild recently.

  “Oh me, oh my,” they moaned, “more slaves have escaped,” or “another caravan has been raided.” But, why did they care about this? Because it hurt their pocketbooks! They lost money! “By my kidneys and glands!” Fropperdaft fumed, “That’s the least important aspect of the problem, and we do nothing but talk about it!”

  For Fropperdaft, the prime significance of the slaves was that they cut the stone for the sacred climb. Anything having to do with enhancing the speed and efficiency of the sacred climb—necessary to the building of Maev Astuté—received his full attention. But Members of the Blowhard’s Club losing some money? He would be hammering away at some hot metal, sparks flying.

  The High One had a suitably hot fire burning in the forge when the Council Members arrived. Standing in his oil-soaked sharkskin apron, with one paw holding a piece of white-hot iron in tongs, and working the bellows with the other, he was clearly impatient. “There now! Let’s get this going! Speak your piece and be about it!”

  After the Council took seats around the stone table positioned in front of the forge, Frunge Sapperpate, the First Voice of the Council, opened the meeting. “Your Most Peerless Berzerker and My Most Revered Council Members, I rise to report that our months of careful investigation and preparation are about to bear fruit. The Sparrow Scouts have pinpointed the location of these cursed rebels harassing our slaving operations. I know I speak for other Council Members when I say that such attacks are bleeding our pocketbooks. Therefore, it gives me immense pleasure to say that our Skull Buzzard brazzens are now moving against these infernal rebels. They are moving in two prongs: one into the Everlost, where the rebel headquarters are located; the other down the Lost Ways Crack, where the anti-slaving operations are most active. Within a very short time, the rebels will be finished!”

  “But if I might, my Most Revered First Voice, I see troubles, piled on troubles, piled on troubles. Will this operation end our troubles?” Preddywell Lackwit, one of the longest-serving Members, always saw troubles everywhere, with everything.

  “Look at what has happened since the Wood Cow attacked the High One, in this very chamber! C
an anyone deny that it’s been nothing but one thing after another since then? My losses mount daily, as do others’. The explusion of the Wood Cows was supposed to end these troubles, yet they have gotten worse. Why the High One’s own brother lost a highly valuable caravan…”

  Already in a foul temper when the meeting began, these comments made Fropperdaft’s blood boil. Working the bellows with rage, he sent showers of sparks spraying across the Council table. WHAM! HAMMER! CLANG! KA-SCHLAMMM! His hammering rang as loudly as it ever had in the Throne Room.

  At that point, the door to the Throne Room flew open. Scarcely waiting to be announced, a Sparrow Scout, winded and exhausted, burst in. His face betrayed that he was carrying bad news.

  “Bad news! Bad news! Your Most Eminent Swellhead!” the Sparrow cried. “The Wrackshee camp at the Shèttings has been destroyed! A massive explosion ripped that area of the Grand Deep to pieces, and there’s nothing left but flooded rubble. All of the Wrackshees are missing, and it appears there’s no possibility of rescue.”

  Silence, or the closest thing possible to it, fell across the Throne Room. Even Fropperdaft stopped blowing the bellows and hammering.

  After a brief silence, however, the bellows began blowing again. Over the pounding of his hammer, the High One said, “I command that a rescue party be mounted! The Wrack Lord has ever been a loyal subject and partner. I will not believe he cannot be rescued without trying.”

  “Where will we find forces for a rescue party, sire?” Preddywell Lackwit asked. “All of the available Skull Buzzard brazzens are in the field on missions against the rebels.”

  “I want operations curtailed at Tilk Duraow temporarily,” the High One replied. “That will allow us to release some of the Skull Buzzards from duties there to undertake the rescue attempt.” As he spoke, the bellows blew like a gale. Fropperdaft was highly distressed to curtail operations at Tilk Duraow, the source of stone for the sacred climb. But honor required extreme efforts on behalf of his well-loved friend, the Wrack Lord. The huge increase in slaving that the Wrack Lord had achieved, in Fropperdaft’s mind, dwarfed the accomplishements of all of his other subjects. Without that achievement, the great increase in speed in building Maev Astuté would not have occurred. That was a worrying thought.

  SLOPS in Danger

  Word reached SnowFire that Sparrow Snoops had discovered the SLOPS about the time that Angelana and Emil had a group of escaped slaves ready for the run to the sea. Emil, who by now had made two earlier trips down the Lost Ways Crack, felt that he could make the run alone. They agreed that Angelana would immediately return to Mar-Marie and Ord to warn them of the danger. “Now, just because we allowed you and PorNart to stay and work with us, and you’ve made a couple of runs down the river, don’t get it in your head that you’re a SLOPS Marshall,” she said with a grin. “But, on this trip, I want you to act every bit like you are one!” Hugging each other fiercely, Angelana went on her way, and Emil turned to lead his two boatloads of slaves down the river.

  Running boats down the Lost Ways Crack was like diving down a hole. The steep drop in elevation made the river run fast, wild, and untamed. The river snaked through an astonishingly deep canyon. Breathtaking cliffs, generally vertical, at times leaned out over the river. Savage, impenetrable woods covered every scrap of land where a plant could take root, even on the cliffs. Thickly overgrown with pine, spruce, and birch, it was as if the large river itself was a bit player in the landscape. Sculpted and scarped into a thousand fantastic shapes, the roan cliffs looked either brooding or playful depending on how the sun played with them, or didn’t.

  For four days, Emil and his party rode the river, stopping only to eat and sleep. Early in the afternoon of the fourth day, they arrived at the tiny settlement on the shores of the Great Hot Lake. As he paddled into shore, Emil was surprised to see several multicolored tents set up among the cabins and huts. Smoke from campfires drifted lazily among the tents, and huge work-tortoises lay tethered in the open area reserved for their feeding and rest.

  Pulling into shore, delicious smells wafted out to greet Emil and his beleaguered travelers. The Great Hot Lake community was having dinner: Spiced Manyplucks, Stoned Raisins, Slices of Honey Rock, and Pricked Tangers, all absolutely drenched in Whisked Lemon. Platters of All Howl’s Pie, Sudden Baked Salmon, Flailed and Flaked Hot Lake Pike, and entire tables of Spittin’ Good Chowder, Haver’s Hasty Soup, and Mo’n’Mo Vegetable Turnovers. It was all more than a famished beast could stand.

  Helga and Bad Bone had taken on duties at the cookfires so that the cooks could be among the first to eat. Because the cookfires were down near the lake, Helga saw Emil’s boat long before most of the other beasts. Whooping and hollering, she ran out into the lake until she could no longer stand, then dove headfirst and swam out to meet her brother. Pulling her aboard, the long-separated siblings talked and laughed as the boats landed.

  When Helga took him to find their parents, Emil thought that his mother had never looked more beautiful. Her astonishingly black eyes, blazing with flecks of red, seemed to set her otherwise careworn face on fire. Renowned for her pugnacious determination, Helbara’s gentle love for her children also showed in her face. “My own, dearest Emil,” she hollered happily, pulling him close. Breister and Helga joined in, throwing their arms around the others in a giant family hug.

  “Yar!” Emil replied. “Reunited at last!”

  “Yes,” Helbara agreed, “our family is all together again, but we didn’t expect to meet here, under such conditions.”

  “For sure,” Emil said, casting his eyes across the mass of beasts in the encampment. “Where did all these other beasts come from?”

  “You’ve heard that the High One is sending a horde of Wrackshees to stop the work against his slaving operations?” Helga asked.

  “Yes, they’ve heard the news up at SnowFire,” Emil replied. “This is our last run down the river until things settle down. Angelana has gone to warn the others upstream.”

  “Warning will not be enough,” Helga said. “We’re completely outnumbered. Some of the high country Rock Ravens have heard rumors that there will be thousands of Wrackshees coming down the Lost Ways Crack. Several brazzens of Skull Buzzards will come in a wave ahead of the Wrackshees, and others will go by land across the Everlost. They are likely planning to arrest Mar-Marie and Ord. We have to take action ourselves. Now.”

  “Thousands of Wrackshees and brazzens of Skull Buzzards! What do we do against such numbers as that?” Emil asked.

  “A new friend, TrimWagg, and his Pogwaggers have a plan to suggest,” Helga said. “TrimWagg knows the Skull Buzzards well. They’ve been harassing the Pogwaggers for years. For self-defense, TrimWagg has scouted the Skull Buzzards closely. He’s going to present his plan right after everyone eats. Come on, I’m hungry and you surely are, too. Let’s get some chow. Then, we’ll hear what’s up.”

  Had the sheer bulk of the foods available been his only consideration, Emil would have thought the feast was magnificent. “Well,” said Emil, chuckling, “especially since my sister has been cooking, I’ll have to sample everything!”

  “You’d never say such a thing back home,” Helga snorted.

  Emil made no response. He was busy loading his plate. Enjoying a hearty meal and good laughter, time slipped rapidly away. Soon Home was circulating through the encampment calling everyone together. Emil was surprised to see him moving about in just a pair of shorts, with a towel slung over his shoulder.

  “Time to soak, good beasts,” he said cheerily. “Meeting down in the lake—ten minutes.”

  “We’re going to meet in the lake?” Emil asked. “In the lake?”

  “Yes, that’s the way it’s done here,” Helga laughed. “Soaking in the warm water is the way you finish off every evening meal at Great Hot Lake. It’s a great way to relax and enjoy the community. Sometimes we sing. Sometimes someone gives a talk. Sometimes we tell stories. It’s great! Tonight, TrimWagg is going to brief us on his plan
to fight the Skull Buzzards.” She smiled at her bewildered brother. “Come on, Emil, we’ll find you a hot-suit.”

  In a few minutes, the Great Hot Lake community gathered, each beast slipping into a favorite soaking position in the warm water. Helga and Emil settled down together in one place where the water was hotter; Helbara and Breister preferred a cooler place.

  “Hear now, friends!” Home called out, standing waist-deep in the lake and waving his arms above his head for attention. “Listen up!” When the crowd had quieted, he continued, “As we all know, our happy life here, and our efforts to save other beasts from the High One’s clutches, are in danger. We know that a Wrackshee horde is coming this way. But before they come, several brazzens of Skull Buzzards will be the first wave. Their plan seems to be to have the Skull Buzzards crush any resistance, then the Wrackshees come through and take slaves at will. Our good fortune is that our new friend, TrimWagg, knows a lot about the Buzzards and has a plan to head them off. Sit back. Listen. Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

  “The first thing to know about Skull Buzzards,” TrimWagg began, “and the key to my plan, is that they are extremely proud beasts. Even if they are the worst, most reprehensible, corrupt beasts alive, they believe they are different from, and better than, any other beast. They may know nothing else, but they are taught from the time they are wee beasts this one thing—that they are superior to anyone else. Even though they have no schools, no books, no learning in that way, they do know who is top of the heap. Given that idea of themselves, they are proud by policy, not just by training and habit. That means that they will not admit that they are ignorant. Under no circumstances will you ever see a Skull Buzzard saying, ‘I don’t know.’ That would mean the end of their whole conception of reality. Superior to all is what it means to be a Skull Buzzard. To be a Skull Buzzard means to be superior to all. Period.”