The Overending

by Rick Johnson

  Pulling the boats ashore, the group set up camp and, unlike the previous night, enjoyed a warm dinner and sound sleep. In the morning, each boat was assigned a section of the riverbank to work. Spreading out upstream from the campsite, the Wood Cows and Pogwaggers fell to work with determination. Almost without planning or design, a mysterious transformation began along the riverbank. Where there had been dimly-lit channels overhung with drooping branches, fiends of every description emerged. Hideous creatures, wild beyond description—breathing pitchforks; swooping on batlike wings; snaping, fang-filled jaws; eyes gaping as if they might swallow a beast. Day-by-day the project continued, as the grotesque menagerie of creatures expanded along the river.

  For the next two weeks, Helga worked like she had never worked before. Her tools seemed to move with a spirit of their own as she brought the most incredible, impossible creatures to life. Carving and cutting, carefully shaping the wood to bring out its natural curves and grain to benefit the overall effect, her work was amazing in both style and speed.

  Christer, for his part, found himself panting to keep up the pace set by his friend. “Good Gor & Pot, Helga! You keep up this pace and you’ll die a young beast!”

  “At least I’ll have a chance to die a free beast then,” Helga replied, not slowing her work even a trifle. “If we don’t stop the Skull Buzzards, there won’t be much use in having good health—we’ll be breaking rock at Tilk Duraow. If that is my future, I dream of ending up there with my body a broken wreck so that I’m useless to them!”

  “You’re a stubborn beast,” Christer chuckled, “whose good sense often gets left behind at breakfast. But on the other hand, you never forget your courage—and what most beasts call good sense is simply cowardice. Which is why I like you.”

  “Would you please stop jawing and get moving?” Helga replied, stopping long enough to give Christer a smile. Returning to his work, Christer’s pace quickened, and for the rest of the day, he worked on Helga’s pace.

  As work was ending for the day, TrimWagg sought out Helga. “There’s news, and none too good,” he told her. “Rock Raven scouts report that the Skull Buzzards will start down the river ten days from now. We have at least another two weeks of work to be ready for them.”

  “If we have to complete two week’s work in less time, we will do it,” Helga replied. “Every beast here is better than most beasts anywhere else. If we can’t do this, it can’t be done.” As TrimWagg turned to leave, Helga said, “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Yes, of course,” TrimWagg replied.

  “Christer and I have pretty well finished our work on our section of river,” Helga said. “Rather than join another of the groups on the bank, I want to place some Shadow Furies in the river itself.”

  “In the river!” TrimWagg exclaimed.

  “Yes, in the river,” Helga said. “I can see Furies seeming to rise out of the rapids at the Acute Angless. We’ll make them look like they’re coming right out of the river directly at the Buzzards. Combine that with what we have on the banks and it will blow their poor, stupid brains apart.”

  “Who do you want to help you?” TrimWagg asked.

  “Christer and I can do it,” Helga responded. “We’ll do this carving on the rocks in the river, so all we need is stone-working tools. I know you carry some for emergencies.”

  “Yes, I have a few chisels and hammers,” TrimWagg said.

  “That will be enough,” Helga said. “I only have one Fury in mind for the river, but it will be a doozy. I think it will be worth the effort and maybe of more value than a few more Furies on the bank further down the river.”

  TrimWagg agreed to the suggestion and, the following day, Helga and Christer began work on a massive boulder in the middle of the river. The boulder’s position, just at the bend in the river, meant that the Fury carved on it would appear without warning. Over the next ten days, a triple-bodied creature emerged from the rock: part lion, part dragon, part snake; the terrifying beast rising up out of the water and writhing in all directions. The mouth of the dragon appeared to open out of the water with a line of stones sharpened into fangs.

  Christer and Helga smiled at their handiwork. “The only way for them to pass down the river is to feel that they are being swallowed by the dragon,” Helga chuckled.

  “Yes,” Christer agreed, “and as they go, the lion’s claws will rake the sides of their boat, and the snake will tower over them. If they are superstitious at all, it will seem that the river is trying to devour them.”

  “I think we have done the best we can,” Helga said with a sigh. “The others have done well, also. Did you see that monstrous elephant with those gigantic worms crawling out of its eyes? This whole place gives even me the creeps!”

  “I like that tree stump made into a cauldron with the wyvern rising out of it in forks of flame,” Christer said. “Let’s just hope that we crack the Skull Buzzard’s confidence,” Christer said. “They have us outnumbered twenty to one, at least.”

  “Any beast that comes upon this by surprise and is not at least a little unsettled by it, is not a beast, but a demon,” Helga said grimly.

  “And that may be our problem,” Christer replied. “We may be facing demons.”

  “There are no demons,” Helga declared firmly, “only beasts that keep such company with ill-willed bugs that they think only as bugs think. Whatever sounds they make reminds me of the endless chatter of flies picking at garbage. No, our work as free beasts is better than any power Skull Buzzards can show us. Let them come. Let them see our work. Let them see what free, thinking beasts can do!”

  The Skull Buzzards’ Idle Fancy

  The Rock Raven reports proved correct. Ten days after TrimWagg predicted their movement, the Skull Buzzards moved out in force from their base at Tilk Duraow. Three brazzens of Skull Buzzards began overland, marching toward the Drownlands. Five brazzens, with all their field gear, loaded onto a hundred large boats, specially built for the journey down the Lost Ways Crack. Even with specially-constructed boats, however, the sheer size of the flotilla meant that the boats were bunched tightly together, with little room to maneuver.

  The wild country beyond the furthermost Skull Buzzard base, was completely ungoverned by any of the High One’s minions. Rugged beyond compare, the land had only small, scattered settlements. Maps showed this untamed country as within the High One’s realm. However, in reality, this was the arena where nearly everyone, in some way, doubted or resisted the High One’s rule. In such an unfamiliar and hostile land, the Skull Buzzards were forced to hire local Rif Cats to guide them down the river. Ever ready to make use of unsuspecting strangers, the Rif Cats, as was their way, easily bluffed and flattered their way into the Skull Buzzards’ confidence.

  Mose, the Rif Cat leader, had never seen Skull Buzzards before in the flesh, but he knew more about them than the Buzzards suspected. Rock Ravens, Rif Cats, Fisher Goats, Weasel Slits, and other clans were common. They might be scattered, poor, and largely illiterate, but they often met as they travelled about. Little occurred that was not soon communicated. Mose had recently encountered a Rock Raven scouting party and learned that Skull Buzzards were in the backcountry. “Well, well, interesting,” Mose thought, tucking away the information for later use.

  Things started to go ill for the Skull Buzzard mission almost from the beginning. The first difficulty, although the Skull Buzzards did not realize it at first, was their untrustworthy guides. Rif Cats usually found it easier to take the money they were paid, and abandon their clients when it was convenient, than to worry too greatly whether they guided them safely down the river. This is especially true when even Rif Cats have their honor, and no self-respecting Rif Cat would think of actually helping Skull Buzzards.

  For the first three days of their journeying on the river, the Skull Buzzard party made little progress. With sheer audacity and deception, the Rif Cats called to attention so many false dangers and possible threats that the Skull Buzzards barely mo
ved. “Do you see those rocks balanced up there?” they would ask. “The wind is from the east this morning and that’s the most likely time for them to fall. We should wait until the wind shifts to the south, which is the safest.” For three days, the Rif Cats fed such tripe to the Buzzards.

  On the morning of the fourth day, however, the crafty Rif Cats, seeing the rising frustration of their clients, took to a different tactic. Knowing enough about the river to lose the group completely, for the next two days, the Rif Cats led the Skull Buzzards through the dizzying array of channels the river offered. As the fifth day came to a close, the grumbling of the Skull Buzzard officers made it clear that the game was nearly up for the Rif Cats. Again, it was time for Mose to shift his tactics.

  As the sun began to set on the fifth day, the Rif Cat leader directed the Skull Buzzard boats down a channel of the river he had used many times before. Indicating the place they would camp for the night, they pulled the boats up on a wide, rocky bank. As the boats were unloaded, Mose walked over to the Skull Buzzard officers who were together in a group, grumbling, sending dark looks in his direction. A Rif Cat, if he is nothing else, is twice as crafty as any Skull Buzzard, even if he is powerless by comparison. Walking over to the group of officers, Mose said, “Top of the evening to you, Good Officers! This was a particularly hard day for you, I know, and, to make it up to you, my Rif Cats are going to treat you to the luxury you deserve.”

  Being not entirely without wits, the Skull Buzzard officers looked suspiciously at the Rif Cat. “Luxury? Here? And you, a stinking Rif Cat—who can’t even find his way down a river—are going to treat us? Har-Har-Har!” Turning away from the Rif Cat, the Skull Buzzards returned to their grumbling and complaining.

  “Ah well,” the Rif Cat said, walking away, loudly enough for the Buzzards to hear, “what good is offering luxury to simple-minded Buzzards who know nothing of the finer things in life.”

  “Just a minute, there, Rif Cat,” one of the Skull Buzzard officers commanded. “It appears you have forgotten your manners. Each of the Skull Buzzards in our brazzens is ‘Sire’ to you. That Skull Buzzards employ you, says nothing about your worth, except that you amuse us. All beasts exist, fundamentally, only for our amusement. When you cease to amuse us, you will be gone. So, I warn you, your amusement for us is fading. Although, of course, we have seen many grander things, if you can provide luxury here, we will allow you to amuse us with it.”

  “Ah, Sire—no, I mean Lord Sire, and Lordly Sires, all—in a few minutes you will be much more than amused. You will be astounded! Astonished! Baffled that such things could be done in such a place as this! To your everlasting credit, only Skull Buzzards have sufficient experience of the world and delicacy of taste, to truly appreciate luxury. So, prepare yourselves to be bathed in luxury.” Seeing that he had overcome the Skull Buzzards’ suspicions for the time being, the Rif Cat quickly moved forward with his plan.

  “As you see, Lordly Sires, the river is steaming over there,” the Rif Cat said. “That little inlet there is a perfect place for soaking away the tiredness of this long day. I invite you to enjoy the warm water flowing over your tired bodies, while my Rif Cats prepare entertainments beyond compare for you.”

  The Skull Buzzards needed no more urging. It took only a few minutes for the entire group of Buzzards to be lounging against the rocks in the water. Many had their eyes closed, relaxing, as the warm water soothed their aching muscles. The Rif Cats swung into action. With stealth and swiftness, they lifted the brass paybox from its place in the Commander’s tent and made off with it. Climbing quickly up a narrow path they knew well, they soon were looking down on the Buzzards from the heights of the canyon cliffs. As had happened so many times before, the Rif Cats were far above, viewing the campsite far below, when shouts and curses exploded below.

  Mose smiled as he listened to the uproar below. Pulling aside a flat stone, he opened a cache containing dozens of glass bottles. Each bottle was filled with either a red or blue liquid, and bottles were bound together in bundles pairing one red with one blue. Rif Cats’ Rain, as the bundles were known, produced tremendous, fiery explosions when the bottles smashed and the red and blue liquids mixed. Alas, untrustworthy guides are sometimes bandits by another name. The band of Rif Cats had conducted many robberies exactly as was being done now.

  “Who wants to do the honor this time?” the Rif Cat leader asked, laughing.

  Three Rif Cats stepped forward, their eyes gleaming. “Aye, the score’s a bit uneven up to now,” one said. “We’ll drop a little flaming cheer to thank them for these past days’ insults!” Each of the three Rif Cats carried as many bundles as they could carry to the edge of the ledge. Taking aim, they tossed the bottles down on the Skull Buzzard camp. KA-BOOOM! SCHWOOSH-BLAM! One by one, explosions rocked the camp, setting fire to most of the Skull Buzzard tents and blasting many of the boats to splinters. Cursing and screaming, there was little the Skull Buzzards could do. When a party of Buzzards began to give pursuit up the narrow trail, a renewed shower of Rif Cats’ Rain sent them scurrying in retreat.

  “That’ll be enough,” Mose said, pushing the flat stone back into place. “They’ve had all they can stomach of us for now, and they’ve got orders down river to fulfill. They’ll not be pursuing us.” Taking a heavy rock, he smashed the brass paybox open and divided its silver and gold among his comrades. “Now, it seems to me, that we should head for the nearest spot of good cheer,” he said merrily. “We’ll let things cool off a bit ’round here. Job well done, mates!” With back-slapping good spirits, the Rif Cats followed the trail up the cliff and disappeared. They would return some time later to make the riverbank again into a suitable trap for unsuspecting travelers.

  Below, chaos reigned. Naked Skull Buzzards, who, just moments below had been easily lounging in the warm water, were now running frantically in all directions, trying to save what could be saved of their belongings, boats, and gear. When the fires were out and the damage assessed, it was not a pretty picture. Virtually every tent destroyed or damaged beyond use. Twenty-three of the one-hundred boats destroyed. Most of the food burned or ruined. Many Buzzards injured by flying glass, or blistered with burns from fighting the fires. A disaster of such dire proportions now threatened their mission. But, there could be no turning back. What explanation would satisfy the High One? The only possibility of redeeming their honor, and thereby avoiding the High One’s wrath, was to successfully see through the mission they were assigned.

  Hungry, angry, and pride hurting, the Buzzards slept in the open on the hard rock of the riverbank. Clouds of flies buzzing over what was now, not a military campsite, but a refuse heap, made sleep difficult, however. For Skull Buzzards, it was a miserable night, indeed.

  That the Skull Buzzards were now nearly five full days behind schedule on their mission, was a blessing for the work of the Wood Cows and Pogwaggers. Hearing from the Rock Ravens that the Buzzards had been ambushed by bandits put everyone at Acute Angless into high spirits. “With the extra time, we’re as ready as we can be!” TrimWagg exulted, congratulating his hard-working comrades. “We’ve put as many Shadow Furies in place as is possible,” he chuckled. “Now let them come. We’re ready for them.”

  Upriver, the morning after their debacle, the Skull Buzzards wasted no time in getting back underway. With nearly a quarter of the boats destroyed, the remaining boats had to be loaded heavily. Although they were now carrying much less gear than before, it was no longer possible to balance the boats properly by mixing baggage and troopers. With Buzzards packed beak-to-beak in each boat, the boats now rode dangerously low in the water.

  Still uncertain exactly which way to go to successfully get downriver, the Buzzards spent several more frustrating hours finding the main river channel. Finding it at last, they turned their still considerable fleet into the rushing torrent of the Lost Ways Crack. Mile by mile, the canyon deepened, as the river cut sharply downward. With every increase in the canyon’s depth, the speed of the c
urrent also increased, as did the frequency of rapids. Before the first day of real progress down the river ended, three boats had struck rocks and capsized.

  As the Skull Buzzard fleet made its way down river, Rock Raven scouts brought TrimWagg and Emil almost hourly updates. With the time of the Skull Buzzards’ arrival at Acute Angles now well-known, almost to the exact moment, the Wood Cows and Pogwaggers took up positions. Some occupied observer posts on high bluffs, others crouched behind boulders among the Shadow Furies themselves. Everyone watched and waited.

  As the Skull Buzzard flotilla approached the waiting Wood Cows and Pogwaggers, their Commander was weary and troubled. Nothing had gone well with the entire mission. Sitting in the prow of the lead boat, he imagined again and again what the High One would say to him if he failed. Death would be preferable to life if the mission failed. Yet, for the first time in his life, he had the feeling that failure was stalking him. Following him, step-by-step. Waiting for the chance to destroy him. The Commander fought these feelings with every ounce of determination he could muster. Every beast bowed at the feet of Skull Buzzards. They had knowledge and power that inferior beasts did not have. No beast was, in any way, superior to a Skull Buzzard. In that knowledge, held from the beginning of memory, Skull Buzzards rested secure in their power. So, why was the Commander not feeling secure at this moment? He wondered about that. Had he asked his troops, he would have found that they, too, wondered such things.

  Approaching a bend in the river, the Commander suddenly realized the turn was too sharp to navigate with his boats bunched closely together. Too late, he screamed for the boats to pull apart. Instead, the boats plunged into the Acute Angel in a jumbled mass. Slamming into one another, water spilled over the sides of the over loaded boats. When the water splashed against the Commander’s feet in the bottom of his boat, he first imagined it was a hand of failure pulling on his ankle, dragging him downward. Yelling, he convulsively grabbed his ankle, and laughed feverishly when he discovered it was only water. That comfort was fleeting, however. On all sides, boats where pitching upside down on rocks, smashed to smithereens. Buzzards crushed beneath flipped boats or slammed agains rocks screamed in agony. Few that fell in the river managed to find their way out safely.