by Rick Johnson
Too Much Slug Beer
The pleasant, raspy cooing of trallés, piled on top of one another in their wagon, brought smiles to the faces of Reek and Stench as they rode along in their skimmer, now turned wagon. They joked, drank Slug Beer, and periodically lashed the team of slaves pulling them along.
“Yep,” Reek sighed happily as he took deep draws on his Slug Beer, “we’ve got ’er made now. A good lot of trallés to sell—we’ll be rich in no time.”
“Well, not so fast, there, Reek—working for Milky Joe’s going to slow down our getting rich. It appears as he’s got our gold to buy the trallés and all we get is Slug Beer until they sells, of which he gets 80% of the profit.”
“Ah, don’t gripe so much, Stench,” Reek replied. “Why, I’d say Milky Joe did us a fine favor letting us join one of his caravans. Since he’s got the trallé market cornered in these parts, we’d have ended up on the pointed end of a dagger, trying to go it alone. Those big hulking Wreckers he sent to educate us about the customs of trading in these parts probably saved our lives.”
“Oh, yeah, Reek,” his partner replied, “a right fine favor to send those goons to take all our money for the favor of not leaving a bludgeon stuck firmly in each eye socket and a dagger in the spleen!”
“Whoa, quiet like, there, Stench. I wouldn’t want to spook anyone with your complainin’—might not sit too good with Milky’s ears—I hear he’s got a lot o’ them on his caravans.”
“My, my, Reek,” Stench said, “here I thought you were Milky Joe’s good little friend.”
“I’m alive, got all the Slug Beer I want, and have prospects I didn’t have yesterday. Seems like it’s not too bad so far,” Reek snorted.
As Reek and Stench talked, the caravan plodded on its way, passing through the broad, open country leading gradually into the foothills of the Don’ot Mountains. Just as the sun began to fall towards the peaks of the distant mountains, word passed that the caravan would make camp for the night.
Chaining the slaves, in groups, to trees near the campsite, the travelers made campfires and began to cook their simple meal of Whack-Beans, Pot-Smashers, and more Slug Beer. Darkness came quickly once the sun dropped behind the mountains and within a couple of hours after eating, the caravan-beasts were curled in their heavy blankets, feet toward the fire, fast asleep. Although trallé caravans were favorite targets of Borf raiders, the caravan mounted no watch, since Borf attacks were never carried out so close to Port Newolf, but only in the areas much closer to the Borf homelands. Stench and Reek, like the other caravan-beasts, fell into the heavy sleep associated with drinking plenty of Slug Beer. Except for the frequent popping of gassy exhaust from the Whack-Beans, the camp settled into peaceful slumber.
Wicked’s Cove
Not far from where the trallé caravan was encamped, however, another party of travelers was approaching. The second group of travelers were a curious sight: there were nearly fifty of them, and except for three adult sea-beasts, the rest were young Squirrels and Coyotes, perhaps ten or eleven years old, all of whom had painted, notched ears, and wore low, flattened hats. Adding to the curious appearance of the travelers was the fact that the young beasts were riding, two-by-two, mounted on huge, ferocious-looking monitors! Immediately behind the mounted young beasts walked Red Whale, Fishbum, and Katteo Jor’Dane.
Reginald, filled with endless good humor and reckless energy, had carried the sea-beast comrades far down the rocky reef, to a small cove called Wicked’s Sport. “SHNORCKT-SNOOZZCHT! YOU’LL FIND ALL THE HELP YOU NEED AT WICKEDS,” Reginald had said. Sure enough, arriving at Wicked’s Sport, the three sea-beast comrades were astonished: dozens of young Squirrels and Coyotes, all adorned with brightly-painted, notched ears, engaged in what appeared to be a unique kind of play—riding massive, terrifying monitor lizards on the beach!
Riding—standing up—on the backs of monitors, completing flips while riding, jumping, with twists and somersaults, from one monitor to another—the skill of the young beasts amazed the comrades.
“THESE ARE BORF NOCKS—YOUNG BORF—SCHZZOOZZSHORCKT!—OOOO, SORRY ABOUT THAT, SOMETIMES CRAB GUTS GIVE ME GAS! ANYWAY—SCHZZOOZZSHORCKT-PFFUZOTTT-SCHZZZOOZZZSHORCKT—OH, MY, THAT WAS A DOOZIE! NOW, AS I WAS SAYING—TO SURVIVE IN THE ROUGH WORLD OF THE BORF, YOU’VE GOT TO BE STRONG AND SMART. IN THE WILD COUNTRY WHERE THE BORF LIVE, NO STRENGTH, NO SMARTS, NO LIVE LONG—SNOOORCKT! SO THE NOCKS ARE SENT DOWN HERE TO GAIN STRENGTH AND SMARTS WHILE THEY PLAY! IF YOU ASK THEM FOR HELP—SCHZZZOOZZZ—SHORCKT-PFFFFUTTT-ZOO SCHZZZOOZZZSHORCKT—SORRY THERE OLD SPOT, PARDON ME—THEY WILL BE GLAD TO HELP YOU, I’M SURE.”
“Are there no adults here?” Red Whale asked.
“OH YES,” Reginald replied, “THERE’S ADULTS HERE—LOOK UP ON THE BLUFF OVER THERE.” He pointed to the high ground above the beach where a group of adult Borf could be seen running furiously and tossing large nets at each other.
“WICKED’S COVE IS A SECRET RETREAT FOR BORF NOCKS AND ADULTS LEARNING TO USE NETS IN ATTACKS ON trallé CARAVANS—SCHZZOOCKT—ooooffconorckt—oh, my, iT FEELS LIKE i may have overdone it a bit today, carrying you all after such a heavy meal—but, as i say, BORF ARE MASTERS WITH NETS, BUT THEY COME HERE TO WORK ON STRATEGY AND SKILLS AGAINST THE CARAVANS.”
“How can they help us,” Katteo asked.
“ASK THEM TO MAKE A RAID ON ONE OF THE trallé CARAVANS THAT COME OUT OF PORT NEWOLF—SCHNORCHT—aH, THAT’S MUCH BETTER—RAID THE tralléS THEN USE THEM TO BUY YOUR MATES BACK—THAT’S MUCH BETTER THAN THE THREE OF YOU TRYING TO GET THEM BACK YOURSELVES—SZZZOOOOOCKT—I FEAR YOU’D END UP IN A MOST UNHAPPY CONDITION IF YOU TRIED THAT.”
Borf Raiders
A wild trampling sound awoke Reek. He had no time to reflect on what it was, as a large, heavy net dropped over him and Stench. Although not firmly entangled, the time it took for Reek and Stench to rouse from their slumber and struggle free from the net, afforded the Borf raiders sufficient time to make off with their trallés. A similar fate befell the other caravan-beasts. In the blink of an eye, all trallés were carried away from the camp, while other Borf broke the chain holding the slaves to free them. As quickly as the raid began, the dozens of Squirrels and Coyotes who had silently raced through the caravan camp, creating confusion and chaos, had vanished into the night—taking every single trallé and slave with them.
“Stam-stamer-ast!” Fishbum exulted, “that was fantastic! They didn’t even know what hit them before you were gone again!”
“That’s our way,” puffed the Borf carrying Fishbum on his back, as he ran furiously along. Borf raids were the essence of speed—lightning fast, the raiders swept into a camp in the dead of night, creating confusion, running furiously, tossing nets to entangle the caravan beasts, carrying off trallés, but doing no real harm to anyone.
The raiders ran furiously until they were far from the caravan track. Then, they met up with other Borf who were keeping monitor mounts at the ready. Raiding so far from home, and so near to Port Newolf, the Borf wanted to leave the area as quickly as possible. The Borf had only in recent times managed to domesticate the fearsome “dragon” monitors. Borf were the only beasts who had tried to domesticate monitors—and, for most beasts, the monitors existed only in fearsome legends. Caravans sometimes employed monitors, but only wild ones—the spirited savagery of wild monitors fit the needs of rapid passage caravans perfectly.
Fully-loaded Borf monitors, however, because they were properly fed, groomed, and trained, moved even more rapidly—some said their feet never touched the ground. Even when somewhat domesticated, the skitterish, fearsome lizards were so dangerous to handle that even Borf preferred to walk or run in most situations—except in circumstances such as on the current raid, where an exceptionally rapid escape was needed, or when some of the best trained monitors were used for other purposes.
Running to the meeting place, Borf carried Fishbum, Red Whale, and Katteo. The Borf could not afford for anything to slow down their movements. Other Borf carried trall�
�s, and still others were at the rear laying traps to trip up any of the caravan beasts who dared to chase after the raiders.
“Do you expect them to chase us?” Fishbum asked.
“Not to worry,” the Borf runner panted, “most of the caravan beasts only get Slug Beer for pay and don’t want to tangle with our traps—they likely won’t come after us—and if they do, well—No more questions! I can’t run and talk.”
Dragon-Conjurer
Two days later, Red Whale and Katteo Jor’Dane appeared in Port Newolf disguised as wealthy traders, wearing expensive clothes and the finest, stylish boots and hats. Putting out word that they were “somewhat hollow in the middle”—meaning without ethics—they let it be known that they had some of the finest trallés ever seen round about and were looking to buy a large lot of slaves to work their estates.
Milky Joe, the principal trader in “nasties” of any sort in Port Newolf, was instantly suspicious of the newly-arrived couple, but also intrigued by their talk of rich tea estates across the Great Sea that required the work of immense numbers of slaves. The strange couple spoke of paying astonishing amounts for slaves—three trallés per slave, an unheard of sum! Nearly wild with greed, but also suspecting a possible trick, Milky Joe sent a runner to consult Colonel Snart, the High One’s Monopole of Hedgelands-bound caravans, who was responsible for all commerce into the Hedgie realm.
Being an even greedier beast than Milky Joe, the Monopole commanded that Milky Joe conduct the intriguing couple to Mis’tashe, the way-station between Port Newolf and the Hedgelands, where black-market trade in slaves and trallés was often carried on. Distant from settlements, hidden from view, and controlled by Colonel Snart, Mis’tashe was a place where commerce of unusual sorts often occurred. Slaves might be switched from one buyer’s order to another buyer at higher price, trallés bound for one dealer, might be redirected to another, and so on, as best suited Colonel Snart’s interests. No beast entered the extremely remote wilds of Mis’tashe unless invited by the Monopole, which made it convenient to blame delayed or missing orders for slaves or trallés on all manner of catastrophes: Borf raids, avalanches, epidemics, earthquakes, and so on and on. Mis’tashe provided a perfect place for black-market trading with intriguing wealthy buyers. And, under the watchful eye of the Monopole’s ruffians, should there be any trouble with double-dealing buyers, it would be impossible for them to escape.
Red Whale and Katteo, although feeling encouraged by the success of their disguises, also were proceeding with great care. Although Milky Joe had assigned a detail of Wreckers to “safely conduct” his wealthy customers to Mis’tashe, the travelers insisted on bringing along their own body-guard: a huge monitor!
When the party was ready to depart, Milky Joe insisted that Red Whale and Katteo should go first, so the Wreckers could keep an eye on them. The wealthy couple refused, however, and after what amounted to a trivial argument—greed once again clouding better reason—the party set out for Mis’tashe with the wealthy couple at the rear, riding astride their monitor! Having never before seen a monitor up close, but knowing the legendary ferocity of the giant lizards, Milky Joe was now even more impressed with these unusual customers. Any beast who could tame such a terror, and bend it to his will, must indeed be a great and important beast! Having planned to accompany the rich buyers to Mis’tashe, the addition of the monitor to the party, and the effect this had on his reflections on the couple, caused Milky Joe to change his mind, and the group departed without him.
As the group proceeded to Mis’tashe, the constant sound of the monitor drooling and snapping its jaws, and the frequent dull crunching as Red Whale fed the monitor dried shark meat, made the Wrecker escort increasingly jumpy. For a time the jitters among the escort beasts remained contained within each Wrecker, none of them wanting to admit their uneasiness. But the further they traveled and the more reflections on their strange circumstances played on their imaginations, the more openly troubled the Wreckers became.
Ignorant and superstitious, the Wreckers began to mutter among themselves about what could only be a supernatural power that controlled the monitor. “I wouldn’t mind it so much,” one of the Wreckers said, “if it were some other beast than a dragon! Just ain’t natural that they’re riding a dragon pretty as you please! They’ve got that dragon under a spell—it’s leagued with evil powers, I’ll be bound!”
“Oh, aye, and for sure that’s right,” another one said uneasily. “Even if they was dressed and acted like raving magicians or wizards, I’d feel better—but just to be normal beasts, carrying on like there’s not a thing amiss, gives me the creeps—can only be bad, bad, bad I say!”
“Any why do you think Milky Joe dropped us at that last moment? Tell me that! Why he knew we was conducting demons and playin’ with the evil powers—that’s why! He sold us out—lettin’ us carry on with things that’ll have hold of spirits if we don’t watch out!”
“Yah! Milky Joe sold us out—leavin’ us like that to face demons!”
As the mutterings among the Wreckers grew louder, Red Whale and Katteo could barely contain their laughter. They could see the tide was turning in their favor even more than they had planned!
“And don’t you hear them feedin’ that dragon, and those jaws workin’ and that shark flesh tearin’ and him just crunchin’ those bones like nobeast’s business?”
“I say we get outta here right off,” one of the Wreckers cried out fearfully.
“Aye!” another yelled.
“That’s the go!” another agreed. “We’ll just up and leave them right here and let them use their magic and demons and dragon-spells to get themselves outta here!”
With that, one of the Wreckers, known as D’LoodD, turned to Red Whale and Katteo and announced loudly, “All right ya dragon-spellin’ demon-dealin’ fancy-hats! We’re onto you and we’re leavin’—Milky Joe made a bad, bad deal and he knew it—so’s he left us alone for dragon bait! Yah, we know’s about baitin’ dragons! That’s what they do with those Tilk Duraow runners! Yah, we know! And we’re not fools! So, no insults intended, except the bits of truth I just said that might sound insultin’—but we’re done and leavin’ you. Mis’tashe ain’t more than another couple of hours up the trail there—you’ll make it fine by yourself! Milky Joe took the greedy and safe road—but we’re smart enough to take the safe road and leave it at that!”
“Now wait just a twinkle,” Katteo said smiling broadly. “I know what you’re thinking and what you’re fearful of—and you’re right, we do have a spell over this dragon!” Katteo glanced side-ways at Red Whale, giving him a sly wink. “Now think a moment, my dear beast,” she continued. “If I have a spell on this dragon, keeping him from eating you, don’t you know I could pull that spell off faster than you can say, ‘DEAD!’” she said, emphasizing the last word loudly.
The Wreckers were now trembling with terror as Katteo continued, “Aye, so I could do that—and, if you run off, I could just take off the spell and let the dragon fly after you! Yes, I can make the dragon fly! And I can conjure up as many as I want! So, I wouldn’t get too hasty on your departure.”
“Oh, don’t set the dragon on us!” D’LoodD pleaded, the other Wreckers adding their own desperate cries as well.
Smiling kindly, Katteo raised her arms in a gesture asking for quiet. With a tone of understanding and compassion, she said, “There, there, don’t be fearful. I won’t set the dragon on you—and, in fact, I’ll let you go free with gold in your pocket, if you will do a small favor for us.”
“Oh, yea, name your price!” D’LoodD cried out. “We’ll do anything for you, if you’ll spare our humble lives!”
“We want to double-deal Milky Joe—which should make you happy—we want to steal the slaves being offered to us from under his very nose—especially the first-quality ones taken from the Daring Dream. Ha! You see, we’re just like you, we don’t trust Milky Joe and don’t see any reason to treat him fair. So, what we want you to do is to go on with
us to Mis’tashe and, when we get there, swear that Milky Joe was eaten by this here dragon on my command, and that you are sure I’ll feed you and all of the Mis’tashe crew to my dragons also, if they don’t do as I say. And, for this small favor—in addition to saving your lives—we will give each of you a solid gold coin.”
The Wreckers, dumbfounded at their good fortune, immediately agreed with the plan. “Oh, thank you, thank you, mighty She-Hellion, Dragon-Conjurer!” D’LoodD exclaimed. “You can count on our grateful service!”
The End for Sabre Tusk
Mis’tashe was a large and strongly built trading station, remote from all the lanes of normal commerce and frequented only by those trading beyond the law. But in a land where the “tidy little trades” were active, the station provided service to many a slaver or shadowy merchant. Built of sturdy gray stone, Mis’tashe had four wings, completely enclosing an open central square where slaves or trallés were held and displayed for sale. Windowless, except for double-grated openings in the single enormous iron door that served as the main entrance, Mis’tashe had an appropriately dismal and forbidding appearance, consistent with its work.
When Red Whale, Katteo, and their Wrecker escorts arrived at the station, the Wreckers, true to their promise, put on the performance of their lives.
“BEASTS OF THE TRADE! HEAR US WRECKERS! COME OUT AND HEAR US! ALL YOU BEASTS OF MIS’TASHE WHO WANT TO LIVE LONGER THAN AN HOUR! BEASTS OF THE TRADE! HEAR US WRECKERS! COME OUT AND HEAR US! WE WARN YOU OF POWERS THAT EVEN WE FEAR!”
This electrifying announcement brought beasts pouring out of Mis’tashe. The Wreckers were well-known to all the beasts at the station. Wreckers were tough, fearless, and strong—if they were fearful and had warnings to give, every beast wanted to hear about it! As the Mis’tashe beasts gathered, the Wreckers continued their frenzied yelling.
