by Bruce Leslie
Flynn sank his spade into the dung. “What do people call you?” he asked.
The man answered, “Barnabas.”
“No.” Flynn continue shoveling. “What I mean is, What do people call you when you sell dung at the market?”
“Oh,” said the man. “They still call me Barnabas, what I’m hocking don’t have no say in the matter.”
Flynn wiped his brow, then resumed shoveling dung. “If you sold jewels, I would say we got the goats from a jeweler.” He looked at the man. “Since we got them from you, what should I say?”
The man scratched his head. “Who you expecting to ask about those goats? Ain’t nobody ever asked me about them.”
Flynn shook his head while he shoveled. “It’s a philosophical question. If I were asked, in broad context, what should I say?”
The man held his hands wide. “Say you got them from Barnabas, or say you got them from a jeweler if you want. I don’t mind.”
“Flynn!” The Lump shot an annoyed stare at his companion. “Stop asking the dung-merchant so many honey-loving questions!”
Flynn stopped shoveling. “Dung-merchant, that’s what I was looking for!”
The man shrugged. “Seems kind of obvious to me.”
The Lump shoveled the last bits of dung out of the cart and climbed down. “So, I guess we’ll be off with the goats now.” He looked at the cart, then back to the dung merchant. “How do you get them going?”
The dung-merchant picked up a rod from the ground and handed it to the Lump. “Goad them with this.”
“Goad away, Lump. I’ll ride back here.” Flynn returned his spade to the dung-peddler and sat in the cart. He drew in air through his nostrils and wrinkled his face. “Or, perhaps, I’ll walk with you.” He hopped down. “We may want to scrub this cart before riding in it.”
The Lump goaded the goats and they walked forward, pulling the cart. “I’ll need to figure out a way to keep these goats moving while we’re in the cart.” He shook his head. “No point in getting the mud-kissing things if one of us has to walk beside them.”
“Let’s head back down to the river,” said Flynn. “I’ll attend to the cart, while you devise a method to reign the goats.”
“Sounds good to me.” The Lump smiled. “But let’s go up river a ways before we head to the bank. I wouldn’t want that ferry-man to scare Willie.”
“That’s probably wise.” Flynn nodded. “Where is our next stop once the cart and its unusual team are prepared for travel?”
The Lump prodded at the surly goat to keep it moving. “We’re heading straight to Bleuderry, I want to talk to that crone.”
7: On The Road
Flynn cleaned the cart with a single-minded determination to make the journey just a bit more pleasant. He scrubbed it with copious amounts of river water, using a rag he found on the way. After that, he took sand from the bank to scour the inside, easily removing the wood’s outermost layer along with the grime that stained it. By the look of the cart, his efforts were an amazing success. The wooden construction appeared to be made of fresh planks that had never felt the burden of cargo. As for the smell, the efforts were, at the very least, disappointing. The odor of the cart remained most foul, betraying the secret of its former cargo.
Flynn wiped sweat from his brow with a sleeve. “This wretched thing stinks!” He let out an irritated sigh.
The Lump looked over his shoulder while he finished his work with the goats. “Don’t worry about the stench, we’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t understand how that putrid aroma is so ingrained in the wood.” Flynn put his hands on his hips and frowned.
“It just needs to air out for a while.” The Lump walked away from the goats and stood next to Flynn. “It should smell fine a month or so after we’re done with the mud-kissing thing.” He gave Flynn a firm slap on the back.
Flynn’s frown contorted into a full-faced grimace.
The Lump chuckled. “Maybe we can pick up some sweet smelling flowers along the way.” He shrugged. “If we throw them in with us, they may help a little.”
Flynn shook his head. “It would only make the flowers reek.”
“At least it looks clean,” said the Lump. “Take a look at the goats!” He held out his open hand to present the animals. “It’s a good thing we kept those extra lengths of rope.”
The goats ate river weeds with ropes dangling from their heads. They looked unconcerned by the cords wrapped around the base of their dark horns and tied in tidy knots. The rope’s extra length trailed behind them as makeshift reigns.
“Since I couldn’t find anything to use as a bit, I bridled their horns.” The Lump picked a long, flat piece of wood up from the ground. “I found this plank down by the river. I thought we could use it as a bench.” He stepped toward the cart.
“That is preferable to sitting directly on the stench.” Flynn’s dour expression softened. “I hope it suits our needs well enough.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” The Lump wedged his plank between the slats that comprised the sides of the cart. “Climb in, let’s see how she rides!”
The two men climbed onto the cart and perched on its newly installed bench. It held their weight. The Lump handed Flynn the goading rod and gripped the loose ends of the ropes in his big hands.
Flynn looked at the rod with a puzzled expression. “What shall I do with this?”
The Lump nodded toward the goats. “Give ‘em a little poke with the stick, so they’ll move.”
Flynn jabbed the surly goat with the rod.
The goat let out a loud bleat and moved forward, the goat beside it did the same. The cart lurched forward with a jerk, then moved smoothly along the path. The goats seemed to pull the men’s weight well enough.
Flynn drew in a breath and wrinkled his nose. “You don’t think we’ll start to smell as foul as this cart, do you?”
The Lump let out a quick laugh. “It don’t matter what I think.” He tilted his head. “By the time we get to Bleuderry, we’ll know for certain.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at Flynn. “Are you worried about what the crone will think of your aroma?”
“Not particularly,” answered Flynn. “I would dislike returning from my mission only to have Meena appalled by my… unpleasant scent.”
“Meena won’t care none.” The Lump turned his gaze back to the road. “I’ll smell just as bad as you.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Flynn waved a hand in front of his nose. “Upon my return, I don’t want her first impression of me to be the odor of ox dung.” He let his hand rest on his knee.
The Lump raised his eyebrows. “You’re telling me you care what Meena thinks of your smell?”
“It’s only proper,” said Flynn. “She is the leader of the Common Folk.”
“I don’t think it matters if she’s leader or not.” A sly grin crept across the Lump’s face. “I think you like Meena!”
“Yes, I do.” Flynn gave the back of his head a nervous scratch. “Don’t you like Meena as well?”
“Of course I like Meena, she’s a fine young lady.” The Lump wiggled his eyebrows at Flynn. “But I think the way you like her is different from the way I like her.”
“What are you talking about?” Flynn’s face grew a slight shade of red.
The Lump pointed a finger at Flynn. “I think you’re sweet on the queen of the Common Folk!”
“That’s preposterous!” Flynn’s face turned a darker shade of red. “Furthermore, she’s not the queen, she is the Dragon.”
The Lump’s chest bounced as he laughed under his breath. “Imagine that! If you two got hitched, that would make you a prince or something.”
Flynn drew down his eyebrows. “I told you, she’s not a queen, and we’re not getting hitched!”
“I guess if she’s the Dragon, it would make you the wyrm!” The Lump leaned his head back and let out a loud laugh that rang through the trees. “The Crone’s Keep would be a great place for the wedding.�
� He snapped his head around to Flynn. “Hey, maybe Solson Birch would perform the marriage rites!”
“Stop your ludicrous speculation at once!” Flynn looked away from the Lump in annoyance.
“So that’s why you stayed in the Needles when I set off for home.” The Lump nodded his head as he spoke. “You were hoping to steal a kiss from the Dragon.”
“This is growing tiresome.” Flynn continued to look away from the Lump as he spoke. “Else wise, I have no interest in being a prince… or a wyrm as you suggest.”
“Fair enough,” said the Lump. “Still wanting to be a hero, then?”
“I have another calling now.” Flynn turned his face back toward the Lump and held his chin high. “I am the first archer.”
The Lump laughed again. “If you’re the first, I’d sure hate to see the last.” He raised an eyebrow. “From what I remember, your aim wasn’t so good.”
“My aim has gotten better.” Flynn hooked a thumb under the bow across his chest. “I’ve practiced, and a longbow is much better than a crossbow.”
“I wouldn’t know.” The Lump held his hands up by his shoulders. “I’ve never tried to make an arrow fly.”
Flynn’s face returned to its normal hue. “The role of first archer has little to do with accuracy.”
“Then you’re a good fit,” said the Lump.
Flynn didn’t acknowledge the statement. “It’s more about organization, and strategy.”
“What needs to be organized?” asked the Lump.
Flynn answered, “We were on watch for the return of the dragon you fought, but now we watch for Gallisian footmen.”
The cart stopped moving. The surly goat, Willie, stopped to gnaw at a hedge. The other goat joined it and the two animals dined on the shrubbery.
The Lump grunted. “We’ve been conversing when we should be minding the goats.” He beckoned at Flynn. “Give ‘em another poke.”
Flynn goaded the animals with the rod.
The goats continued to chew at the hedge.
Flynn prodded again, with a good deal more force this time.
The surly goat jerked up, startling its fellow goat. The animals ran up the incline next to the road.
The Lump pulled hard on the ropes and shouted, “Whoa there, Willie!”
The goats made an abrupt change in direction and darted back toward the road. Their quick, jerky movements caused the cart to tilt.
“Sweet slippery swine-slop!” The Lump fell sideways on the bench and landed atop Flynn. The carted toppled onto its side and the two men spilled out, into the road.
Flynn bounced to his feet and wiped dirt from his tunic.
The Lump managed to maintain his grip on the ropes during the unexpected ordeal.
The goats bleated in succession and pulled against the rope until they settled.
The Lump leaned his shoulder against the cart and shoved it upright, back onto its wooden wheels.
Flynn shook his head and laughed. “Do you think they will keep this up all the way to Bleuderry? I’d hate to think you squandered Marty’s silver.”
“I haven’t squandered anything.” The Lump wiped his forehead with the back of a leather bracer. “If nothing else, we can always eat the goats!”
Flynn furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t seem right, given that you named them.”
“I only named one!” The Lump held a thick finger in the air. “They’ll get us where we’re going just fine. It’ll just take a little getting used to, for all of us.” He climbed back onto the bench.
Flynn stepped back into the cart as well. “If Meena were here, there would be no problems with the goats.”
The Lump pointed at the goats with a thumb. “So, this gift she has with animals would even work on a surly goat like Willie?”
Flynn nodded. “The things I’ve seen her do are unbelievable.” He prodded the goats with a measure of trepidation.
The goats moved forward and again pulled the cart along the northern bound path.
The Lump kept a tight hold on the goats’ guide-ropes. “Have you seen anything more impressive than when she summoned that pack of wolves?”
“The owls!” Flynn’s eyes grew wide. “I never knew the scale of her abilities until I saw the owls.”
The Lump asked, “What did she do with owls?”
“It was frightening, honestly,” answered Flynn. “The first Gallisian raid was at night. The footmen came pouring into the Needles by moonlight, the people in the Needles were terrified.”
“And owls had something to do with it?” the Lump asked with a wrinkled forehead.
“Yes, dozens of them,” said Flynn. “The birds seemed to come out of nowhere, and tore into the footmen with their talons.”
The Lump grinned. “I bet that sent those Gallisians running!”
“No.” Flynn shook his head. “The footmen wore mail and helmets. They swatted their halberds at the birds to send them away. The owls went back into the sky, regrouped, and attacked again. They attacked in a concerted effort, attacking the exposed skin of necks and faces.”
The Lump shrugged. “The wolves she called up did about the same with those men-at-arms at the Western Abbey.”
“Don’t you see the difference?” Flynn held his hands wide. “Meena was cornered when the wolves came to help us, but she had no idea the Gallisians planned to attack that night.”
The Lump furrowed his brow. “How did she call up the owls, then?”
“That’s what I mean.” Flynn leaned in closer. “She didn’t call up the owls, she had them standing guard!”
The Lump gave his head a slow nod. “I suppose owls could set a pretty good watch, with those big eyes and all.” He asked, “What happened to those footmen?”
“They turned back that night, but more raids followed. They hurt people, Lump.” Flynn’s face fell into a grave expression. “They want to capture Meena and drive all the Common Folk from the Needles. That’s why I was sent to get your help.”
The Lump groaned. “We need to get there quick as we can, so I can straighten this foolishness out.” He snapped the ropes in his hands and the goats trotted along the path at a faster pace. “We can ride through the Sol-forsaken night if we have to.”
8: Back In Bleuderry
After two days of long rides separated by very short camps at night, The Lump and Flynn reached Bleuderry. The town looked much the same as it had three months ago, with its large inn, The Crone’s Keep, at its heart.
The Lump hitched the goats to a post near the front of the inn, and the animals set about eating the weeds that grew up around them. He and Flynn went inside.
The man named Beverly was busy behind the tavern’s bar. He still sported the bushy, black mustache that the crone loathed. His expression was casual as he wiped out cups and placed them on a shelf.
The Lump called out, “Beverly!” He waved one of his meaty hands.
Beverly looked up from his work and raised an eyebrow. “What brings you back around? Looking to dig more potatoes?”
The Lump shook his head and walked to the bar with Flynn close beside him. “I need to speak with the crone.” He leaned against the bar.
“What is that terrible stench?” Beverly took a step back and wrinkled up his face. “Did you have an accident in your breeches?”
“I assure you we have had no accidents.” Flynn shifted on his feet, clearly self-conscious about the smell.
“Don’t worry about it.” The Lump grunted. “Where’s the crone?”
Beverly pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out in the stable. It’s probably best you talk to her there, with that stink you’re packing.”
The Lump gave Beverly an appreciative nod and walked out of the tavern. Flynn shuffled behind him, embarrassed by his odor. They reached the stable and the Lump thumped on the door.
A screeching voice called, “What? What is it now?”
The Lump spoke loudly so his voice would carry through the door. “It’s me ma’a
m, I’d like to speak with you.”
The crone called back, “Come in, then. You know how to open a door, don’t you? I know your melon head is mostly filled with mud, but a door shouldn’t be too much of a puzzle for you.”
The Lump smiled at Flynn. “She seems to be the same as I remember.” He opened the stable door and the two men walked in.
The crone was mending the latch on an empty stall. She was clad in her faded blue dress and head scarf. The old lady stood up when the men entered and walked over them.
When the crone arrived before them, she turned her face aside and squinted one eye. “You reek! It’s as if you rode here in a cart of ox-dung!” She shuffled back a step.
The Lump smiled. “That’s pretty much what we did.”
“Just when I thought you couldn’t be anymore foolish!” The crone sneered and shook her head. “What is it then? What do you need? You only come to see me when you need something!”
Flynn spoke first. “Gallisians are raiding the Needles, they want Meena.”
The Lump pointed at himself with a thumb. “I’m going to try and talk with them, let them know I’m the one to blame for their dragon problem.”
The crone held her hands beside her shoulders. “And what does that have to do with me?”
The Lump answered, “Flynn told me you spend a lot of time with her.” He shrugged. “You knew how to smoke out the snakes and the dragon.” His face took on a somber expression. “I thought maybe you would want to help Meena, maybe you know why those muskrat-loving Gallisians have their mind set on getting her.”
“I have my suspicions.” The crone gave her head a slow nod. “They’re frightened by her.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” The Lump shook his head. “Meena don’t want to hurt nobody.”
“It happens so rarely.” The crone raised a slender finger. “I heard whispers when I was a child. Here in Bleuderry, we mingle with the Common Folk on occasion.” She arched a gray eyebrow. “We even used to get hints of things from Gallis. I had glimpses of knowledge you aren’t privy to in the south, where you only know what the King and the Solson’s let you.”
