Helga: Out of Hedgelands - Rick Johnson (a court of thorns and roses ebook free TXT) 📗

Helga gazed at the strange ear as the boats approached it. Drawing closer, she could see that, directly beneath the ear, a large cave opened to the river. Soon, the Wrackshee boats turned toward the cave and floated inside! Helga was surprised to find that the interior of the cave was smoky—a pall of smoke drifted slowly across the upper part of the cave, flowing toward the mouth of the cave. There the smoke escaped and snaked upward around the rocky ear outside.

Helga was astonished to see what was obviously a trading post rising along one side of vast cave. Step-like terraces, carved out over eons as the curving flow of the river’s current carved out the cave and cut steadily deeper into the rock, provided a secure, albeit unlikely, foothold for habitation and commerce. The lively activity of the dimly-lit settlement was apparent even from where Helga sat chained to the gunwale.

The Wrackshee boats moved toward shore, and soon Helga felt her boat bump against a landing pier. Instantly, Wrackshees were standing around her and the other captives, unlocking their chains. As Helga stood and stretched her cramped legs, she could see that other boats, canoes, and kayaks were scattered here and there along the bank, many tied up at the many gangways hanging out from merchant shops built to the very edge of the river. Rudely built and dirty, the entire place showed every sign of neglect and decay. The small metal gangways, although crowded with beasts going about their business, appeared so rusted and broken, as to be nearly beyond use.

“Jump and form in line, you lazy varmints, or you’ll feel the bite o’ my lash! Get up, you! Over there—get in line. Get moving!” The tip of the Wrackshee’s whip cracked just beside Helga’s ear as she moved slowly into line. Wrackshees chained one prisoner’s right ankle to the left ankle of the beast behind, then back to the next one’s right ankle, then to the next one’s left, all the way down the line, making movement slow and difficult.

Pushed roughly forward, cracks of the whip biting at their backs, the captives stumbled clumsily off the boat and stepped onto a rocky outcrop that served as the landing pier. Despite a slight cool cave breeze toward the cave entrance, smoke from dozens of lamps and hearths hung closely about the settlement, giving the air a damply burnt taste in Helga’s mouth as she breathed.

Wrackshee guards, standing with throwing lances at the ready, motioned the captives toward the doorway a few steps down from the pier. On the door hung a signboard: Snuck Rasts and Brother, Grog and Butter.

CRACK! “Keep moving, you Slime-Pots! Move!” CRACK! The lash cut into the Grizzly Pogwagger’s shoulder and she reared her head to protest. CRACK-SHMACK! Two more lashes cut her protest short.

The captives stepped through the doorway into a sort of dingy groghouse with a counter and a few grimy tables. “HIZZZZ!” A huge ancient monitor lizard, dozing in front of a hearth, raised its head, and struggling to its feet, hissed at the captives. Its long gray tongue pushed out in weak spurts. Deeply-wrinkled, wizened skin hung in huge folds almost to the floor. “HIZZZZZ! HIZZZZ!” The old dragon opened its mouth in an attempt to show its fearsome array of teeth, but only succeeded in showing it was nearly toothless. “HIZZZZZ!”

“Down, Pearl! Get Back! Lay down, you old wheezer!” a stocky, disheveled Boar commanded from behind the grog counter. “Here, take this and shut your trap!” said the Boar, reaching into a large jar of pickled mice sitting on the counter. He neatly flicked two pickled mice across the room smack into the monitor’s open gob. SNAP-SCHUMPT! The dragon caught the mice and swallowed them in a single gulp. Then, slowly blinking its large deep blue eyes at its master, its hissing subsided as it settled back down by the hearth.

“There ya go, ya worthless critters! Ol’ Pearl won’t never harm ya—though she’s taken off a few legs and swallowed a few wee ones whole in her better days.” Patting the jar of pickled mice, the Boar continued, “Yessir, Pearl loves these little treats here and that’s about all she’s up to these days—now when she was in her prime, ya didn’t want to sit none to too close to her with yer boots off. Why, one time, she just snipped off one old Coyote’s toes who wiggled them a little too much by the fire. Not her fault ya understand—fool Coyote just tormentin’ her like that.” The scattered pikers and scalawags swilling grog at the tables guffawed, and seeing this pleasant diversion was at an end, went back to their gambling and talk.

“Now then,” the Boar said jocularly, picking flecks of food from his huge yellowed tusks with a long skinning knife, “looks like you’ve got a bit of butter to sell, eh?” Coming out from behind the counter, he slowly walked past the line of captives, poking each one here and there with the point of his knife to test the firmness of muscle. “Yep, looks like some mighty fine butter—they’ll bring a lot on the trallé market at Port Newolf. Just step out back and speak with Snuck and his brother, why they’ll fix ya right up and y’ll be on yer way.”

The Wrackshee guards motioned for Helga and the others to move through a door the Boar had opened at the rear of the groghouse. Stepping through the door, Helga and the others entered a dimly-lit warehouse with a low ceiling. Most of the room was stacked with crates, hogsheads, casks, and bundles of snakeskins. The room had an over-powering stench and Helga wished she could hold her breath. The naturally putrid smell of the Wrackshee guards now was mingled with a stale odor of sweating, unwashed beasts that hung in the air, although no other beasts were apparent beyond Helga her small group of fellow captives. Several long-decomposing barrels of spiced lizard guts leaked their contents into rancid puddles, adding their own gag-inducing stink. And, clinging to it all, the constant, oppressive stale smokiness.

Coming in at the front of the line of captives, Helga noticed that a lone figure dominated this most unpromising scene. Beneath an oil lamp hanging on the wall, stood a lone, muscular Wolf—faintly green eyes glinting out of an immensely hairy face, red cap pulled tight on the head, coiled leather whip and short rapier tied at the belt—the characteristic features of a Norder Wolf slave trader!

“Here ya go, Snuck, a prime lot of butter for ya,” the Wrackshee leader said, as the line of captives were herded toward the Wolf.

“Yes, looks like a very good lot, indeed,” the Wolf replied.

“Not a good bunch at all!” Helga said fiercely. “It’s a bunch that will sit on its haunches and not work a lick, nobody would want this pile of trouble, I assure you!” Helga yelled, straining against her bonds with all her strength.

Ignoring Helga’s outburst, the Wrackshee continued, “A high-spirited, strong beast, as you can see. Exactly what is needed at Tilk Duraow.” Turning toward Christer, the Wrackshee said, “And this fine young beast has sound muscle and bone and a lively eye—shows real potential.”

“Ain’t got no sense, no how,” Christer said stupidly, giving his most ignorant look to the Wolf. “Don’t know a lick about nothin’,” Christer went on, “don’t even know how to tie boot laces—and that’s the truth, fer sure.”

“And his leg only works right when he’s got Wigger’s Salve to rub on his bum leg,” Helga added, pointing to the leg Christer was now rubbing, as if it pained him. “And the last bottle of Wigger’s Salve I ever saw was years ago—No sir, no way he’s fit to cut stones—why he’s so weak, both in leg and brain, not to mention lazy and shiftless, why he’d be a danger to all the rest of your slaves!” Helga complained, giving Christer a look of profound disdain.

CRAAAAKKKK! A Wrackshee guard sent his lash down like a lightning bolt across Helga’s back. She winced but, instead of submitting, Helga threw a frenzied attack against the bonds that held her, dragging the entire line of captives this way and that as she tried to break free. CRAKKK! CRAKKK! The lash feel on her again and again, but with no effect, until at last she stopped. Breathing heavily, Helga yelled, “You’ll never make a slave of me—NEVER—and you’ll never take these other beasts into your hell-hole at Tilk Duraow either so long as I draw breath! You’ll never sleep a sound night’s sleep again so long as I’m alive!”

“Very nice speech, Wood Cow,” Snuck replied. “But, unfortunately, you are now, in fact, a slave and so are your friends. I’ll be staying right here, paying off your Wrackshee hosts, while my brother and his friends escort you to where you will join the other slaves. Then, why, there won’t hardly be time for you to blink and you’ll all be off for the slave works at Tilk Duraow—oh, except for you, that is.” Eyeing Helga slyly, the Norder Wolf continued, “Why, you’ve shown such strength and spirit—why, it was truly impressive the way you pulled things around! Just the kind of power and energy that they look for in Tilk Duraow runners! Yes, you’d be perfect for that!”

At that moment, a large rough timber door swung open at the back of the warehouse. A second Norder Wolf appeared, accompanied by several dangerous-looking, long-tusked Rummer Boars. “Well, Snuck, looks like you’ve got some nice fresh butter there—we’ll be glad to take over now.”

“O.K., you Slimeheads,” Snuck said, turning to the captives. “You just trot on over there by Bro-Butt—he’ll be your host from now on, until you get to Port Newolf.”

There was involuntary, suppressed laughter among the captives at the mention of the second Norder Wolf’s name. Snuck turned and gave the prisoners an evil smile. “Yes, laugh away, Slimeheads. My brother is my Butter Trader, so I call him Bro-Butt. Find that humorous if you want—I won’t deprive you of the last laugh you’ll have for a very long time. What’s going to happen to you next won’t leave you laughing.”

A Likely Tilk Duraow Runner

Bro-Butt cracked the lash as he and the Rummer Boars drove Helga and the captives roughly through the large heavy door and onto a long stone passage descending into a dank, dimly-lit stairway leading downward through a tunnel in the rock. The stairway was narrow, requiring the beasts to move single-file, and was constructed merely by hewing rough footholds from the stone. Walking on the slippery surface was treacherous in the best of circumstances, but for chained beasts, it was especially difficult. A few of the Rummer Boars carried oil lamps to light the way. The burning oil wicks sputtered in the oppressive dampness of the tunnel, casting barely enough faint light for the beasts to see the steps they were taking. Otherwise, the tunnel was completely dark. Water dripped everywhere in the tunnel like a light rain shower and tiny rivulets ran down the walls—pooling on the steps, or running down the stairs in slow streams. As the beasts descended into what seemed an endless dark abyss, even Helga, brave and stout-hearted beast though she was, felt her heart race in the pitch blackness. The heavy, fearful breathing of the captives, with the constant backdrop of chains dragging across the rock, echoed in the tunnel—as if no other sound existed in the world.

The passage descended in fits and spurts: going down steeply at times, leveling off at times, and climbing somewhat at times. The overall effect was to leave Helga unable to judge if their journey was generally downward or