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

Red Whale, Fishbum, and Katteo all climbed up on the immense beast, straddling his massive girth as best they could with their legs. But, once they were aboard, Reginald did not move, nor did he say anything. He appeared to be lost in thought and almost unaware of their presence on his back. Minutes dragged by and still nothing happened.

At last, Red Whale ventured to ask, “Say there, Reginald, old salt, did you say we’d be leaving soon? I’m a bit worried that our shipmates may be breaking rock before can rescue them.”

“SSZZZSCHORCHT! YOU WERE PERHAPS IMAGINING REGINALD M.Q. WAS SOMEONE ELSE? PERHAPS YOU IMAGINED HIM A COD-BRAIN OR SOMETHING? OF COURSE YOUR MATES ARE TIP-TOP-TIP IN MY MIND. SNORCHT! SZZORCKT! I’VE BEEN CONSIDERING THE BEST WAY TO EFFECT A RESCUE. JUST GETTING YOU ACROSS THE REEF DOES NOT HELP ALL THAT MUCH—SCHNORFT-SCHNOOFT—AND WHAT WOULD YOU DO THEN? SWIM THE REST OF THE WAY? NO-NO-NO-NO-NOHOOFT! THERE’S A MUCH BETTER PLAN!”

Reginald was so pleased with himself that his hearty laughter set his immense body jiggling. As convulsive waves rippled through the Sea-lions flabby frame, the three comrades were nearly thrown off his back. “HOOOCH-HOOOCH-HAAACKKK-HAAACKKK-HOOOCHT! OH, IT’S TOO MUCH! WE’LL SET THE WIGGERS ON THEM! HOOOCH-HOOOCH-HAAACCKK! THE BORF WILL LOVE IT!”

“Borf, Reginald? And who would the Borf be?” asked Katteo.

“BORF RAIDING PARTIES ARE THE SCOURGE OF SLAVERS AND THEIR KIND! SCHNORKT! SCHZZORKT! OH, I REALLY NEED ANOTHER CRAB—ANYBODY SEEN A CRAB—OH, SO CRUNCHY ON THE OUTSIDE AND, OH, SO WARM AND SQUISHY ON THE INSIDE—OH, YES, LATER—NOW THE BORF HAVE A CAMP NOT FAR DOWN THE COAST. I TAKE YOU TO THEIR CAMP AND THEY HELP YOU GET YOUR CREW BACK! SZZCHORFT! AND NO SWIMMING IN SHARK TERRITORY—OH, I FORGOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT THAT—THAT’S ANOTHER REASON YOU WOULDN’T WANT TO SWIM INTO PORT NEWORF! SCHORKT-SCHZZZOORT! THOSE SHARKS ARE NOT VERY FRIENDLY—MORE LIKE SLICE YOU UP AND SELL YOU FOR THE GRILL! NO, YOU’RE BETTER OFF WITH THE BORF!”

Reginald gathered himself and set off, flopping and lumbering along with surprising speed, following the rocky reef up the coast. Red Whale, Fishbum, and Katteo rode along in something less than comfort—but happy, knowing they could never move across the jagged, slippery rocks without Reginald’s help.

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 SCHZOOZZSHORCKT—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 trallés, 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,