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 not. Helga was certain, however, of another unsettling observation. As the flickering light played across the wet yellow sandstone walls, Helga could see that the sandstone was flaking away in places. The constant dripping and erosion from small rivulets was slowly undermining its strength. Here and there, the constant erosion created and steadily enlarged holes and seams in the walls and roof of the passage. Walking along, chips and flakes of sandstone dropped with a “Plink” in the puddles, and at places, large rocks lay pell-mell or in piles where entire sections had fallen away. Helga felt certain that someday—how far in the future was anyone’s guess—the roof of the passage would collapse completely. The image of the tunnel collapsing into rubble added to the unsettling anxiety she felt as they continued through the dark, dripping passage.
Fortunately, they were not long in descending the passage. Less than an hour, Helga judged, after they had begun their journey through the passage, a voice called out, “Hullo, my frippers! What’s the lark?”
In the faint light of the oil lamps, Helga could make out the face of a snub-nosed, flat-browed Wolf floating just ahead in a rowboat.
“Frippers hailing for a Butter Skimmer,” Bro-Butt replied. “Butter for the High One and a spit of grog for you.”
The dangerous-looking Wolf, armed with an immense club, wore an ill-fitting uniform, which, in the darkness, made it look like his head was plopped on top of a shapeless mass. His small, pinched eyes, peering through spectacles, showed red in the lamplight. A leather helmet, perched precariously on his head, tilted so badly over his left ear that it threatened to fall off at any moment. The overall effect, Helga thought, was more ludicrous than sinister. But that calming assessment did not change the fact that she stood in a line of chained slaves, with whip-lashing thugs behind and a well armed Wolf in front.
“Who on earth is that,” said Christer, stifling a laugh.
“It’s no laughing matter,” one of the Pogwaggers replied. “That’s a Club Wolf sentry boat—one of the Norder Wolf patrols that keep unwanted notice away from their tidy little trade in slaves.”
Bro-Butt pulled a small metal flask from his coat pocket and gave it to the Wolf, who took a couple of long draws, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform, and belched. “BUUURRCHUTUP—BUZZCHUPTT!” Smiling happily, the Wolf put the cork back in the flask and dropped it into his uniform pocket. “How there, frippers! I’ll whistle you up a Skimmer, now there!”
The Wolf gave a low, warbling whistle, which had hardly died away when—WHOOOSH! Just off-shore, pine knot torches were touched with a match and burst into flame. The sudden blaze of brilliant light came from a long, grimy barge gliding in from the lake.
Helga’s eyes involuntarily winced at the sudden blaze of brilliant light, but she soon adjusted and was astonished at the odd-looking boat coming in to tie up. Two immense, rough-looking Wolves, each leaning on a ferry-pole, were guiding what appeared to be a filthy freight wagon made into a boat. Huge, oversized wagon wheels—perhaps 10-feet in diameter—made the boat seem smaller than it was.
Each of the Wolves appeared to be about as thick through the chest as they were broad at the shoulders. Their exceptionally long noses pushed out amidst scraggly, matted, dirty beards that hid virtually every other facial feature. One of the Wolves, with a beard showing the deep reddish-tan of youth, stood near the right front of the skimmer. The other Wolf, poling the barge from the rear, had a greasy beard, iron-gray with age. Dressed in similar dingy blue shirts and butternut overalls, the Wolves’ rough, untanned lizard-skin belts held every kind of knife. Glistening-sharp hatchets hung from shoulder slings.
“’Ow much butter ya got there, good Bro-Butt?” the iron-gray Wolf hailed as the barge landed.
“Five, Stench—and every o’ of them muscle n’ not a lick o’ trouble,” Bro-Butt replied. “Well, that is, except for one,” he continued, pointing to Helga, “now that Wood Cow there, why, she’s born a likely Tilk Duraow runner! Why, the dragons’ll run like they’ve never run before with her as bait. She’s got blazes in her and when she lets loose—she’ll run like a mad beast!”
“Yee-Gad! A Tilk Duraow runner!” Stench gloated. “What a fine lot o’ butter you’ve brought us this time, Bro-Butt! Yee-Gad! If the Dragon Boss really takes her for a runner, she’s worth a fortune!” Smacking his lips, the older Wolf looked Helga up and down with his wild, cunning eyes. “Yee-Gad! A Tilk Duraow runner in our very own skimmer, Reek! Why, think of it!” he laughed, snapping his fingers at the younger Wolf. “We never transported a runner before—it’s the cargo of a lifetime!”
“Tam-Yap!” Reek snickered. “We may not have a lot of slaves to sell—like the crew of sea-beasts the Wrackshees just brought into the Butter Dock, but they don’t have a runner! I saw the whole crew of ’em and not a one of them that could run with the dragons.”
“What sea-beasts?” Helga exploded. “What crew of sea-beasts are you talking about?” Helga, in a fury, struggled against her chains again, and again brought the lash down on her.
“Quiet, Wood Cow!” Bro-Butt warned. “Too many more words out of you and you won’t get the chance to be a runner. You’ll be sent straight to the Death Cliffs at Tilk Duraow. They go through a dozen stone-cutters a day—minimum.”
Helga was not deterred, however. “What sea-beasts?” she demanded again. “What ship’s crew has been taken by the Wrackshees?”
“Why that would be the Daring Dream,” Reek snarled. “A fine crew of strong, hardy beasts from the Far Aways. They’ll do fine as stone-cutters on the Death Cliffs—why the crew’s big enough to give probably a couple week’s supply—Har-Yat-Har!” he chuckled with a cruel smile.
Several Rummer Boars set about pushing the captives to board the skimmer. The Rummers loaded the captives and tied them securely to poles that circled the skimmer’s deck. Once the captives were securely tied, the Rummer guards slumped down on the deck to rest and take a few spits of grog, while the Wolves poled the barge out onto the Ocean of Dreams. In a few hours, the skimmer would unload the slaves at the Butter Dock beneath Port Newolf. From there, the captives would join the other slaves awaiting sale. Soon after the slaves reached the Butter Dock, a Rummer Boar fleet was expected to arrive at Port Newolf, laden with trallés looted from the rich cargo ships plying the Great Sea.
Trallés, huge high-domed tortoises, were highly-prized among the wealthy class as sporting mounts. Every rich trader and merchant had a stable full of the finest trallés that could be bought. All manner of mounted sports relied on trallés and no wealthy beast who yearned to be noticed in highest society could do without a first-class trallé stable. The bazaar in Port Newolf anxiously awaited the regular visits of the Rummer fleets. A pack of dubious merchants made vast fortunes trading in the shadows where trallés bought slaves to cut stone for the High One’s great project of building Maev Astuté. In the black trade of trallés and slaves where no one could be trusted, the High One’s rule was that no one got paid until all were paid. Rummer Boars were the sureties in this system—shepherding the flow of trallés and slaves through the dealers, and the gold into every waiting dark pocket along the way. When asked once about the line of work he was in, the greatest Rummer Boar of them all, Sabre Tusk d’Newolf, is reported to have replied, “Accounting—just say we’re accountants, keeping all the pluses and minuses correct and making sure everyone gets paid—including us! HAR-HAR-HAR!”
Bro-Butt watched the loading work with a satisfied look. His pockets would soon be full of gold. Slaves delivered to the Butter Dock and the arrival of the Rummer fleet, would lead to various transactions in Port Newolf, all monitored in the efficient, thugging manner of the Rummers. When all was complete, Bro-Butt’s Rummers made their way back to Snuck’s Ear with payment for him and his brother. Ah, the delightful world of successful commerce! Smiling happily, Bro-Butt watched until the skimmer and its cargo had faded into the darkness of the Ocean of Dreams.
Turning away from the Club Wolf drawing on his flask of grog, Bro-Butt picked up his oil lamp, and laughing gleefully at his success, headed into the passage leading back to Snuck’s Ear. “YAH-HAR-HAR—YAH-HAR-HAR-HAR!” In the stillness of the great cave, the rough laughter echoed back down the passage and across the Ocean of Dreams for several minutes. How much more the echo, when, sometime later, the passage collapsed upon him, an entire section of rock sliding forever forward, crushing everything in its way—forever sealing both his fate and the slaving passage from Snuck’s Ear to the Ocean of Dreams.