Join the Crew of the Daring Dream
“Stand up and get moving!” Stench commanded roughly, pushing Helga and the other captives toward the quay.
A stoutly-built, but flabby Wolf stepped out of the shadows, taking his place at the end of the dock, where the rows of Skull Buzzards ended. The Wolf’s florid face shone with oily perspiration as he leaned on his thin cane. Tapping his hightop boot on the dock, he waited impatiently for the captives to unload.
“Hallo, there, now! Step it up! Pipe the Butter, Fetor!” the Wolf called angrily. “The Butter Dock is packed jowl to elbow and most of them are near moldy and rotten! We’ve been a-waitin’ days for this load! We gotta get moving!”
A second Wolf, one-eyed, completely bald on top of his head, and so short and stubby that he hardly reached the waist of the other, stepped forward. Despite his pint-size, Helga could see that he had a king-size attitude as he walked down the line of Skull Buzzards. An evil smirk played across his crooked mouth as he licked drool from his lips and spat it on the polished boots of the Skull Buzzard Commander as he passed by. Reaching the line of captives, he raised a flute to his lips and began playing a marching tune. As the group of captives followed the piper between the Skull Buzzards, the Buzzards swatted each captive on the backside with the flat of their swords, keeping time with the music.
For their part, Stench and Reek smiled at the successful unloading of yet another cargo of butter for the High One. “Ah, ’tis such a shame about Bro-Butt, ain’t it Reek?” Stench said with feigned sorrow.
“Aye and Alas, Stench—a mighty terrible pity, ’tis, and that’s the truth. Why, no more butter slidin’ through that tunnel ever again, I’d reckon. Looks like we’re outta business on that way a doin’ things. Yep, ’tis a most terrible, awful shame. Boo-Hoo and Hoo-Boo.” Reek pulled an exaggerated face and let out a small sniff as if he were crying.”
“Now don’t you go bawlin’ like some little tyke, Reek,” Stench chuckled. “Why, now that we’re done sobbin’ over Bro-Butt, and we’ve got all this gold in our pockets, I think we ought to just step on upstairs into Port Newolf and look around for some new pickin’s. I’m thinkin’ we might want to buy up some fine trallés and run a caravan out into the Norder Wolf Estates. I hear those wealthy Norders will pay outrageously for a top trallé—one good run with trallés, and we could be sittin’ pretty for a long time.”
Reek’s head bobbed in agreement and the two set about securing their skimmer to the quay. “Tie ’er up tight there, Reek. We’ll go up to the Port and buy us a few slaves and a load of trallés, then come down here and get the skimmer. With the Landrollers, we’ll ride right along in style while the slaves pull us along and carry the trallés. Yes, sir, it will be a fine new business for us.”
Having secured the skimmer, Reek and Stench walked up a long ramp running upward to the left of the quay. In a few minutes, they walked out into the bright sunlight of Port Newolf. Stopping briefly at the Skull Buzzard checkpoint, they then stepped out into the thriving port to seek their new line of work.
Helga and the other captives, however, were conducted down a long, broad train of stone steps leading away from the quay in the opposite direction, Fetor in front, piping away, and lines of Skull Buzzards to each side, swatting away with their swords. Despite the sting of the swords slapping her on the rear, Helga had to admit that the melody of the flute, while played poorly, was at least helped musically by the strong backbeat of the sword swats.
In just a few steps, the troop descended into a dingy, stinking chamber. Two massive iron doors, at least seven inches thick, stood open to admit them, with Skull Buzzard guards to each side. Helga gasped at what she saw: dozens of beasts standing nearly knee deep in water, each chained to rusty iron rings attached to the ceiling! Sea-beasts crowded together, packed on top of one another, pressed into the dismal, flooded, suffocating stench of unwashed bodies and molding clothes—Helga nearly screamed at the sight! Not a single breath of fresh air moved in the dreary chamber. Only beasts with hearts of steel could possibly endure in such a place.
“Welcome to the Butter Dock, Slime-bags,” Fetor announced. “Step right in and join the crew of the Daring Dream—they’ve been awaiting your arrival.” Fetor laughed, then continued, “But don’t get too comfortable because you won’t be here long. As soon as we get these lazy scum ready to go, we’ll be heading for Tilk Duraow.”
“You know of Tilk Duraow, I suppose?” Fetor asked with sly sarcasm. “Perhaps its considerable fame has reached your ears? Ah, yes, that great, magnificent, wide open, yawning abyss—that miraculous, glorious bottomless pit, from which come the precious stones to build Maev Astuté! How could your heart not burn to cut those stones?” A malignant smile played across Fetor’s odd crooked mouth, dripping with a constant flow of drool.
“Just imagine with me the immense iron buckets forever passing up and down on their rattling, clanking chains! The creaking and groaning of gears and pulleys! Ah, the music of it! And think of the armies of beasts like yourselves—working on those vertical walls of stone, nearly a thousand feet from base to top—reduced to the appearance of ants crawling upon the massive walls. Some crawl across those wondrous walls on spider-web like ropes; others on ladders lashed together many dozens of feet in length, warped by the distance—Oh! What a joy! And especially for those lucky beasties clinging to the blasting baskets! Hear them hammering, ‘Tap-Tap-Tap,’ as they drive an iron bolt into the solid rock to make a cavity for blasting powder! Then, who sets the powder and lights it? Why the beastie on the basket!!! Quickly now, light it, and, Heave Ho, get them out of the way! Maybe! HA-HA-HA-HO!”
Fetor paused, slowly wiping drool off his chin, brow furrowed, as if remembering something. “Ah, yes, I almost forgot—everyone gets to enjoy the blessings of Tilk Duraow. The female Wood Cow has been chosen to be a Tilk Duraow runner—so she won’t be going with you.” The Wolf turned to the Skull Buzzards and said, “You two take the Wood Cow to Norder Crossings—but watch her closely, I can see she’s a pack of trouble if you take your eyes off her—Heh-Heh-Heh—which is exactly why she’ll make a good runner.”
“I am not willing to allow her to go!” Christer exploded. “I demand to go in her place!”
“Willing, you say?” Fetor said, bemused. “The question is whether I am willing, my dear fellow, and, sad to say for your hopes, I am not willing to accept your offer of service.”
“You are nothing but a bald, musically untalented tyrant,” Christer remonstrated.
“It will be wiser not to criticize my music,” Fetor warned with a sarcastic tone. “Beasts with their feet in the chains I own do not have a very good record of correcting my playing—or in opposing me in any other way. I suggest you just settle down and enjoy the walk to Tilk Duraow.”
“And if I should refuse that kind offer?” Christer asked.
“In that case, I’m afraid I might have to prevail on your young female friend here to help me make you more reasonable,” the Wolf replied.
The icy note of warning in Fetor’s response was not lost on Christer. Glancing helplessly at Helga, he said, “Believe me, Fetor, I will do as you say, but only that I may one day hope to see you splattered across the rocks of your precious Tilk Duraow. Mark my words.”