Helga: Out of Hedgelands, Rick Johnson [suggested reading txt] 📗

mused. By crawling a few dozen feet, then resting and listening for several minutes, then crawling another distance, he gradually moved down the river. He heard no signs that he was being pursued, and after about an hour of proceeding in this manner, Bad Bone stood up and began moving quietly from tree to tree.

He now moved quickly away from Thedford’s Crossing, although he stayed alert and watchful. Traveling into increasingly wild terrain, he kept moving in utmost stealth for several more hours. At last, judging that it must be the wee hours of the morning, and feeling a creeping sense of bone-weary exhaustion, he stopped to rest. He mounted a boulder-strewn slope, slumped behind a large rock, and was soon asleep.

Just as the first streaks of daybreak lightened the sky, a call awakened him. Instantly alert, Bad Bone leapt to a low, defensive crouch, eyes darting. Standing among the boulders on the slope above him, he saw three Borf scouts—instantly recognizable to him by their low, flattened hats. The two adult female Squirrels, and young male Coyote, wore the close-fitting hats which sloped down from the crown of the head with long flaps made of willow bark and grass woven together.  Only their painted ears—notched in traditional Borf style—were not covered. Familiar with the clan of wandering nomads, he circled his arm above his head in the customary Borf greeting. One of the Borfs stepped toward him and repeated the sign of friendship.

Bad Bone approached the party, turning his head to show a small notch cut from the edge of his left ear. He wished them to know that he had once lived among the Borf, and the ear notching was proof of that. Three years earlier, as a Climbing Lynx in training, Bad Bone had been assisted by a Borf raiding party.

A fierce clan of nomadic Squirrels and Coyotes, the Borf generally kept to their homelands in the wildest ranges of the Don’ot Stumb Mountains. Their bitter enmity with the High One, however, sometimes brought Borf raiding parties down to plunder royal caravans. Masters of stout cord nets, Borf raiders did not attack with deadly weapons. Relying on surprise and overwhelming numbers, Borf raiding parties swept down on hapless caravans encamped for the night. In seconds, dozens of nets were tossed across guards and any other resistance. Taking the plunder they sought—trallés—the raiders escaped into the darkness.

Despite their fierceness, Borf raiders were essentially peaceful. Their style of attack was extremely successful and, so long as they were not pursued, the frightful tangles of net they left behind were the only harm they caused to those they attacked. Let any beasts set off in pursuit, however, and they would encounter skillfully made traps of every sort. Many a Skull Buzzard had found himself hanging upside down by one leg—victim of a hidden rope trap. Borf raiders were so skilled that capturing them was nearly impossible. Although the High One grumbled at their thievery, he couldn’t enforce his will in the rugged, lawless Borf lands. The losses were accepted as a cost of the trade in trallés—the ‘tidy little trade’ that Fropperdaft and his brother carried on.

While on his first mission as a Climbing Lynx, Bad Bone was camped high in the mountains when his cook fire exploded. The inexperienced Lynx had chosen porous, water-soaked rocks as a bed for his fire. Water in the rocks, turning rapidly into steam, could not escape, and the stones exploded. Shards of stone and pieces of iron pot flew everywhere, hitting Bad Bone in several places. A Borf raiding party attracted by the explosion found him lying unconscious, seriously injured.

From times long past, Lynx had served the High Ones in positions of highest trust and on missions of utmost importance. The Borf, on the other hand, hated the High Ones and all that served them. The Borf were not a cruel folk—far from it. Fierce toward the High Ones and sworn enemies of the slave trade they carried on, the Borf were friendly and compassionate toward all others. They carried the badly injured Lynx to their camp and nursed him back to health. During the several weeks of his recovery, Bad Bone was accepted as a member of the clan.

As he approached the Borf raiders now, his sign of greeting, the ear notching, and his friendly attitude were enough to assure the party of his good intentions. Dropping the nets they held at the ready, they embraced Bad Bone in welcome.

From the many freshly-killed lizards and snakes tied to the poles they carried, Bad Bone recognized that this was a small hunting party. Knowing that the main Borf encampment must be nearby, he asked to accompany them to their camp. The Borf readily included him in their party and they set off, the oldest female leading the way. After a half-day’s hike further down the river, a larger party of about sixty Borf appeared from all directions, surrounding Bad Bone and those conducting him. Accompanied by friendly clan beasts, and familiar with the customary show of over-powering force, Bad Bone gave the sign of greeting and advanced toward the Coyote he assumed to be the leader. Reaching him, he turned his head once again to show his ear notch. Joyfully, the Borf chieftain stepped close and pressed his own notched ear against Bad Bone’s—affirming friendship with one accepted as a brother.

After this show of acceptance, the Coyote—Borjent by name—motioned to several Squirrels. “Tell the folk that our old ‘Friend from the Biting Fire’ has returned. Roast the lizards! Prepare a feast!” The Borf went off at a dead run to inform the others to prepare for their arrival. Soon the entire party also set out for the main encampment.

When they reached the camp, Bad Bone was ushered into a makeshift brush hut and seated on green boughs and tanned snake skins. Renewing his acquaintance with many Borf he knew from his earlier visit, he laughed until his jaws hurt. Many small Borf crowded around, eager to see the beast who had been ‘bitten’ by the fire and had iron in his knees. Bad Bone entertained the wee ones with stories of many of his other adventures as a Climbing Lynx.

As the sun approached its setting, a meal was offered. Bad Bone enjoyed gnawing the meat of several spiny-horned lizards, roasted on skewers, with wild carrots and onions. Cakes of wild berries, meal and cherries followed. Cold water washed down what he pronounced “a hearty meal worthy of the many years I have waited for it!”

When the meal was over, Bad Bone strolled down to the river with Borjent. He learned that Borjent was the son of Borswen, the Coyote chieftain Bad Bone had grown close to during his first visit with the Borf. “My father died a year ago, “ Borjent related. “A royal caravan was taking a large number of trallés to deal with a slave trader by the name of Milky Joe. The High One buys slaves to build his castle—paying for them in trallés.” He paused, eyes flashing with fearsome anger as he gazed across the river. “The Borf hate the slaving. When we can, we raid the caravans and steal the trallés.” He paused and a hint of a grin passed over his face. “When our raiders attack a trallé caravan,” he continued, “we hit them with such surprise that the attack is over before they can resist.”

Demonstrating the throwing of nets with arm motions, the Borf leader explained how royal caravans were plundered. “After the guards are trapped in nets, other nets, especially for the purpose, are rolled out and the trallés loaded on them. Then, the trallés are quickly carried off by runners bearing the nets. My father loved running with the trallé carriers—but he wasn’t as strong as he once was, and his heart failed him on that raid.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bad Bone responded. “He was a great leader and a dear friend.”

“He gave his life for the cause of justice,” Borjent replied. “That’s how I remember him—and why I now run with the trallé carriers myself. Every caravan we plunder is one less serving the High One’s hellish project.”

“Why do you sell trallés?” Bad Bone asked.

“You know we are a simple folk,” Borjent replied.  What need do we have for trallés? Only the wealthy want them. They’re useless to us. But why stand by while beasts are enslaved to build a worthless tomb for a tyrant? Our raiders are brave, we can free some doomed beasts...On the frontier of law and disorder the High One’s nice rules don’t apply. There’s some wild and unsavory places—dubious bazaars where slavers sell to anyone who pays the going rate in trallés.” Borjent paused, a smile spreading across his face. “And the raiding is sport for us! What better fun than ruining the High One’s cursed trade?”

Bad Bone’s mind was reeling. So much came into focus. So many things understood in a flash—The Hedgies carrying up their ‘sacred stones’ but not actually building Maev Astuté...The sacred climb reserved for Hedgies, but the actual building work being beneath their station...With so many workers needed to build the Crowning Glory, where did they come from? Now Bad Bone knew the answer.

He was silent for a time. At last he inquired if Borjent knew a safe place to cross the river. From Bad Bone’s viewpoint, the river was still too dangerous to cross safely. The Borf homelands were in the mountains on the other side of the river, however, so they must know how to cross.

“A half-day’s march further downstream, it joins another river—the Sar Jeeves—twice as large,” Borjent replied. “Where the rivers merge, they cross a level plateau known to us as the ‘Confusion of Hopes.’ The Bor Jeeves splinters into many smaller streams that twist and meander as they flow into the larger river. The Bor Jeeves stops being an impassable torrent, and becomes a multitude of small, gently flowing streams. For the traveler, the long dangerous river appears to be tamed. At the beginning, the countless streams all look promising, as if they will take you somewhere if you follow them in a boat. Most of them, however, flow into bramble thickets and rock-choked channels that cannot be floated in a boat. But, if you ignore the hope of riding in a boat, the confusion of streams can be crossed. That is the way to our homelands.” Drawing many wavy lines on the ground to represent the rivers coming together, he piled large stones on one side to show the steep mountains where the Borf lived. Drawing a straight line across the wavy ones into the pile of stones, he concluded, “In those mountains, beyond the junction of the rivers—we live in plenty, safety, and peace. You are welcome among us.” The Coyote chieftain pointed toward the horizon where his clan lived.

Bad Bone made no reply, but only gazed into the distance where Borjent pointed. “Come with us,” Borjent urged. “You can be one of us. Our folk love you. We could use someone with your climbing skills in our raids. You would have no more worries about the High One...instead, you would be a worry for him!”

Bad Bone again was silent. His thoughts were busy, and his heart full. The offer was tempting. He liked the Borf and he relished the idea of avenging the wrongs the High One had done to Helga and her friends.

“Why does the High One not pursue you?” he asked at last. “If you raid him continually and steal his trallés, why does he not send Royal Patrol Buzzards to destroy you? He has enough, I should think...” Bad Bone was genuinely puzzled about details of Borjent’s story. “The Borf lands are still within the Forever End,” he continued. “You