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

“Yar, you fat-faced bullies,” a Wood Cow named Emil muttered under his breath as two members of the High One’s Royal Patrol passed. Although the climbers were packed together in line, another narrow lane ran along beside the climbers. This lane was reserved exclusively for the High One’s Royal Patrols. Others were forbidden to set foot in it. The Royal Patrols moved up and down the line, tossing those unable to continue off the edge. The harsh discipline was effective. The line kept moving.

The Royal Patrol stopped a few paces ahead. Emil shuddered as he looked over the Patrol. Skull Buzzards, recruited especially for their harsh and heartless manners, made up the elite Patrols. The fiendish Buzzards were not Hedgies. Not trusting Hedgies to guard him and enforce his will, the High One recruited Skull Buzzard mercenaries from distant Crags. Infamous for their cruelty to those in trouble, the High Ones found them perfect for service in the Royal Patrols.

Emil’s eyes happened to meet those of the Skull Buzzard who wore the gold-braid insignia of a commander on the collar of his uniform. The Patrol leader’s face was thin and pale, his feathers grizzled, his eyes bloodshot. Deep, darkly-wrinkled folds of skin hung loosely in great pockets around his neck. Otherwise, Emil could see little of the Skull Buzzard’s body. The heavy winter uniform, issued for service above the snow line, was buttoned up tight against the cold. It covered so much of the body, with so many layers of weighty fabric, that the Buzzard walked stiffly.

An old Coyote had collapsed on the stairs, but had not fallen over the edge. He lay moaning piteously in the frigid wind. Uncontrollable shudders convulsed his body.

“There now, none of your whining shrieks here, Mr. Coyote, be off to your ancestors! It’s past your time! Come! There you go!” The large burly Skull Buzzards rolled the unfortunate Coyote toward the edge of the stairs with their boots.

Even in such dire circumstances, the line of climbers was not allowed to halt. Shuffling along in the line, Emil moved forward toward the spot where the Royal Patrol Buzzards were kicking the poor Coyote, who was now weakly begging for mercy.

“No, No, you lazy dog,” cried one of the Skull Buzzards, stomping his boot on the poor creature’s paw, which was grasping frantically to keep from sliding into the abyss. “The High Ones did not provide this Crowning Glory for you to whimper and complain! Arise and climb if you have worth. Go to your ancestors if you have none.”

The Skull Buzzard commander raised his boot to give one more decisive kick to the fallen Coyote, when Emil, passing by in the line of climbers, stepped out of line and cried ‘No!’ in a voice that echoed even above the howling wind.

“What?” roared the Royal Patrol Commander, turning savagely round.

“No!” Emil thundered again, stepping forward into the forbidden Royal Patrol lane.  “I command you to stop.”

“Stop?” cried the Skull Buzzard, with a derisive sneer.

“Yes!” shouted Emil.

Puzzled and confused by the unexpected opposition, the Royal Patrol Commander stepped back from the whimpering Coyote, giving his challenger a frightful look.

“Leave him alone!” repeated Emil, moving forward to protect the Coyote. “I will not allow you to torment and kill this helpless creature.  I defy you. Touch him at your own peril. But I give you quarter if you leave him to me, which is better for all.”

The Royal Patrol Commander continued to gaze upon Emil, his eyes narrowed in dangerous hatred and contempt. But traces of confusion and astonishment also flickered across his face. A Royal Patrol had never before been challenged.

“Leave this poor wretch to my care,” Emil said. “You have shown no qualities that lead me to believe you know how to care for anyone. Leave him to me. I will carry him to shelter.”

“Get back in line!” screamed the Skull Buzzard, almost beside himself with rage. At the same time, he seized the Coyote, who had crawled somewhat back from the edge, and pulled him back.

“Yar, you greasy-beaked thugs, touch him at your own risk!” thundered Emil fiercely. “I will not stand by and see it done. I have courage enough to send you to your ancestors!  See if you dare to test the determination of a Wood Cow!”

“What is this,” sneered the Royal Patrol Commander, “the lowest, most despised and contemptible scum of the Hedgelands speaks of courage? Please forgive me if I laugh.” The Skull Buzzard’s laugh, however, was noticeably hollow. He clearly did not know what to make of his surprisingly determined challenger.

“Your cruelties give me no reason to pity you,” Emil roared, springing upon the Royal Patrol Commander, knocking him soundly across the eyes with a powerful blow from the whole of his lower arm. The blow carried the concentrated force, in one instant, of all the rage that many Hedgies had long felt toward the High One and his Patrols.

The Royal Patrol Commander crumpled, unconscious, falling toward the edge of the yawning abyss. His companion leaped toward him, striving to halt his fall from the sheer cliffs of Star’s Door Peak.

Grabbing his companion tightly, struggling to halt the inevitable, the second Royal Patrol Buzzard too late realized that he, too, was sliding toward the edge. “TEEEAAAAH!” The long shriek sounded as the two members of the Royal Patrol fell, locked in embrace, to the rocks below. Even a powerful Skull Buzzard could not use his powers of flight in the heavy winter uniforms of the Royal Patrol.

The climbers all along the line halted simultaneously, as if a single thought surged through each creature at the same instant.  They moved not—the first occasion in the ‘remembered times’ when the stair-climbing line had halted.

“Yar, you fat-faced thugs of Mae Vasuté!” Emil bellowed loudly, sending a final insult after the defeated Royal Patrol. Heaving and shaking with rage, he screamed into the wide emptiness into which the Royal Patrol had plummeted. “You’ll not be tossin’ any other fine creatures over the edge! You’re going to tell ’em you’re sorry—face-to-face!” Leaping full-force, Emil stamped on the Royal Patrol Commander’s hat, which had fallen off in Emil’s violent attack. Then he gave it a ferocious kick over the side of the stair.

“Yar, you miserable yellow-eyed brutes! You’ll not be forcing these poor creatures to shuffle mindlessly up the stairs, carrying rocks to build a castle that’s already too big for any good purpose!” Emil shouted, lost in his frenzied rant. At last, remembering his fallen friend, Emil knelt by the Coyote to attend to his needs. Finding barely a pulse, Emil gently picked the Coyote up in his brawny arms. Turning in the opposite direction of the climbing line, Emil stepped into the Royal Patrol lane—making his rebellion complete—and began carrying his friend back down the mountain.

A deep hush fell over the climbers. A creature had attacked the Royal Patrols. Two of the High One’s elite officers lay broken across the rocks far below. It was unprecedented. The High One would be very disturbed about this.

The Order Disturbed

Fropperdaft Hafful TaTerribee VIII, Ancient Order of Reprehense, 3rd Degree; Lord Reckoner of Heights; Most Eminent Swellhead of the Keepers; Baron Sheriff of the Forever End; Peerless Berzerker of the Crowning Glory; Grandee of Maev Astuté; and High One of all Hedgelands; was wealthy in the things of the world and a creature of the world’s thoughts. He fancied himself a philosopher, astronomer, inventor, merchant, and monarch without equal.

A big, loud Wolf, with a haunting emptiness in his eyes—as if he were always deeply drugged—a metallic, mirthless laugh constantly accented his speech. He loved the finest brocades and velvets, yet was rarely seen in fine clothes. A tyrant without peer, his dungeons were eternally full. Behind the vacant look in his eyes was a brilliantly inventive mind. Often he solved wildly complex problems so rapidly that his thoughts were far ahead of his words. This was the reason for the apparent emptiness in his eyes—his mind was far beyond the present moment. At any given time, the High One’s thoughts might be entirely unrelated to what was actually happening around him.

The Throne Room of Maev Astuté reflected this quality of Fropperdaft. A spacious room atop a high tower of the castle, the Throne Room was unlike any other seat of royal power. From floor to ceiling the room was perfectly jumbled with books, ledgers, piles of parchment scrolls, and tools of all kinds. Pipes and hoses ran here, there and everywhere. Pieces of iron, piles of coal, and wood shavings covered much of the floor. A large fire burned in a massive circular fireplace in the center of the room. Open on four sides and supported at the corners with sturdy stone columns, the fireplace was attached to a massive bellows. Heavy hammers, a large anvil, tongs and other tools for working red-hot metal were arrayed around the fireplace. The purpose of the fire was more than warmth—it was a metalworking forge.

Although the Throne Room of Maev Astuté was mostly a combination of library, blacksmith forge, and workshop, it did also have a throne. Near the high windows at one side, a high golden throne served as the symbolic seat of royal authority. But, as often as not, Fropperdaft met visitors and held audiences while he continued tinkering on his inventions and experiments. His royal robes and crown usually hung askew on a hook in the corner, while the High One worked in baggy oil-spattered dungarees and a huge blacksmith’s apron. New visitors to the High One were wide-eyed in wonder when they first saw such an unorthodox Throne Room. But the whispered jokes and titterings had no effect on Fropperdaft. With sparks flying as he hammered red-hot metal and the bellows working loudly, visitors often had to yell to be heard as they consulted with the High One about important affairs of state. Fropperdaft’s mind was elsewhere than the day-to-day, mundane affairs of his realm.

How different was his brother. A year or two younger than his royal sibling, Colonel Snart looked older and wiser, perhaps only because the craftiness and intelligence in his eyes looked more promising. Unlike the long, wildly-curling hair worn by the High One, Colonel Snart had a short-clipped military haircut. He spoke with the affable good humor of a creature well-used to the ways of the world. The differences between the two were summed up by the food and drink they consumed as they talked. Fropperdaft ate nothing but the finest cheese and sweets that money could buy, and liked Rotter Wine by the glass. The Colonel took what he could get, where he could get it, but always refused to “eat better than my troops.” As he stood toasting a slice of mackerel sausage on a long fork over the fire, taking deep swigs of Frog’s Belch Ale from a pewter pot, two more unlikely brothers could not be imagined.

Their differences were nowhere more obvious than in their discussion. Colonel Snart was a military regular of sorts, posted to a remote outpost of the Norder Wolves. Many years ago, as an idealistic young adventurer, he had gone to help defend the Norder Wolves from attack and had stayed and become a citizen. Because of his relation to the High One, and a number of worldly dealers he had met in the course of his duties, Colonel Snart found a natural niche conducting a “tidy little trade,” as he termed it, between the Hedgeland and the Estates of the Norder Wolves. He was constantly seeking ways to improve the tidy little trade and was hoping to persuade his royal brother to help him.

“Esteemed brother,