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

th’a doin’t like it ine bit. Ya act like a thickwit again and ya wen’t bi sa lucky—mark my werds!”

No one could explain why the Wolf farmer’s comment had so affected the normally powerful and confident Monopole, although it was the subject of many whispered conversations as the caravan beasts worked.

Fifty-four monitors yoked in teams of two made up the caravan, connected one-after-another in a train. Carefully loaded to carry the maximum burden, each monitor had two packs of equal weight, and as similar in bulk as possible. The packs were lashed securely to sturdy wooden frames placed across the backs of each monitor team to further balance the load.

The monitors themselves took neither food nor water during the journey. Immediately before being yoked and loaded, the monitors were fed an immense meal. Huge hunks of shark were thrown into the monitor pens and a greedy frenzy took place as the monitors gorged themselves. The gruesome spectacle served the purpose of temporarily making the vicious creatures docile and sluggish.

As the feeding frenzy subsided, Dragonwackers lead the sleepy beasts to the caravan loading area and yoked up the teams. Then loading proceeded rapidly while the sluggish beasts dozed. Once the monitors’ stupor wore off, the caravan had to depart immediately. Once awake, the Dragons began looking for their next meal—and the ready scent of the Tilk Duraow runner at the head of the caravan was the means of getting the caravan moving.

 

A Rebel, an Untamed One

“She’s a likely looking runner,” the Monopole commented, “I’ll raise you ten.”

“Don’t let the strong looks of her legs turn your brain upside down,” Mudpot replied. “She’s a Wood Cow—strong as you like, and looks to be fast, that’s for sure—but a rebel to the bone.  She’ll be fighting the rope every step of the way. We’ll start with her, but mark my words—we’ll be replacing her before we make the Steep Crossing, and not because the Dragon’s get her either! This one’s a fighter like we’ve not seen in a long time. Them type’s get their freedom. You keep raising your bet and all you’re doing is giving me your money.” The Dragon Boss laughed. “So, come on, Colonel—raise me as you please!”

Colonel Snart considered the coin he was about to throw on the ground in front of Mudpot. As was their custom in the last few minutes before a Dragon Train left Norder Crossings on its passage to the Hedgelands, the Monopole and the Dragon Boss made bets about the likely fate of the various Tilk Duraow runners. Sometimes several runners were needed to complete the caravan passage to the Hedgelands—but now their attention was focused on the Wood Cow that Mudpot had selected to be the lead-off runner.

Mudpot, a jet black Weasel, was Boss of the Dragonwackers and a good judge of the runners condemned to lead the Dragon Trains. He had seen many a runner win freedom in the so-called ‘Feast or Freedom’ run—and many more end up as chow for the monitors. The Monopole, on the other hand, had never ridden a single mile with the Dragonwackers. The dirty, dangerous business of ‘running the Dragons’ repulsed him, although he liked the profits of the ‘tidy little trade’ as he called it.

“She can run like the wind,” the Monopole declared, throwing a coin on the cobblestone street before Mudpot. “A successful run of the Dragons requires speed, not obedience,” he continued. “It is your job to make sure she cannot escape. We are wagering on her speed and endurance, not your watchfulness and brains—if we were wagering on your care and intelligence, I would not be betting so much,” Colonel Snart laughed. “So long as you have her in a strong harness, so that she cannot break away, her only safety from the monitors is speed and endurance. She will be running for her life, not plotting an escape.”

So saying, he tossed another coin on the ground, casting a sarcastic grin in the direction of the beast being wrestled into a harness at the front of the monitor train. A crew of three burly Dragonwackers struggled to subdue and harness the thin and wiry Wood Cow. Groping for the harness fastenings, one of the Dragonwackers slipped on the muddy cobblestones and went down in a murky puddle. “FUUL! Cursi ya, Trash Cow!” the Dragonwacker yelled as he picked himself up, muddy water dripping from his leggings.

“Never mind the cursing,” Mudpot said, “it’s not words, but muscle that wins the day in this business.” Stepping forward, he added his force to the job of containing the wildly resisting beast. Taking a small key from his pocket, he locked the clasp that secured the chain harness.

“She’s powerful strong, that’s for sure,” Mudpot observed, returning to where Colonel Snart waited. “There’s no question about her endurance—but that gold-red sparkle in her eyes bears watching. She’s a rebel, an untamed one. She’s got more than speed. She’s got a will to break free—that’s what makes her a good runner. But it also puts the will of a demon in our midst. If she does not slip her harness or destroy us, this will be the fastest run of the dragons ever.”

“Speed is a risk,” the Monopole agreed, “but that cannot be helped. These infernal rains have put the caravan weeks behind. We will all be ruined—I will be ruined—if the monitor train does not make a fast crossing to the Hedgelands. The traders are like a pack of hounds at my back. If the caravan does not make the passage before the trallé traders have left, the Norder Crossings merchants will replace me as Monopole. Speed is a risk—but slowness is a bigger risk.”

Colonel Snart tossed a handful of coins at Mudpot’s feet. “There—that’s my wager on this runner, Mudpot,” he said. “My future as Monopole rides on the success of this run of the dragons. If I must bet my future and my fortune on the spirit of a demon, so be it.”

Mudpot bowed before the Monopole and scooped up the coins.

The key to a successful run of the dragons to the Hedgelands was speed. Once the monitor caravan was loaded and the monitors were fully awake again, the monitor train had to make the passage between Norder Crossings and the Hedgelands before the monitors grew ravenously hungry again. A skilled Dragon Boss knew precisely how to make the run to the Hedgelands with great speed. Mudpot was the best of them all. Stuff the monitors with shark, load while they dozed, then as they began to stir, set a swift—and tasty-smelling—runner at the front of the caravan. For the runners it was a chance to escape the fate of the slave works at Tilk Duraow. As the runner ran for life and freedom, the monitors raced after the scent of their next meal. The faster the runner, the faster the caravan traveled. If the runner was fast and strong enough to endure the grueling race, he or she might stay just ahead of the monitors all the way to the slave works and win freedom. Runners that faltered or stumbled became an impromptu snack for the monitors. A Dragon Boss wanted the fastest, strongest runner possible. A failed runner meant delay and other problems as the lead monitors snacked, and then turned sluggishly sleepy—while the rest grew dangerously restive. The delay could be even longer if replacement runners turned to “shakes and gibbers”—quivering piles of terrorized flesh unable to stand, let alone run. When “shakes and gibbers” struck it could hold up a Dragon Train for days while new runners were brought from Norder Crossings.

 

Godgie Stomp

As the monitor train departed, Helga, the Tilk Duraow runner in the lead, moved out fast, staying a healthy 2-3 feet ahead of the lead monitors. Snorting, hissing, long forked tongues flicking rapidly, claws clicking over the stones; the monitors rushed madly along at Helga’s heels. Despite their stubby legs, the monitors scuttled after her with surprising speed. Many an unfortunate beast had learned—too late—that monitors had lightning speed. 

The monitor train moved fast over the well-constructed caravan road, stopping for nothing. Mudpot, hunched forward in the Dragon Master’s seat above and behind the lead monitors, cracked a long whip furiously, urging them to the greatest possible speed. The reckless fury of the Dragon Master sent the monitor train weaving and lurching forward like an untamed wind.

“TEEA-CHT! YAHT! YAHT! TEEA-CHT! FLY YA SLITHER-BOBS! FLY! YAHT! YAHT” The long lash curled again and again, whistling through the air above the monitors before cracking loudly—just nicking the tail of each monitor on alternate lashes. The monitor train flew wildly down the road, rattling and clattering, careening around corners and sweeping through villages and towns—scattering beasts in the road to the right and left as they dived to safety.

The noise of an approaching monitor train emptied the streets of villages long before the monitors actually ran through. Mothers pulled their wee beasts away from the windows and slammed the shutters tight. Mudpot’s constant cries of “TEEA-CHT! YAHT! YAHT! TEEA-CHT!” mingling with the fearsome hissing and blowing of the monitors at the runner’s heels could give wee ones nightmares for many a day. And no beast wanted to be bitten by a monitor or, worse, lunch for the monstrous lizards. “PASS AWAY YAS’T FLEA-PICKERS! YAS’T BE OUTTA THE WAY OR YA’LL BE DRAGON FOOD! TEEA-CHT! YAHT! YAHT!”

Yet, as the monitors raced past, creating a terrifying spectacle with their hissing and Mudpot’s profane yells filling the air, even the mothers who frantically shielded their children peeked through cracks in the shutters. Frightened though they were, there was a fascinating attraction in the terrifying spectacle passing by.

The only thing a runner was supposed to do was run for life itself—and Helga ran as she had never run before. Mile after mile she sped along as if in an unbroken series of all-out sprints. Gasping, flushed, pumping the air with her arms—swilling a little saliva around in her dry mouth as if it were water—the hot breath of the monitors just at her rear. She stumbled at times, but never broke stride. It was twenty-three miles to the Hedgelands and only a wild-beast’s dash could save her.

At intervals along the caravan route, specially built water towers spewed wide streams of water across the road for twenty yards. Passing under these ‘water spits’ cooled off the monitors and the runner and let them get a drink without stopping. As the caravan plunged straight through the falling water, monitors flicked their tongues, pulling in water, and Helga tilted her head back to catch water in her mouth as she ran—and the dragon train splashed on without breaking pace.

Immediately after the second water spit, the caravan route cut through a range of steep hills. Gasping and blowing, arms pumping furiously, straining at her harness, Helga labored up the steep ascents and descents, desperately working to keep up the pace. A creeping fear grew within her that even the fearsome terror of the dragons hissing just behind her could not keep her going much longer. She knew that one of two things could happen. She could slow her pace and rest. That was suicide. She could keep running. That might be only postponing the inevitable.

“Please Ancient Ones”—the ragged words came out in gasps, “Help me—I must not stop. Help me run and run and run…” In Helga’s fear-laced imagination, the hissing of the monitors always seemed to draw nearer, nearer, nearer...Nearly delirious with pain and fatigue, she panted the same words with each breath: “run, run, run, run...” 

At last the caravan route left the steep, deeply cut land behind and the road broke out onto the Godgie Stomp Flats—a broad rocky plain, with scrubby vegetation, bordered by high