“Now then,” the Boar said jocularly, picking flecks of food from his huge yellowed tusks with a long skinning knife, “looks like you’ve got a bit of butter to sell, eh?” Coming out from behind the counter, he slowly walked past the line of captives, poking each one here and there with the point of his knife to test the firmness of muscle. “Yep, looks like some mighty fine butter—they’ll bring a lot on the trallé market at Port Newolf. Just step out back and speak with Snuck and his brother, why they’ll fix ya right up and y’ll be on yer way.”
The Wrackshee guards motioned for Helga and the others to move through a door the Boar had opened at the rear of the groghouse. Stepping through the door, Helga and the others entered a dimly-lit warehouse with a low ceiling. Most of the room was stacked with crates, hogsheads, casks, and bundles of snakeskins. The room had an overpowering stench and Helga wished she could hold her breath. The naturally putrid smell of the Wrackshee guards now was mingled with a stale odor of sweating, unwashed beasts that hung in the air, although no other beasts were apparent beyond Helga her small group of fellow captives. Several long-decomposing barrels of spiced lizard guts leaked their contents into rancid puddles, adding their own gag-inducing stink. And, clinging to it all, the constant, oppressive stale smokiness.
Coming in at the front of the line of captives, Helga noticed that a lone figure dominated this most unpromising scene. Beneath an oil lamp hanging on the wall, stood a lone, muscular Wolf—faintly green eyes glinting out of an immensely hairy face, red cap pulled tight on the head, coiled leather whip and short rapier tied at the belt—the characteristic features of a Norder Wolf slave trader!
“Here ya go, Snuck, a prime lot of butter for ya,” the Wrackshee leader said, as the line of captives were herded toward the Wolf.
“Yes, looks like a very good lot, indeed,” the Wolf replied.
“Not a good bunch at all!” Helga said fiercely. “It’s a bunch that will sit on its haunches and not work a lick, nobody would want this pile of trouble, I assure you!” Helga yelled, straining against her bonds with all her strength.
Ignoring Helga’s outburst, the Wrackshee continued, “A high-spirited, strong beast, as you can see. Exactly what is needed at Tilk Duraow.” Turning toward Christer, the Wrackshee said, “And this fine young beast has sound muscle and bone and a lively eye—shows real potential.”
“Ain’t got no sense, no how,” Christer said stupidly, giving his most ignorant look to the Wolf. “Don’t know a lick about nothin’,” Christer went on, “don’t even know how to tie boot laces—and that’s the truth, fer sure.”
“And his leg only works right when he’s got Wigger’s Salve to rub on his bum leg,” Helga added, pointing to the leg Christer was now rubbing, as if it pained him. “And the last bottle of Wigger’s Salve I ever saw was years ago—No sir, no way he’s fit to cut stones—why he’s so weak, both in leg and brain, not to mention lazy and shiftless, why he’d be a danger to all the rest of your slaves!” Helga complained, giving Christer a look of profound disdain.
CRAAAAKKKK! A Wrackshee guard sent his lash down like a lightning bolt across Helga’s back. She winced but, instead of submitting, Helga threw a frenzied attack against the bonds that held her, dragging the entire line of captives this way and that as she tried to break free. CRAKKK! CRAKKK! The lash feel on her again and again, but with no effect, until at last she stopped. Breathing heavily, Helga yelled, “You’ll never make a slave of me—NEVER—and you’ll never take these other beasts into your hell-hole at Tilk Duraow either so long as I draw breath! You’ll never sleep a sound night’s sleep again so long as I’m alive!”
“Very nice speech, Wood Cow,” Snuck replied. “But, unfortunately, you are now, in fact, a slave and so are your friends. I’ll be staying right here, paying off your Wrackshee hosts, while my brother and his friends escort you to where you will join the other slaves. Then, why, there won’t hardly be time for you to blink and you’ll all be off for the slave works at Tilk Duraow—oh, except for you, that is.” Eyeing Helga slyly, the Norder Wolf continued, “Why, you’ve shown such strength and spirit—why, it was truly impressive the way you pulled things around! Just the kind of power and energy that they look for in Tilk Duraow runners! Yes, you’d be perfect for that!”
At that moment, a large rough timber door swung open at the back of the warehouse. A second Norder Wolf appeared, accompanied by several dangerous-looking, long-tusked Rummer Boars. “Well, Snuck, looks like you’ve got some nice fresh butter there—we’ll be glad to take over now.”
“O.K., you Slimeheads,” Snuck said, turning to the captives. “You just trot on over there by Bro-Butt—he’ll be your host from now on, until you get to Port Newolf.”
There was involuntary, suppressed laughter among the captives at the mention of the second Norder Wolf’s name. Snuck turned and gave the prisoners an evil smile. “Yes, laugh away, Slimeheads. My brother is my Butter Trader, so I call him Bro-Butt. Find that humorous if you want—I won’t deprive you of the last laugh you’ll have for a very long time. What’s going to happen to you next won’t leave you laughing.”
A Likely Tilk Duraow Runner