“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.”
A Dragonwacker’s Work
Rain at Norder Crossings was never normal. At Norder Crossings it rains like a dam has broken and the lake dumps on the unfortunate beasts below. But this time the rains were especially bad. Rivers were so swollen that caravans could not cross. Bridges were destroyed. Roads washed away. The very important monitor train to the Hedgelands was so long delayed that many merchants and traders were facing ruin. When at last the sun shone after weeks of rain, every merchant in town was in the market square at dawn, pushing and haggling for all he was worth. Everyone was making up for lost time; each moment precious.
Ankle-deep water still filled the streets in some places. Colonel Snart, Monopole of the caravan, slogged along, making final checks of the monitors being loaded.
“That knot won’t get any tighter if you pull on it another week,” he fumed as a weary Wolf fumbled to secure the ropes holding packs in place on a monitor’s back. “Give it to me! I’ll pull it tight—you get over there and help Raskin load those barrels on the wagon. You pull your weight you bumbling idiot, or you’ll be carrying packs just like the monitors.” The tired, cold Wolf bowed to the Monopole and backed away with head bowed.
“We pull out in an hour!” Colonel Snart yelled after the Wolf, loudly enough to be heard all along the line of beasts working feverishly to load the monitor train. “Any more delays and we’ll miss the last of the Trading Days—if that happens, more than a few of you will be breaking rock at Tilk Duraow!”
The impact of the threat was immediate. All along the line beasts increased the speed of their frantic efforts to ready the monitor train for departure. No beast wanted to be sentenced to the slave-works at the Granite Hulks of Tilk Duraow. There, slaves broke and cut rock that was used to build the great castle of Maev Astuté. It was dangerous, often deadly, work. A troublesome beast could easily find himself swinging in a rickety basket at a dizzying height above the ground sawing huge pieces of granite loose. Without warning, chunks could break away and knock the unfortunate beast to the rocks far below. It was an unpleasant business.
Slurrp! Slosht! “Ahhhh, that’s better.” Coming from behind him, the sound caught the Monopole’s attention. A young Wolf sat on the open tailgate of a wagon pouring water out of his boots and wringing water out of his soaked trouser legs. Seemingly unaware that anything was amiss in what he was doing, the good-humored Wolf hummed a song as he tried to dry himself.
Oh the rains are wet and me boots overflow—
A-me-a-my-hum-me-de-me
Me field’s awash and I’m growin’ gills—
Alas, me potatoes are drownin’
A-me-a-my-hum-de-me-de-me—
KA-CHUNK! Colonel Snart whacked the Wolf across the head with the blunt end of his pike.
“Get on with it!” the Monopole screamed at the poor, confused Wolf. “Load the packs, you empty-brained sluggard!”
“Now, I’ll be beggin’ your pardon, lord,” the Wolf replied. “I’m not bound to your cargo, nor likin’ the thanks you gave me for my business. I’m a farmer, not your personal puncher-beast. I bought my goods from Mr. Peets, as I assume you’d be glad I did as he pays your wages. So, I’ll be pleased if you’d leave off with beatin’ on me head!”
“Get your sluggard bottom off of my wagons, if you’re not a caravan beast,” Colonel Snart responded coldly. “That will be my thanks for your business—you’d best be thanking your own good luck that I did not split your skull. Mr. Peets’ affairs are Mr. Peets’ affairs—and as there’s no other place to buy what you need, I’m sure you’ll be keeping your complaints to yourself. Now, move your sluggard bottom off of my wagon.”