“I’m alive, got all the Slug Beer I want, and have prospects I didn’t have yesterday. Seems like it’s not too bad so far,” Reek snorted.
As Reek and Stench talked, the caravan plodded on its way, passing through the broad, open country leading gradually into the foothills of the Don’ot Mountains. Just as the sun began to fall towards the peaks of the distant mountains, word passed that the caravan would make camp for the night.
Chaining the slaves, in groups, to trees near the campsite, the travelers made campfires and began to cook their simple meal of Whack-Beans, Pot-Smashers, and more Slug Beer. Darkness came quickly once the sun dropped behind the mountains and within a couple of hours after eating, the caravan-beasts were curled in their heavy blankets, feet toward the fire, fast asleep. Although trallé caravans were favorite targets of Borf raiders, the caravan mounted no watch, since Borf attacks were never carried out so close to Port Newolf, but only in the areas much closer to the Borf homelands. Stench and Reek, like the other caravan-beasts, fell into the heavy sleep associated with drinking plenty of Slug Beer. Except for the frequent popping of gassy exhaust from the Whack-Beans, the camp settled into peaceful slumber.
Wicked’s Cove
Not far from where the trallé caravan was encamped, however, another party of travelers was approaching. The second group of travelers were a curious sight: there were nearly fifty of them, and except for three adult seabeasts, the rest were young Squirrels and Coyotes, perhaps ten or eleven years old, all of whom had painted, notched ears, and wore low, flattened hats. Adding to the curious appearance of the travelers was the fact that the young beasts were riding, two-by-two, mounted on huge, ferocious-looking monitors! Immediately behind the mounted young beasts walked Red Whale, Fishbum, and Katteo Jor’Dane.
Reginald, filled with endless good humor and reckless energy, had carried the seabeast comrades far down the rocky reef, to a small cove called Wicked’s Sport. “SHNORCKT-SNOOZZCHT! YOU’LL FIND ALL THE HELP YOU NEED AT WICKEDS,” Reginald had said. Sure enough, arriving at Wicked’s Sport, the three seabeast comrades were astonished: dozens of young Squirrels and Coyotes, all adorned with brightly-painted, notched ears, engaged in what appeared to be a unique kind of play—riding massive, terrifying monitor lizards on the beach!
Riding—standing up—on the backs of monitors, completing flips while riding, jumping, with twists and somersaults, from one monitor to another—the skill of the young beasts amazed the comrades.
“THESE ARE BORF NOCKS—YOUNG BORF—SCHZZOOZZSHORCKT!—OOOO, SORRY ABOUT THAT, SOMETIMES CRAB GUTS GIVE ME GAS! ANYWAY—SCHZZOOZZSHORCKT-PFFUZOTTT-SCHZZZOOZZZSHORCKT—OH, MY, THAT WAS A DOOZIE! NOW, AS I WAS SAYING—TO SURVIVE IN THE ROUGH WORLD OF THE BORF, YOU’VE GOT TO BE STRONG AND SMART. IN THE WILD COUNTRY WHERE THE BORF LIVE, NO STRENGTH, NO SMARTS, NO LIVE LONG—SNOOORCKT! SO THE NOCKS ARE SENT DOWN HERE TO GAIN STRENGTH AND SMARTS WHILE THEY PLAY! IF YOU ASK THEM FOR HELP—SCHZZZOOZZZ—SHORCKT-PFFFFUTTT-ZOO SCHZOOZZSHORCKT—SORRY THERE OLD SPOT, PARDON ME—THEY WILL BE GLAD TO HELP YOU, I’M SURE.”
“Are there no adults here?” Red Whale asked.
“OH YES,” Reginald replied, “THERE’S ADULTS HERE—LOOK UP ON THE BLUFF OVER THERE.” He pointed to the high ground above the beach where a group of adult Borf could be seen running furiously and tossing large nets at each other.
“WICKED’S COVE IS A SECRET RETREAT FOR BORF NOCKS AND ADULTS LEARNING TO USE NETS IN ATTACKS ON TRALLé CARAVANS—SCHZZOOCKT—OOOOFFCONORCKT—OH, MY, IT FEELS LIKE I MAY HAVE OVERDONE IT A BIT TODAY, CARRYING YOU ALL AFTER SUCH A HEAVY MEAL—BUT, AS I SAY, BORF ARE MASTERS WITH NETS, BUT THEY COME HERE TO WORK ON STRATEGY AND SKILLS AGAINST THE CARAVANS.”
“How can they help us,” Katteo asked.
“ASK THEM TO MAKE A RAID ON ONE OF THE TRALLé CARAVANS THAT COME OUT OF PORT NEWOLF—SCHNORCHT—AH, THAT’S MUCH BETTER—RAID THE TRALLéS THEN USE THEM TO BUY YOUR MATES BACK—THAT’S MUCH BETTER THAN THE THREE OF YOU TRYING TO GET THEM BACK YOURSELVES—SZZZOOOOOCKT—I FEAR YOU’D END UP IN A MOST UNHAPPY CONDITION IF YOU TRIED THAT.”
Borf Raiders