Dirt's Champions: Dirt, #2

By Paul Brockman

The living do not, in the normal course of events, fraternize with the dead—except on the planet Dirt, where the boundary between them is a lot more frangible.

With cunning and a stolen spell the grinfangs, Crum and Ampit, have broken the death barrier and unwittingly revealed its flaw. Though impervious to the most determined probing of fact-based science, their simple spell-casting has weakened the fabric of the boundary. They have also proved that the barriers of time and space that bind the living do not necessarily apply to the dead.

Something nasty is coming through to Dirt from a very nasty place via the Netherworld, where it's easier to move between worlds. Something ravenous. It eats souls. Able to feed on the force of the dead and the living with equal facility, it can destroy them all.

Jack Pepper's first encounter with the Beast convinces him that the best place to be is as far from the creature as possible. If only the Legion of the Dead hadn't tasked him with destroying the monster, he may have realized that ambition

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Brockman
• Release date: Mar 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466132276

Paul Brockman

Paul Brockman relocated from England to America in 1984. A retired aerospace engineer, he has written several novel-length stories, mostly in the science fiction and humorous fantasy genres, with an excursion into an autobiographical book about hot-air ballooning. These are currently available as ebooks. Brockman has relocated to Somerset, England

Book preview

Chapter one

Fog

A loud bang followed by a scream brought Crum upright in his comfortable chair, all comfort forgotten. He sighed as only a grinfang can. It sounded like a kettle coming to the boil. Whatever had made the noises down on the factory floor, Crum had no doubt that Ampit would be behind it. Crum had been meaning to speak to his partner about his unfortunate management style but he never seemed to get around to it. While the customers were buying hang gliders as fast as Crum & Ampit Industries could produce them it hadn’t seemed to matter. Lately, however, business had fallen off. Ampit’s habit of rending employees who slacked or took lunch breaks seemed to be having a detrimental effect on production. It started with the complaints. Unhappy customers began returning their purchases and demanding their money back. Some of them couldn’t come in person, of course, but many of them had relatives who carried the broken pieces of hang glider back to the factory and angrily pointed out the defects that caused the crash.

Quality was suffering and Ampit had begged to be put in charge of sorting it out. For a while he seemed to be achieving remarkable success. Employees labored with an unprecedented degree of enthusiasm with Ampit standing close behind them. After a while though Crum noticed a certain lack of industry during his rare visits to the factory floor. He couldn’t quite put his talon on it, but there was something missing. Then it came to him—people were missing. As the weeks passed there were fewer and fewer workers building hang gliders. What was worse, demand no longer exceeded supply. Crum spent less and less time counting his money and more and more time worrying about how to put the factory to rights.

Another loud noise—a clang this time—filtered through the walls of Crum’s small but well appointed office. Coming to a decision he uncoiled smoothly and padded toward the door. A narrow balcony ran around the interior of the building. Two steep staircases connected the balcony to the production floor. One began its descent immediately outside Crum’s office, and the other gave access to a sail loft that ran the entire width of the building at the opposite end. From the head of his steep and narrow stairway Crum looked down onto the open production area. Ampit was nowhere to be seen. Two unmoving men stood below and a third was frozen at the far end of the factory. All three stared as a swinging door rebounded after being flung violently open. Seeing Crum emerge from his office the three at once struck industrious poses. Two did mysterious things to pieces of wood that Crum was assured would soon become wing spars and keels for hang gliders. The third man bent to examine an almost completed aircraft. Only three men where just a few weeks ago a dozen had labored. The situation was becoming serious. Crum descended the staircase and headed for the open door.

Mister Crum? A slender individual Crum had never seen before rounded a large packing crate and approached the grinfang diffidently. Something about the fellow said, customer, so Crum stopped and smiled. The man also stopped, but he did not smile. Blood drained from his face. Nobody had ever told the grinfangs that the display of teeth they hoped would pass for a friendly smile could actually cause those of a nervous disposition to flee in bowel-loosening panic. This individual was apparently made of sterner stuff. He held his ground and waited.

I’m Crum, the grinfang confirmed. The man looked relieved.

Oh, good, he said, I was told to speak to mister Crum or mister Ampit. The other er… gentleman seemed rather busy, so I was hoping to speak to you. I’m Risik Fog and I’m hoping you can help me. I need some special hang gliders, you see, for a rather unusual task.

Crum could imagine what was keeping Ampit busy. He was probably chasing away another employee. Or possibly rending, which amounted to the same thing as chasing. Either way they never came back.

Tell me how many hang gliders you want, mister Fog, and I’ll get the men started on your order. I’ll want a deposit at once, of course, so I know you’re not wasting my time. It’s a good thing one grinfang knows how to talk to customers, Crum thought, or we wouldn’t have any. Fog hesitated for a moment and then began to speak, softly, as if he wasn’t sure of himself.

I’ll need two gliders, he began, tandem ones, but I wonder if you could fit them with lamps? We’ll be flying into a dark place, you see, and we probably won’t be able to see where we’re going. Not at the end of the flight, anyway.

Crum was taken aback. Lamps on a hang glider? He had never heard of such a thing.

Why don’t you just fly in daylight? he asked. Fog smiled nervously. He seemed reluctant to explain further, but relented under the grinfang’s stare.

Well, he continued, where we’re going, there isn’t any. Not much, anyway. You see, we plan to fly down into the Hole of Hoopum.

Crum was taken even further aback. In fact, he was staggered. He weighed the relative merits of telling this idiot to get out of his sight and stop wasting his time, against the possibility that he might lose a sale. Avarice won the day.

I see, he said, though he didn’t. Well, now—fitting lamps to hang gliders is a difficult business, you know. Very technical stuff. I shall need to consider this matter very carefully to discover whether it’s even possible. A feasibility study is called for. Now where had he picked up that expression? Jack Pepper, probably. I’ll let you know when the result is known. Just leave me a note so I know where to contact you. Good day mister Fog.

Fog seemed caught between hope and anxiety but he pulled a notepad from his pocket and scribbled on it. He passed the sheet to the grinfang.

Thank you, mister Crum. I leave the matter in your er, hands. He turned and hurried away, almost bumping into Ampit in the doorway. Ampit snarled. Fog broke into a sweat and a run at the same moment.

Calm down, Ampit. That’s no way to treat a customer, Crum told his partner. Potential customer, I should say. He eyed Ampit’s bloodstained talons. You’ve been rending the help again I see. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…

Don’t start with me, Crum, I’m having a bad day. First, the new batch of wood is no good, then the supplier we get the rope from won’t send us any more until they’ve filled an order with a schooner builder. As if that wasn’t enough, the help wants to join the shipbuilder’s guild. It’s not as though we build ships is it? I mean, what possible resemblance do our hang gliders bear to ships? That sort of thing has to be discouraged in the strongest possible terms, wouldn’t you agree?

Crum tried to count slowly and silently to ten before responding. He got as far as four.

You’re rationalizing again, Ampit. You just love to rend, don’t you? You just can’t stop yourself. You’ll keep doing it until there’s nobody left who will work for us. Jack Pepper warned me about you. 'Keep an eye on Ampit', he said. He can’t keep his claws off the help. Well, he was right…

Jack Pepper, Jack Pepper—that’s all I hear from you anymore. If he’s so wonderful, why don’t you make him your partner instead of me? Answer me that.

Crum’s eye-slits narrowed and his top lip curled in the beginning of a snarl. He was contemplating reptilicide again. Nobody would blame him. He would be doing them a favor. One less grinfang to contend with would be considered a desirable state of affairs in some quarters, and greeted with relief. The only thing that stayed his hand from the consummation of a long-held dream was the thought that he would be the only grinfang for miles around. There would be nobody left he could talk to, even if the talks were usually arguments. He resumed counting.

So, you had a customer while I was out. Suddenly becoming aware of his partner’s mood, Ampit attempted to steer the conversation in a new and safer direction. Crum arrived at ten.

He wants two tandem hang gliders, he announced, but he wants lanterns mounted on them so he can see where he’s going in the dark.

Ampit thought about that.

Why doesn’t he just fly in daylight?

"That’s what I said. You’ll never guess what the answer was."

Ampit blinked and waited.

"He said they, they, mark you, want to fly down into the Hole of Hoopum. Do close your mouth. Ampit—I can see what you had for breakfast, and it isn’t pretty."

Ampit’s mouth closed with a snap.

But that’s where they used to throw people who'd been condemned to death. Back in the old days. It’s so deep you can’t see the bottom. The light of the suns never reaches there. Why would anyone go down into that dreadful place on purpose?

Crum shrugged. "It’s not for us to question the motives of our customers, Ampit. We just have to figure out how to build what the man wants. Now, how do we build hang gliders with lanterns attached to them?"

Ampit looked blank.

I have no idea.

A discreet cough from behind them made the pair turn to find a besmocked individual with tousled hair and big ears.

Excuse me, sirs, but I believe I may be able to help.

Who might you be? Crum demanded. The man opened his mouth to speak but Ampit beat him to it.

He's Pilo Smek, our shop foreman.

I knew that, Crum snapped, embarrassed by his ignorance. Do you know how to make hang gliders with lamps on?

I think so, said Pilo, I may even have a way to keep them from bursting into flames in the event the hang glider should… how should I put it… crash. And perhaps they can be made to shine…

Build two, Crum ordered. This was the sort of thing he was good at—making executive decisions.

Chapter two

Pepper

Jack Pepper stood in a deeply shadowed portal and watched a disturbing scene unfold in the poorly lit street. A pair of powerful thugs dragged an elderly man through a doorway toward an enclosed carriage. When the reluctant oldster caught sight of the unmarked black wagon he redoubled his efforts to be free. His struggles were rewarded with a swift blow to the head with a heavy sap. He went limp immediately and was bundled unceremoniously into the waiting wagon. A third thug slammed and barred the door. The conveyance moved off even before the toughs had finished climbing onto the running boards.

Not for the first time Jack Pepper wondered what he was doing in this place. Already he missed the comfort of his tiny cabin—actually a storage locker—on the Boomer, but he owed a debt of gratitude to Captain Blight. Jack prided himself on always paying his debts.

I won't pretend this mission will be without it's difficultays, mistah Peppah, the captain had told him, but I believe you are equal to the task.

But I'm just a cook, captain. Why me?

Because I need someone who can evaluate the situation on the spot and set an appropriate course. You have demonstrated this abilitay, Captain Blight explained, and, not to put too fine a point on it—I have two cooks.

And so the truth came out. Jack had found himself agreeing to take on the job.

Look upon it as an opportunitay, mistah Peppah.

For an hour the captain had detailed the mission he wanted his senior assistant cook to undertake. All of which had scarcely prepared Jack for what had happened since the gig set him down on the starlit beach near—but not too near—the town of Frelsi on the western landmass of Gizemlia. Getting into town after slogging along the driftwood-littered beach, tripping and falling into decaying kelp more times than was good for his temper, had not been too difficult, but not a lot of fun either, and he was getting very good at slipping from shadow to shadow to avoid patrols. The guilds owned Frelsi and everything in it, including the Public Investigations Guild Security, the PIGS—the local secret police. They apparently ran a very tight ship. Nothing moved in or out of Frelsi without the knowledge and consent of the PIGS, except perhaps Jack Pepper, who could be quite sneaky when he put his mind to it.

When the black wagon turned a corner and disappeared, Jack stepped out of the shadows and moved on toward his destination, a tavern at the next intersection of streets. There were very few people about. Moments ago there had been none. The people hereabouts had apparently developed a finely-tuned sense that told them when the PIGS were abroad. They melted into the background until the way was clear and then reappeared as if by magic.

The sign above the tavern door depicted a snarling creature of myth with overlong fangs and curled horns. Jack assumed it was mythical. If not, he hoped never to meet one. There were no words on the sign but he had been told what to look for. This was the place. As he approached the door a man emerged, affording Jack a glimpse into the interior before committing himself to entering. Several people were seated at tables scattered about a sunken, sawdust-covered floor. Some had plates of food; all had cups of ale. The interior gave the appearance of being dimly lit, not by virtue of artful decoration, but because the owners were too cheap to buy more lanterns. The lack of bright lighting suited Jack very well. He entered and negotiated the few steps down into the gloom. In booths along two of the walls it was possible to make out seated figures, though their details were hidden. This was not going to be as easy as he had hoped. Jack headed for an apparently empty booth, turning aside at the last moment when he saw a dark-clothed man seated in its depths. The next booth was empty. He took a seat and removed his black hat, placing it on the table before him and turning it so the white marker set into its headband was visible to the room at large. Jack hated wearing hats. Some people seemed born to wear them. Hats made Jack feel conspicuous and uncomfortable and they made his head ache. He had decided to dispose of the silly black hat at his earliest opportunity. But not yet.

A server appeared at the booth. Jack had observed her approach. With a small tipping motion of his hand he uttered the single word,

Beer.

She nodded and moved off to fill the order. Jack deplored rudeness but dared not say too much lest his accent betray his foreignness. Two figures detached themselves from the shadow of a booth on the other wall and headed in his direction. One of them wore a black hat with a white flash in the headband. Without a word they took seats in Jack's booth. He slid along the bench to make room as one moved in beside him and the one with the hat sat opposite.

I bear good wishes from Tuzman, said the man opposite. It was the second signal.

And I from Shorty, Jack responded. The hatted one nodded. The server returned bearing Jack's beer. He reached for his coin but the silent man beside him was faster, placing a pair of bronze on the table. The server picked them up and departed. Jack replaced the two coins on the board. The silent one took them up. Jack had time for a single swallow from his cup before the two men stood.

Tuzman awaits, said the hatted one. Jack set his cup down regretfully and followed the pair to the door.

The trio emerged onto the street and turned at once to an alley at the side of the tavern where a flat-topped cart awaited. The hatted one motioned Jack to join him on the driver's board while his companion untied the horse's hobble and then climbed onto the bed of the cart. Taking up the reins the driver flicked them expertly and the cart began to move. Speaking neither to Jack nor to the shadows behind him the driver concentrated on his task. The cart moved steadily onward along the narrow street, deeper into the town. At this late hour the few people abroad went about their business in uncommunicative silence. Several minutes travel brought them to an intersection where an altercation was in progress. Two drivers were engaged in heated argument. A large handcart that had once been piled high with merchandise lay on its side, the erstwhile contents strewn about on the ground. A larger wagon, its forward axle missing a wheel, was slantwise across the intersection. The argument escalated to its next level when the smaller of the two contestants swung a vicious but clumsy punch at his opponent who responded in kind.

Jack's driver sighed and cast about for a way around the blockage. Seeing none he climbed down from the board and approached the fighting men. As he reached the belligerent pair several things happened at once. The fighters stepped nimbly apart and turned to the hatted driver, dropping him to the ground with swift and economical blows to his head. Jack felt the cart lurch and heard a soft thud behind him. Without delay he was hauled unceremoniously from the board and half dragged and half carried from the scene.

Wha... he began.

Be silent or be silenced! A voice hissed in his ear. Jack elected the former. What followed was something of a blur to him when he later tried to recall the chain of events. He remembered being hustled along a narrow path between looming buildings. He was thrown none too gently into a dark enclosure and ordered to keep silent. Someone joined him in the darkness but said not a word. So this is how my mission ends, he thought, and me too, probably He couldn't recall doing anything wrong. He had gone to the prearranged meeting place, given the right signals, and received the proper responses. Without warning it had all gone wrong. His contacts had been set upon and himself captured by the PIGS, and he had no idea why.

The enclosure began to sway and bounce with an irregular and uncomfortable motion and a loud rumbling roar that continued for a long time. Jack didn't suffer from motion sickness, usually. He was on the point of deciding that this might be the exception when the lurching stopped. The door was thrown open and a lighted lantern was thrust into the opening permitting him to see for the first time the nature of his surroundings. It was a carriage, of course, but not one equipped for the comfort of its occupants; little more than a bare wooden box with a previously unnoticed aperture for a window. Unnoticed because it had been covered with a dark cloth. The other occupant of the carriage stood and offered his hand to Jack who recognized him as one of the scrappers at the crossroads.

Come, he said, we have no time to waste.

Jack climbed unsteadily to his feet, accepting the offered assistance. He was urged out of the carriage into the night. He was no longer in the town of Frelsi, or any other town. He saw no buildings. Large trees loomed against a starlit sky. A confusion of men moved about, some of them bearing lanterns. For a short while Jack was left to wait in confusion. By lantern light two men were separating the carriage from the two horses that had drawn it. Four men then turned the carriage from the road and pushed mightily to get it moving. Once started the heavy wooden vehicle rolled on its own till it disappeared abruptly downward. Several seconds later there came a distant splash. Something large and smelling of horse appeared at his shoulder.

Mount! a voice commanded. Jack opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again. Now did not seem to be a good moment to explain that he didn't know how to ride. Instead he groped along the beast's dark bulk for a stirrup. Thinking it through one step at a time, engineer Jack attacked the problem. Having found what he believed to be a stirrup and set his foot into it, he felt for a saddle pommel or some similar handle to grasp. He was still so engaged when he was abruptly boosted upward. That he landed in the saddle facing the pointed end of the animal was due in no part to his own efforts. Someone took the reins of his mount and the beast moved forward. Another horse appeared beside his own and its rider spoke.

Trading passphrases now would be ridiculous, he said in a harsh voice. I know who you are. I am here to take you to Tuzman.

Chapter three

Salt

High in the Gizemlian hills the tiny country of Tuzlu prospered. It thrived because it had in abundance something everyone needed: salt. All anyone required to extract salt from the mines of Tuzlu was a bucket and spade. There were, in fact, a lot of people extracting salt with buckets and spades. Some of these miners were natives of Tuzlu. Others were hopeful immigrants from neighboring countries who had come seeking their fortunes but had ended up laboring in the salt mines instead.

People needed salt. Animals needed salt. So essential was the substance that it was inevitable that someone—probably several someones—would try to monopolize it. The guildsmen of Frelsi exercised complete control over the flow of salt from the mines of Tuzlu to the outside world. Having come to an arrangement with the Tuzluns to buy all the salt they could produce, the guild increased the price a hundredfold and resold it to the ship's captains who came to Frelsi to fill their holds. The guild's grip on the salt trade was absolute. All argument was met with swift and ruthless suppression by the PIGS. Traders who came for salt beat their metaphorical fists against this bastion of commercial intransigence without result. They sailed away with cargos that would yield them small profit. Tuzlun salt was high in quality and it was plentiful, but the mineral was to be had—albeit with greater difficulty—in less accessible places on Dirt.

It was equally inevitable that someone would try to break the Frelsian monopoly. The first trader to successfully negotiate a deal with the lord of Tuzlu for rights to acquire salt directly from the source, thus cutting out the middle man, would, to coin a phrase, be sitting on a salt mine.

Captain Blight was not the first ship's master to see the obvious benefit to be derived from this direct approach, but he was the first to actually attempt it. While other captains were still trying to storm the castle walls, Morgan Blight was simply walking around them. Not personally, of course—which is why Jack Pepper was on his way to see Tuzman.

* * *

The man at his side was not exactly garrulous, in fact he had said not a word for almost an hour, despite Jack's attempts at conversation. Not that Jack was interested in casual chat, but he desperately needed to know what was going on, and in whose hands he now found himself. He broke the silence.

Who were those men that met me in the tavern? he asked. They showed the proper sign and they had the pass phrase. That's more that I can say for you.

The band rode on in a silence broken only by the sound of their mount's hooves on hard-packed dirt. Jack sighed. Information was just not flowing. Easier to get blood out of a turnip, he thought.

They were PIGS, his companion rasped, breaking the silence unexpectedly, and before you ask, we don't know how they knew the signals. Someone on your side or ours betrayed us. Before this business is done we will have the truth. Now be silent and ride.

Nothing more was said as the party rode on through what remained of the night.

Dawn revealed a rising landscape of tree-covered terrain as far as the eye could see, which was not very far because of the trees. Long before the suns broke free of the horizon and launched themselves across the sky, Jack was able to see that their group consisted of six riders including himself, and eight horses. The animals that had pulled the PIGS' cart were riderless and were led by the men who brought up the rear of the party. The road, such as it was, meandered over the land giving deference to topography that would scarcely have challenged their horses. Jack found this puzzling till he realized that this was a salt road. Load beasts would use it to bear the salt from Tuzlu to the port of Frelsi. They would probably be heavily laden and would need to take the easiest route. Occasionally, when the road ran straight for a while, Jack was able to look back and see over the treetops to the ocean in the hazy eastern distance. For the next two days he saw little else but trees. When the travelers suddenly broke free of the green-walled way and were able to see how the land lay it was not as great a relief to Jack as it might have been. He had, by that time, other things on his mind, such as how to stop the pain that resulted from his unaccustomed mode of transportation. Saddle sores were not something he had previously had to deal with.

An extensive alluvial fan looked smooth enough from a distance, but as the party drew closer the scree revealed its uninviting nature, obliging the travelers to skirt its boundary and follow a more northerly track. At the fan's apex a great wall of tan-colored rock rose up into the sky; a barrier that seemed impassable, though Jack's taciturn companions seemed unconcerned. Their course brought them ever closer to the mountainous obstacle. When the party's leader called a halt at its base a hitherto unseen narrow canyon was revealed. To Jack's great relief this was a rest stop. A cairn of rocks marked a cache of food. A tiny rivulet burbled and chuckled along a rocky crease in the canyon floor and spread out over the land beyond to become little more than a damp stain marked by a wandering line of shrubs and wild flowers.

With his thirst quenched and his belly, if not full then at least quieted, Jack stood at the canyon's mouth looking back at a stunning landscape. The terrain that marked their journey descended in irregular folds to the sea, long since obscured by haze and distance. To his right the talus bulged in a shallow hill that confronted a limitless forest that would assault the great bastion but was fought to a standstill for lack of nourishment. To the north and west rock held supreme against the incursion of greenery. On his left a great rock wall fell away to the sea. Sloping and terraced to the east and precipitous to the west, the land curved around to shelter an almost beachless cove. Strata of tan, red, green, and black descended into the land's distant past.

A curt command to mount up interrupted Jack's study of the scenery. He climbed back into the saddle with a groan but managed the task unassisted.

The journey through the canyon was accomplished mostly on foot, much to Jack's delight, the way often providing uncertain footing for ridden horses. By the time the travelers emerged from the close confines of the overarching rock half a day had passed. Jack's preconception of their destination proved completely wrong. Instead of the wild and rocky place he had imagined, a green and pleasant valley lay before him with a placid lake at its center. In the near distance a small town spread from the base of the rocky escarpment toward the lake. A single palatial dwelling set in sweeping lawns that fronted the lake drew Jack's eye. The gleaming whiteness of its stone set against the green of the lawns made for an attractive spectacle. From the ledge onto which the party emerged, a path wound its serpentine way down to the valley floor. Mountain goats bounded from shelf to rocky shelf while sheep foraged along the lower slopes, their bleating cries carrying upward to the heights. Before the travelers reached the base of the winding path lights were beginning to appear in the dwellings as Rufous and Albula completed their arc across the sky. It was not to the town, however, that Jack was led. His guides—or captors, he had not worked out which—were making directly for the palace by the lake.

Darkness filled the valley with a swiftness that only mountain landscapes can accomplish. Jack had time enough to look up at the imposing bulk of the great building before the heavy gates he passed through thudded shut behind him. Leaving their mounts in charge of servants who awaited them in the courtyard, Jack's guides—it made him feel better to regard them thus—led him through an inner doorway into a great hall in which a group of servitors was busy lighting lanterns. Here four of his six companions departed without a word, leaving the remaining pair to guide him onward through the length of the hall to an ornate and guarded door at its end. Their arrival was apparently anticipated. Seeing their approach the guard rapped twice upon the solid door and listened. Hearing some response from within he stepped aside and motioned the approaching party to pass. One of Jack's companions opened the door and preceded him into the room beyond. The other man fell back to let Jack enter ahead of him. Once inside the room they flanked him as they guided him toward the huge desk that was the room's focus. So large was the desk that the man behind it needed several strides to round it,