Martina Achterberg, Martina Achterberg, Illustrator
2014
Muddler rushed as fast as he could through the muck that swilled about him. Away he ran into the darkness. The three addressed one another with solemn looks and carried on. When at last Muddler returned to the Cobbler’s Clogs, he popped out like a cork from the sewer, not bothering to shake himself free of the muck. Without pausing for an instant to catch his breath, he seized a large saddle bag and began to stuff it with food, water and other articles of importance. When he finished packing, he ran shouting throughout the tavern. “Angus! Angus where are you?” “I’m afraid he’s indisposed.” Muddler turned around and dropped the bag in shock. Behind him stood a monstrous dog grinning from ear to ear with every tooth in his head revealed. But what filled Muddler with dread was when he saw Angus lying limp at his feet. He lay on the ground so his face was hidden from Muddler, but his deathly pale hands and motionless body was enough for Muddler to realize the truth. “He was nineteen.” Muddler whimpered. “He was a miserable weakling at best, bumbling and pathetic to the end.” “Yet bold enough to serve empty-headed drunkards like you who couldn’t tell up from down half the time.” The guard snarled maliciously. Several other guards came lurking out from all around, surrounding Muddler. The head guard strut to the back room and sniffed the air deeply. Looking to the cellar, he saw the rows of stacked barrels lined against the walls. “So you’re no more than a petty thief stealing from the great lord Chaf all these years. You’ve got some nerve robbing the sealed-off stores of his domain!” “You’ve got a lot of guts yourselves getting intoxicated as often as you did knowing full well how passionately Chaf despises it.” Muddler retorted. “And while we’re on the subject, I think I minus well tell you what I’ve thought of your lord Chaf ever since he first came. I think he’s the most loathsome, vile, unimpressively despicable being to ever have the gall to show himself to the worl
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