“Can you see our house from up here?”
He watched his steed jerk his head in the direction of his home. There, to the east, he could see the distant shape of the Sedrid house.
“I bet you’re looking forward to seeing Mum, huh?”
At the mention of his mother, Quickpaw pawed at the ground in excitement.
“Maybe we’ll have some leftovers tonight, huh?”
He sat and yapped, looking at him with excited eyes.
“Well… if Peter ends up cooking…”
Both snarled in disgust, shaking their heads. He could almost taste the stale food.
“Well, either way, let’s hope we have something nice tonight.”
Quickpaw nodded in agreement, looking down towards the city. Corsair did the same, eyes focused on his house – and that’s where he saw them.
Two figures stood behind the building, one mounted on an ictharr while the other stood to the side. A third figure lingered metres away, watching everything unfold, and Corsair squinted at them. Quickpaw watched his master, registering the frown.
“What are they doing?”
Then he remembered the conversation he had with Peter as he left that morning.
You’re up early today, Sir.
Taking Quickpaw out for a ride.
Right. Remember, Sir, training is going to start in an hour.
I’ll be back, don’t worry. Just say that I’m out riding.
I’ll do so.
Corsair gasped.
Training.
“Training!”
He was late.
Again.
Quickpaw sensed urgency in his master’s voice and stood. Corsair turned and rushed towards his steed, pulling himself up on to the beast and snapping the reins.
“Hyah!”
Grunting, Quickpaw turned and rushed away.
Corsair reined in his mount at the front of his home and dismounted, stumbling as he landed. The Sedrid household was almost identical to the structures around him, made from the same dark wood and constructed in the same format. He could see windows installed in the upstairs bedrooms, with one large window allowing someone to peer out from the kitchen. Wolves dressed in grey uniforms moved back and forth from the counters and tables, talking to the two cooks who held boxes of ingredients in their paws.
I guess that means we’re having Peter’s food tonight.
“Come on, Quickpaw.”
They hurried around the side of the house, the wolf stumbling through the snow.
“Put more force behind it, come on!”
The thundering voice of the instructor echoed from the back of the house, growing louder with every step. Corsair slowed and crept forwards, peering around the corner.
In the snow, standing beside his ictharr, was Ragnar. His brother was considerably taller than Corsair, with broader shoulders and an intimidating physique. He was dressed in thick clothes to battle the cold (which only worsened as the seasons passed), a leather training vest drawn over his torso and his helmet dangling from the saddle of his steed. Standing upright beside him was a steel lance, its wooden shaft leading up to the metal head. Along the circumference of the head’s base were numerous engravings. Corsair could see his own resting against the wall.
“Let me show you what I mean, Ragnar.”
A wolf with dark brown fur took the lance from the trainee. He brought the lance back, handling its hefty weight as if it was nothing, and thrust it forwards towards an imaginary target. He repeated the motion, Ragnar watching and nodding along.
“You see? The momentum you have when charging headfirst towards your opponent is your weapon. If you use it correctly, you will knock your opponent from their saddle. At the very least, a good hit will stun them.”
Alpha Dominik Tiberius was a behemoth of a wolf. About the same height as Ragnar, maybe a few inches taller, the lupine was a tower of sheer muscle beneath his brown coat. A stern expression always sat on his scarred face, one that commanded discipline and respect from those he instructed or so much as walked past. A pair of bright streaks of red paint cut across his left eye, often mistaken for scars as they blended in with the myriad of other wounds on his face. They were accompanied by a thick line of red running from between his eyes, down the bridge of his snout and to his black nose.
“Let’s do it again. Saddle up.”
Ragnar took the lance back from the instructor and turned to mount but stopped as his blue eyes fell upon his brother. The alpha noticed and turned to follow his gaze, spotting the younger sibling.
That’s when Corsair saw his father standing around the corner.
Winter Baron Arthur Sedrid stood with arms folded, eyes focused on his younger son. Corsair’s ears flattened and his tail curled between his legs, lowering his head.
“Come here,” his father growled.
He trudged forwards. Quickpaw went to follow but Corsair told him to stay where he was. As Corsair stopped before his father, he raised a paw to the left side of his neck.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry, father.”
“Do you want to know what Peter told me you were doing? He told me you were out riding that.”
Arthur jabbed a digit of his paw past his son and towards Quickpaw. Eyes wide and ears collapsing, the ictharr shied back away from them and sat down, averting his gaze as he whimpered.
“I just wanted to take him out for a bit, father.”
“And go on another one of your adventures? Waste the day?”
Corsair didn’t answer.
“Alpha Tiberius is sacrificing his time to train you two. There are places he might need to be or more important things he could be doing but he’s here training you. If you want to waste your time on your stupid rides with that, do it when it doesn’t come at the cost of someone else’s time.”
Corsair didn’t dare answer back.
“Arthur,” Alpha Tiberius said, “he hasn’t cost me much of my time. I’m sure he gets it.”
The Winter Baron looked back to his son, who didn’t dare make eye contact with him. He gestured to his lance.
“Get your things. Don’t waste any more time than you have already.”
Corsair didn’t hesitate. With Quickpaw following him (giving his father a wide berth), he approached his array of equipment leaning up against the wall. A leather training vest was beside his trusty lance. His lance was similar to his brother’s – a long wooden shaft with a steel head. It bore different inscriptions and symbols along the head’s circumference. Each one was a testament to a victory he had achieved throughout the years he had been fighting, a trophy case he carried in his paws.
A trophy case far emptier than his brother’s.
He knew he had no time to gawp at it. He pulled his leather vest over his torso and strapped it down around the waist, wincing as he felt it press his clothes into his sides. Jostling it into a more comfortable position, he stepped towards Quickpaw with lance in paws. His steed stood ready by his side, allowing his master to check that the saddle was correctly fastened around his midsection.
Corsair caught a glimpse of his brother. Ragnar stood beside his own beast, a stoic black-furred ictharr named Harangoth. Ragnar shot Corsair a warm smile, one he appreciated, before looking away again.
He looked back at Quickpaw. The ictharr’s eyes were focused on Harangoth in admiration of his physique and attitude. He looked down at himself, ears wilting in disappointment.
Comparing the two was as easy as comparing day and night. While the formidable Harangoth looked as if he could take on 50 maugs, the scrawnier Quickpaw looked as if he’d have a fair fight against a baby vorsair. While Harangoth’s stoic face never faltered, Quickpaw was busy amusing himself with a lone insect forging a path through the snow.
Corsair stroked the scruff of his neck.
“You’re fine as you are, Quickpaw. That’s what matters.”
Something landed metres away in the snow with an audible piff.
Both
heads snapped to the left, large eyes fixating on the leather ball lying in the snow. Their long ears stood to attention and they tilted their heads, maws partially agape.
“Go get it!” Alpha Tiberius yelled.
Corsair stepped back from Quickpaw, watching as he bounded towards the ball with energy in every step. Harangoth was slower to react, turning to lunge, and was beaten as Quickpaw arrived by the ball. Scooping it up into his mouth, he turned to rush back to his master.
A yelp came from Quickpaw as Harangoth rammed him, knocking him aside with his immense strength. Corsair winced as he watched his companion slide through the snow, promptly scrambling back up. Quickpaw dived for the ball, now in the opponent’s maw, and wrestled against Harangoth. Despite his best attempts, Quickpaw was unable to do more than knock the ball from Harangoth’s mouth before he was shoved aside again.
Come on, Quickpaw.
His supportive thoughts could not aid his steed. Harangoth bounded from his opponent and scooped the ball up into his mouth. His hulking form rushed over to Ragnar, a sight terrifying to anyone who did not know the steed personally, before sitting and dropping the prize. Ragnar picked it up and passed it to Alpha Tiberius, whispering praise to his companion.
“Exercise over!”
Quickpaw pushed himself on to all fours, shaking his fur, ears down and tail curled. Head hung, he padded over to Corsair and grumbled in defeat, casting his sad gaze over to the victor.
“Hey, you did great. You tried. You’ll beat him some day, don’t worry.”
Ragnar gestured to Quickpaw. Harangoth nuzzled against Ragnar’s head before turning and approaching his companion. He stopped before Quickpaw and lowered his head to make eye contact. He grumbled in concern. Quickpaw looked up and his face grew brighter, a sight that made Corsair smile.
“All right, enough downtime,” Alpha Tiberius said. “On your saddles, let’s continue. We’ve got a lot of things to go through.”
“Yes, Alpha.”
He mounted Quickpaw and glanced at his father.
His father stood back with arms folded across his chest, glaring at Quickpaw.
“Corsair, come on! No time to daydream!”
The alpha’s thundering voice jolted him back to reality, forcing him to snatch the reins and spur Quickpaw forward after Ragnar.
Chapter Two
Corsair and Ragnar lasted three seconds inside their house before their mother reprimanded them, seeing her two sons drenched and sodden while standing by the door.
“Oh, here we go,” Ragnar said, rolling his eyes.
“Ragnee, Corsair, you’re both soaking!”
A white-fronted wolf in red silk robes stole forwards from the dining room table, two servants rushing after her with combs in paws. They looked flustered, as if they had been tending to the wolf’s fur for the past hour, and that was exactly the case. Corsair could see his mother’s tail swishing behind her, all her fur streaking in one direction and forming a smooth dark wave. The fur around her neck and atop her head (between her small ears) had been combed thoroughly, not a single hair out of place. The black leather pads at the bottom of her paws had been washed and cleaned, fur brushed out of the way to display them.
“Were you two training or playing out in the snow again?”
“We don’t play out in the snow, Mum,” Ragnar scoffed. “Training.”
“And what is Arthur having you do? Roll around in it? Look at you! You’re dripping wet.”
“So, I’m guessing you don’t want us coming in, then,” Corsair said.
“Until you two clean yourselves up, you are not going upstairs to your rooms. Ingrid and Sebastien spent a long time cleaning them – especially yours, Corsair – and I will not have them tiring in there again.”
“We’ll find somewhere to dry ourselves,” Ragnar said. “We could head down to a tavern.”
“To Mr Duncan’s place?” Corsair asked.
“Mr Duncan’s place sounds good. He has those washing stalls. We’ll just dry ourselves there and come back.”
“We can’t dry off here, Mum?” Corsair asked.
“I don’t want you stomping around with your wet paws.”
“Oh, Mum…”
“Otherwise no dinner for you two tonight.”
Corsair went to open his mouth to protest but, realising what her words implied, shut it again. He stared at his mother with widening eyes.
“Mum, you’re cooking?” Ragnar asked, tail flicking.
“I am. Dressing up some fine meat this evening but if you two are going to be so insistent on not drying off, then…”
“No no no that’s fine, it’s fine. We’ll dry up quickly. Isn’t that right, Corsair?”
“Oh, yeah, no doubt,” Corsair said.
“Why is it so important that I’m cooking?”
“Mum, have you tasted Peter’s food?”
“Of course I have.”
“Then you know exactly why we’re making a big deal,” Ragnar chuckled.
“Peter’s food is fine.”
Corsair and Ragnar both gave their mother an exasperated look.
“Well… it isn’t exactly perfect, but it’s decent.”
“Less than decent.”
“Whatever his cooking ability, I’m cooking tonight. If you two want any chance to get your paws on my food then you need to go and dry off. Now.”
“Okay, okay, we’re going,” Ragnar said. “’Bye, Mum.”
“’Bye, Mum,” Corsair said.
“See you in a bit! And you’d better be dry when you come back!”
Denied entry until they returned dry, the two siblings turned and pushed back out through the door. They faced the cold with indifference, the idea of a good evening meal motivating them, and
looked right to face their companions. Corsair’s eyes went to Harangoth, sitting patiently. The ictharr was focused on something beside him, blinking as he watched.
Ragnar followed his gaze and, a moment later, smiled.
“Well, he’s having a good time.”
Quickpaw rolled on the ground, his white fur blending with the snow as his legs flailed in the air. Harangoth growled in exasperation and shook his head as the younger ictharr played like a pup, ignoring the snow that hit his side.
Corsair sighed.
“Oh, come on, Quickpaw. I’ll just have to clean you again.”
Quickpaw scrambled up on to his paws and shook the snow from his coat, flinging it across Corsair’s front. He grimaced, sighing as his brother chuckled.
“It just isn’t your day today, is it?”
“It’s all getting wet and covered in snow right now. Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
The duo started down the main pathway towards the city centre, their ictharrs walking beside them. Quickpaw continually sniffed the ground, turning his head left and right, whilst Harangoth walked with eyes forward.
“Tough training this morning, huh?”
“You bet. Tiberius loves giving us hard work.”
“He’s definitely a clan alpha, that’s for sure.”
A silence fell between them. The only audible sounds were the crunching of snow beneath their hind paws and the distant chatter of traders farther along the pathway that ran from east to west. Up ahead, the city got busier, more and more wolves sauntering back and forth past them.
“I know it’s probably not what you want to hear but… you need to be turning up to training earlier.”
“Thanks. Didn’t think of that.”
“Come on, don’t be like that. You’re always up there in the hills riding Quickpaw. Is it that hard to be on time?”
Corsair looked at Quickpaw. He continued to sniff the snow, distracted. Corsair shrugged.
“I forget. A lot, granted, but I forget.”
Ragnar opened his mouth before reconsidering his words, taking a moment to rephrase what he was going to say.
“I’m not trying to lecture you. I don’t see a problem with you spending time with him up t
here, you know I don’t. You bond with him, you learn how to ride better… I don’t see the problem. But Dad, for whatever reason, does. If you want to avoid these things every morning then you’ve just got to turn up on time.”
“Even if I turned up on time, Ragnee, he’d be just the same. He always has it in for Quickpaw. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about him right now.”
“Fine. I’m just trying to help, nothing else. Just letting you know.”
“I appreciate that but… it’s routine. It’s nothing special.”
“It doesn’t have to be routine.”
Corsair gave him a tired look.
“Fine, fine, I’ll back off.”
“Let’s just forget about this morning and get washed so we can eat Mum’s dinner later.”
The mention of the wolves’ mother’s cooking was enough to rouse Quickpaw from his investigation. He craned his head up from the snow, ears standing, and gave an enquiring grumble.
“Yeah, you heard me. Mum’s cooking tonight.”
With excitement in his veins, the ictharr bounded around the back of the wolves to walk beside Harangoth. Drawing beside him, he relayed the news through yaps and growls. Corsair could see a flicker of excitement in Harangoth’s steely face as he looked to his master.
“We’ll make sure both of you get leftovers,” Ragnar said. “Only if you’re good when we’re inside the tavern though.”
“So no wild yapping, okay?”
Both ictharrs signalled their agreement and faced forwards, not making a sound as they approached the centre.
“Speaking of Mum’s food, what do you think she’s doing for us?” Ragnar asked.
“It better be good.”
“You think it’s maug meat?”
“If someone in the market was brave enough to hunt one, sure. Either that or vorsair meat. Probably gerbeast.”
As he said that word, a flock of white birds flew across the sky above. Corsair looked up and watched the vorsairs – he could see some of them had prey in their talons, carrying them off to their nests to feed their young.
“No matter what, it’ll still be good.”
Ragnar hummed in agreement. Both the ictharrs poked their tongues out and swept them across their mouths.
The Sharpened Fangs Of Lupine Spirit Page 3