“Mr Duncan’s food is pretty good, though. For tavern food, anyway.”
“Nothing is as good as Mum’s, Ragnee, nothing. If you even suggest anything is, then that’s the worst type of blasphemy I’ve ever heard of.”
Ragnar’s eyes focused on something behind him.
“Even worse than ‘duck’?”
Corsair frowned.
“Duck? What do you me‒”
Piff.
He yelped in surprise as a snowball struck him on the back of the head, making him reel forwards. He spun, trying to maintain his balance, but only fell into the snow with flailing arms.
“Nice shot!” Ragnar called to the attacker.
Quickpaw and Harangoth both turned and leapt to their masters’ defence, standing before the assailant and baring their fangs, before recognition dawned. Corsair sat up to see them both bounding towards the culprit.
“You two are excited to see me today, huh?”
Standing metres down the pathway, petting both ictharrs as they sat before her, was a black wolf. She was shrouded in a dark cloak that draped over her blue skirted tunic and dark trousers, hood lowered. Her fur coat was entirely black, almost the same as her cloak, except for the few spots of white fur. Both her paws and hind paws were white, easily mistaken for gloves and hind-paw socks. A single thick stripe of white fur ran along her snout, stretching from between her eyes down to her black nose. Her brown eyes sparkled as she fussed over the two beasts, reducing even the stern Harangoth to a mere pup by petting him.
What made her particularly recognisable, though, was the lower part of her face. Along her jawline, leading to the base of her snout, tufts of her coat were neatly tied off with string to produce six evenly spaced sprouts of black fur.
“OK, that’s enough. Come on,” Ragnar said.
The two ictharrs lingered by Rohesia’s side for a few additional seconds before they turned and retreated to their owners, standing beside them. She walked forwards, smirking at Corsair.
“Hilarious,” he grumbled.
“Come on. You’ve got to admit that it was a good shot.”
“I thought it was a good shot,” Ragnar said. “I’m sure Harangoth and Quickpaw did too.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hard to agree when I’ve got soaked for the third time today,” Corsair said. “You couldn’t just say hello?”
“Eh. Not my style.”
Ragnar scoffed and helped Corsair to his hind paws.
“You lost today. I’d just accept it. It makes it less embarrassing.”
“I’ll find a way to get you back for that. Both of you,” Corsair said.
“I’m trembling, Corsair. Really trembling,” Rohesia said.
He sighed, pushing snow off his shoulders
“Where are you going anyway?” she asked.
“To Mr Duncan’s place. We were going to dry off in one of his wash stalls, maybe get a drink or something to eat,” Ragnar said.
“Want to come?” Corsair asked. “As much as I hate you right now.”
“Sure. Sounds good. Sounds like you need a bodyguard from the snow, anyway.”
“Shut up.”
The trio took off towards the city centre, Harangoth and Quickpaw maintaining their promise to behave well by remaining silent. A minute passed before they arrived upon the east side of the city market.
“Sure is busy today,” Rohesia said.
Stalls upon stalls were lined up on either side of the numerous pathways, curving with the roads and following them to the other side of the market. Through the walls of market stands, Corsair caught a glimpse of the square. It was a large stretch of land cordoned off from the rest of the city, the ground made of snow-covered paved stone. In the centre of that square resided a stone statue of a lupine figure heroically standing tall and peering off into the distance. A shield stood at its hind paws, a sword in the right paw, and a pair of unblinking eyes glared ahead as they watched over Grand Wolf Plains. Snow dared to form mounds around the elbows and on the shoulders, creating pillows over the bridge of their snout, but it did not deter the strong gaze of the wolf.
Winter Baron Julian Krosguard.
Across from the square and to the north, through the hundreds of market stalls, stood a stone building that made the nearby houses look as insignificant as insects. Four grand stone pillars held up the overarching roof from the front, evenly spaced out across the stone steps. Seeking refuge beneath the roof, a pair of wooden doors sat at the top of the steps with two wolf soldiers dressed in armour standing beside them. More soldiers were positioned at each pillar, scanning the crowds for any suspicious activity, but Corsair doubted they would find any. Measly crimes such as petty theft were rare among the city community, a fact that acted as one of the few warming things on the winter plains.
“Bustling as always,” Ragnar said.
“No surprise there,” Corsair agreed.
They waded their way past the bodies of wolves, all gesturing to each other as they debated prices and confirmed transactions. Bags of Iggregom coins were passed from paw to paw, exchanges going on every second. Traders referred to their abaci often, glancing between them and the customer as they worked.
“Hello Sir!” a trader said, gesturing to an array of meat. “Fresh maug meat up for a low, low price! Hunted by the best archers of the clan. Interested?”
“We’ll pass, thank you,” Ragnar said.
“Ah, I bet you two are looking for some new cloaks!” a rabbit trader said, cocooned in multiple layers of clothing. “Why not browse my new wares? I’m sure you’ll appreciate a look! They’re made from cloth imported from the vast crops of the Land of the Sun and Moon!”
“No thanks,” Corsair said.
“I know you three are searching for some hind-paw socks!” a fox trader said, shielded from the cold by numerous layers. “These are freshly made and imported from the clan’s friendly neighbour; the Kingdom of Loxworth. Available at a bargain price!”
“Not interested, thank you,” Rohesia said.
They pushed through the barrage of offers and loud voices, fending them off with polite tones, before they arrived outside the tavern. A set of stables stood before it, most of the wooden structures filled with ictharrs except for a pair of opposite-facing stalls at the back.
“Come on Quickpaw,” Corsair said.
They led their companions to their stalls, stepping past wolves who were withdrawing or depositing their steeds. No guard was stationed to watch over the stables, confident in the honesty of the citizens.
“In you go,” Ragnar said.
Corsair watched Harangoth pad into the stable and turn, facing out into the aisle as the door was shut and locked. Ragnar patted him on the head before stepping aside for his brother to come forward.
“Come on.”
Corsair took two steps forward before wincing at the sound of Quickpaw whimpering, turning to see his ears flattened and tail curled. Rohesia waited at the end of the aisle, observing his interaction.
“I know, I know, but I won’t be long. You can get some sleep while you’re at it. I know this morning’s training made you tired.”
Quickpaw didn’t make eye contact.
“Come on.”
Refusing, Quickpaw sat down and grumbled.
He looked over his shoulder to Ragnar. His brother waited in front of Harangoth’s stable, eyes on the stubborn beast.
“Ah, well… I guess I can’t convince you to just go inside the stable, can I?”
Quickpaw grunted.
“It’s a shame. We were so looking forward to having a pint for lunch, some good food on the side maybe.”
Quickpaw mocked him with a series of grunts and grumbles, tilting his head left and right to mimic him.
“And now we can’t dry ourselves off to go back home, can we, Ragnee?”
“I guess not,” his brother said.
“And because we can’t get dry, Mum won’t cook for us.”
Quickpaw’s head turned, e
ars standing upright.
“And we were so looking forward to tonight, too. We would have had such a good dinner. All that succulent maug meat to feast on. There’d be so much that, surely, there’d be no way we could eat it all.”
Quickpaw mewled with uncertainty.
“But, seeing as we can’t dry off, we should just go home now. No maug meat tonight and definitely no leftovers. Oh well… come on, Quickpaw.”
He turned to walk back out of the stables but, as he did, Quickpaw finally surrendered. With an annoyed expression, purple eyes narrowed at his master as he stood up, he trudged past and into the stable. Corsair stepped forward and shut the door, watching his steed turn and glare at him.
“Good ictharr.”
He ruffled the fur atop his head. Quickpaw ignored him, standing there with an annoyed expression, until his master leaned in and whispered in his ear.
“Extra leftovers tonight.”
His annoyed expression fell in shock at the promise of the reward, tail flicking back and forth in anticipation. Corsair smiled and petted him again before turning and walking out of the stables.
Inside, the tavern was a scene of goodwill and camaraderie. As they entered, Corsair’s ears were filled with the familiar sound of metal pitchers clanging against one another, accompanied by the laughter and jeers of those who indulged in drinking en masse. Many were sitting around tables with friends and comrades while some crowded the bar, sitting on the stools positioned before the countertop.
“Let’s get a place by the bar,” Ragnar said. “Mr Duncan will be happy to see us.”
“To see you, sure,” Corsair said.
“He’s not that petty, Corsair.”
The trio waded through the tight aisles between seated wolves, Ragnar clearing a path while Corsair and Rohesia followed behind him. Some wolves muttered greetings as they passed and the two Sedrids returned them.
They approached the bar and Ragnar found a weakness in the wall of wolves surrounding it, pushing forward and waving his paw to get the attention of the bartender.
“Hey, Mr Duncan!”
“Ah, Ragnar!” a deep voice responded. “How are you doing?”
Corsair drew up behind Ragnar and his eyes fell on Mr Duncan. A giant of a wolf, the figure’s front was covered in white fur while a brown coat covered his back. His eyes sparkled with the bright energy of youth that belied the more advanced age of his body. His lack of a left ear helped to identify the barkeep, although it wasn’t too hard to notice the giant in the first place. One massive paw held a metal pitcher while the other held a cloth, paused in the process of polishing it.
“I’m good, I’m good. How are you?”
“Me and the missus are doing fine. I see you brought Corsair with you.”
“Hello, Mr Duncan,” Corsair returned, waving.
Mr Duncan met Corsair’s gaze with a more hardened expression, although he saw some affection hiding behind it. The younger Sedrid met it with an awkward smile and looked away, leaving the conversation to Ragnar.
“Mind if we get three pints of mead and use one of your washrooms to dry off? Mum wants us clean before we go back home.”
“Ah, Ophelia being her usual self?”
“More than ever, yeah.”
Mr Duncan gave a hearty laugh and offered a paw, giving Ragnar a firm shake. What would have made most wolves cringe in pain did not work on Ragnar, who endured the mighty shaking of his arm and kept a smile on his face.
“One of the stalls should be freed up. I’ll get your drinks – on the house!”
“That’s too kind, Mr Duncan, but I would feel bad if I didn’t…”
“Nonsense! I want to do this. Take it while you can or I’ll just charge you double, eh?”
“Well I just can’t refuse now, can I?”
Mr Duncan smiled and turned away, preparing the group’s drinks. Surrendering to the kindness of the large wolf, Ragnar turned to face the two other members of his party.
“Do you want to go first?”
“No, I’m okay. I can wait.”
“You sure?”
Corsair nodded. Ragnar accepted.
“All right. Just hang around here until I come back.”
“Got it.”
Ragnar disappeared from sight, heading off towards the washrooms to free himself of the water that clung to his fur. Corsair was left with Rohesia by the bar. A single stool remained unclaimed, open for someone to seize.
He gestured to it.
“After you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, of course, go ahead. I’ll just get it wet anyway.”
She took him up on his offer and sat in the stool.
“How noble of someone who just got hit in the head by a snowball.”
“I’m planning my revenge. I’m officially warning you to sleep with one eye open.”
Amused, she laughed. They both waited in silence for a moment before Rohesia turned, opening her mouth.
“Mr Duncan really seemed to hit it off with Ragnar.”
“He loves Ragnee.”
“I can tell. Why does he know you two, though?”
“A few years back, Dad wanted us to help out around town. Mr Duncan’s really close friends with him so he said we could help out at the tavern. We both worked here for a few months.”
“How does Mr Duncan know your father?”
“They were friends in cubhood. They were in the army together during the whole thing with Silverclaw.”
“Right. Must be a strong bond between them.”
“Yeah, probably. Mr Duncan doesn’t like me as much as he likes Ragnee, though.”
“I heard you say something as we walked in. Why?”
“I, uh… tended to mess around when I worked here, goofing off with other people when I was supposed to be serving drinks and food. Ragnee did everything he was told and more. If he wasn’t a prince, he’d make the perfect barkeep.”
“He still likes you, though?”
“Yeah, he does, but he definitely prefers Ragnee.”
A lapse in the conversation formed, one that was well timed as Mr Duncan arrived with the drinks. He placed them down on the counter by the two wolves and walked off to tend to another customer, someone yelling for him to fetch them a specific drink.
“I don’t like taverns,” Rohesia said.
“Why?”
“They’re pretty loud. Gets a bit annoying.”
“I think they’re warm and charming.”
“Warm and charming?”
“Yeah – like me.”
She chuckled.
“The name Corsair Sedrid and the word charming do not go together.”
“But you admit I’m warm?”
“After I hit you in the head with a snowball you’re as far away from warm as you can be.”
Rohesia reached for one of the pitchers and lifted it up to her mouth, Corsair watching with interest as he slowly lifted his. She tilted it back and managed one mighty glug before her eyes widened and she slammed it back down, raising her free paw to her mouth to prevent any mead from spilling out. Urgently, she swallowed down the strong alcohol, coughing as the final drops of the liquid disappeared down her gullet. She shook her head and wiped her eyes, looking at Corsair.
“Revenge works in mysterious ways, Rohesia,” he said as he took a casual swig of his drink.
“That is strong! What is this?”
“Stronbeniz mead.”
“There is no way this is mead. This is way too strong.”
“Aw. Could little Rohesia not handle an adult drink?”
“I hate you so much.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
Sighing, Rohesia lifted her pitcher and clinked it against Corsair’s.
Chapter Three
Corsair was so bored that he would have had no quarrel in reaching for his sword across the room and ramming it through his chest.
An hou
r or so after the two brothers had dried themselves off and taken a moment to enjoy their mead, they said goodbye to Rohesia and returned home to prepare themselves for their history tutorial. The area in front of the fireplace was cleared for two wooden chairs with a small table placed in front of each seat for writing. They faced away from the front door towards the dining table.
Before him stood the dreariest person he could have ever imagined.
Mr Klement was a grey wolf, the hairs of his fur coarse and rough. He was dressed modestly with only a dark coat over a white shirt and a pair of loose slacks. None of this hid the formidable bulge of his stomach, which Corsair had watched him maintain for all the 15 years Mr Klement had been teaching them.
The way he cultivated its growth seemed almost like a talent.
“…and the war brought about a change in modern policy,” Mr Klement rattled on. “As a result of the First Rabbit-Lupine Clan war, resources were being heavily invested into the manufacture of weaponry, particularly the blacksmith industry. They assured this prioritisation of war didn’t develop into a clan-wide famine by a policy known as what, Ragnee?”
Corsair looked over at Ragnar.
The older Sedrid had many words written down on his parchment, the quill held expertly in his paw as if it was nothing more than an extension of his body. Corsair could see how fluid and sophisticated his writing was, how the final letter of each word curved off at its end. Ragnar wouldn’t have looked out of place if he had been sitting among the scholars of the Land of the Sun and Moon.
He looked down at his own work.
His parchment had a title scrawled at the top.
It had already been half-an-hour.
“Uh… I don’t know the name, but it was a method of increasing exports to nearby smaller countries in order to get food.”
“Indeed it was. The Outsource and Reap policy, or Lofstok non Vedick as it was dubbed by the Winter Baron’s council, was a method of buying allegiance from nearby territories by sharing supplies for them in return for surplus food. Corsair, tell me – what language does the phrase Lofstok non Vedik hail from?”
“Our language, Lanzig.”
“Invented by?”
Memory failing him, he froze. He opened his mouth to answer but no words followed and he, momentarily, became a statue.
The Sharpened Fangs Of Lupine Spirit Page 4