The Sharpened Fangs Of Lupine Spirit

by H. G. Sansostri

  Corsair could hear the voices from the stables, which were a fair distance away from the centre of Ignatius’ Mount. The air around him was filled with the bustle of his remaining trainee comrades, preparing their ictharrs for their final test before they became official Krosguard soldiers.

  Quickpaw grumbled, irritated.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “When this is over, you won’t have to wear that for the rest of today, all right?”

  From afar, his steed could easily be mistaken for a beast of steel. Hardened steel plates covered his body; they were clasped over his lower and upper legs and stretched upwards, spreading across his body and covering the scruff of his neck. A helmet covered the top and sides of his head. Strapped around his torso was an armoured saddle, a protective layer of gerbeast leather with the odd metal plate embedded into it over vital areas. On the sides were handles and grips to hold Corsair’s weapons ready for quick switching – his lance took up the space of the entire left flank while spare blades and javelins were arranged on the right.

  Quickpaw whimpered, trying to scratch at his ears with his paws, but was unable to free himself from the helmet’s grasp. Corsair’s determination immediately evaporated at the sight of his friend in distress.

  “Here, let me help.”

  He undid the strap beneath Quickpaw’s jaw and removed the helmet, stepping back to allow him room to scratch his ears. He did so with a grin on his face, relieved of the annoying itch, and gave a yap of gratitude.

  “You need to keep this on now. I’m not happy wearing all this stuff either but it’s what we have to do.”

  Quickpaw nodded and didn’t complain as his master eased the helmet back on to his head and fastened the strap again.

  “All trainees – report to the courtyard in five minutes!” a voice yelled.

  Corsair stepped out into the aisle and peered into Arwenin’s stable, seeing Axel as he finalised the preparations. Looking left, he found his brother standing there, the hulking form of Harangoth clad in similar armour beside him. Ragnar was plated and ready to go with helmet tucked under his arm and sword slid into scabbard.

  “Today’s the day.”

  “Yeah, it is. You look like a real Krosguard soldier.”

  “So do you.”

  Corsair looked down at himself. Despite how itchy it felt, scratching against his fur and skin, it was comforting to have substantial armour over him. Interlocking steel plates covered his arms and torso, his helmet held by the rim in one paw. His legs were covered by black slacks to allow free movement, with metal plates clamped down over his shins and plated hind-paw socks over his hind paws. A white garment was draped over him, a single strip of fabric with a hole for his head and running down both his front and back from his neck to between his legs. In the centre of the tabard was the Clan of the Great Lupine’s insignia – a side view of a black wolf’s head thrown back in a howl.

  “You ready?” Ragnar asked.

  “I’m as ready as I can be.”

  “We’ve got this, all right? There’s no Lieutenant Maximus, no Thornfang – just us and the others who are still here. We’re better than them. You’re better than them.”

  Corsair looked back into his stables, seeing Quickpaw pad out. His steed gave a growl of comfort, agreeing with his brother’s words, and he smiled.

  “It’s been a hard month. This is the last obstacle, Corsair.”

  “I’m worried about Dad.”

  “Don’t worry about Dad. Forget him. Just do your best.”

  “I understand. Focus on the fighting.”

  And forget Dad’s even there.

  That was easier said than done.

  “All right!” a soldier yelled. “Move to the courtyard as we practised!”

  “Well, that’s our cue,” Axel said, bringing Arwenin out from the stable by the reins. “You two ready?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go,” Corsair said.

  Reins in paw, the wolves led their ictharrs down the aisle towards the door of the stables. Axel led the way with Ragnar and Corsair walking alongside each other. Harangoth gave Quickpaw a growl of reassurance, telling him he was okay, and he returned it.

  “Part of me can’t believe it’s been a whole month,” Axel said.

  “Neither can I,” Ragnar said. “It feels like we’ve been here a year.”

  “More like a decade.”

  “Or a century.”

  They both chuckled and took a left at the end of the aisle, ignoring the orders of the officer to move more quickly. They passed huts and houses, navigating their way towards the tall church spire that rose above the rooftops. Corsair saw some cubs stop and point at the armoured wolves, shouting excitedly to their parents.

  With every step they took, the sound from the impromptu arena grew louder. As they rounded the front of the church, every step seemed to take longer, and the distance to reach their destination felt as if it had doubled. Corsair rolled his shoulders back, exhaling to relieve the nerves, and heard Quickpaw give a concerned growl.

  “I’m fine. Let’s focus on doing well, okay?”

  Finally, they came around to the courtyard.

  In front of the gates, through which they had all traipsed a month earlier, were rows upon rows of wooden benches. The rows were tiered, climbing upwards to allow those at the back to see over the heads of those in front. Krosguard soldiers, with helmets on and metal visors down, patrolled back and forth. Vendors continued to prey on potential customers with their wares and meals, shaking a pouch at them that caused the Iggregoms inside to clink with every jostle.

  And then, to the left, was his mother and father.

  A wooden stall had been erected to the left of the benches, separated from the crowds of the village people and families of the trainees by a wooden frame and a security detail of armoured guards. His mother scanned the faces of the recruits and spotted her sons, beaming at them as she began to wave.

  His father just stared.

  Don’t worry about him. Ignore him.

  Murmurs hovered over the crowds as they joined the line, turning to face the audience. Alpha McVarn was positioned off to their right, conversing with his dreaded lieutenant, gesturing towards the stables. Lieutenant Maximus nodded and walked across the courtyard that would become Corsair’s battleground soon enough.

  Corsair felt Lieutenant Maximus glare at him as he walked past.

  I’ll prove him wrong. I’ll show him we’re better.

  Alpha McVarn cleared his throat and stepped out into the centre. The conversations immediately ceased as the crowd saw him waiting to address them, turning their heads away from the people they were talking to.

  “Hello, citizens of Ignatius’ Mount, Winter Baron Arthur Sedrid and his lady, Ophelia Sedrid. I welcome you all to the final training day of the Krosguard, our prestigious cavalry that is prepared to conquer any foe it meets. Today, they will be demonstrating their mettle and prowess in trial by combat.”

  He turned and performed a sweeping gesture towards the remaining cohort of the Krosguard. Corsair glanced left and right to see how the month had trimmed them down – only 70 trainees remained, and he was sure they’d undergo a final cull.

  “We will cycle through multiple combinations of combatants for the next two hours before we conclude our finale today. Participants will have to strike the enemy or the enemy’s steed three times to claim victory. Please welcome our first combatants, Ragnar and Corsair Sedrid!”

  Corsair’s ears stood up. Before he could ask for him to repeat, the crowd began to applaud and the sound drowned out his voice. Quickpaw turned his head to look at Harangoth, who looked equally surprised.

  “It’s us two,” Ragnar said. “Come on, I’ll let you win.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Corsair‒”

  “Hey,” one of the guards yelled, “you two are up first! Move it!”

  Knowing time was limited, the brothers didn’t say another word. Corsair watched as Ragnar led Harangoth out
into the arena, the black ictharr casting an apologetic gaze back to Quickpaw.

  “It’s all right, Quickpaw. He won’t hurt you and you won’t hurt him. You’ll both be fine.”

  Although hesitant, he led his companion out into the arena and stopped opposite his sibling.

  “Mount your ictharrs!” a soldier yelled.

  Both brothers mounted their ictharrs at the same time, shifting in their saddles to become as comfortable as possible.

  “Helmets!”

  Corsair pulled his helmet on, crushing his ears. It covered all of his head. The visor was up away from his face and allowed him to look out.

  “Visors!”

  He pushed the visor down, swinging it into place with a metallic squeak, and clicked it closed over his face. The mask gave him two ports over the eyes to peer out from and covered his snout in metal. The underside remained exposed so he could speak. He began to feel uncomfortable, ears squashed against the helm, but ignored it.

  “Ready!”

  A shirtless wolf, covered in red streaks and symbols, approached the war drum beside the benches. He readied his baton-like drumsticks and waited for his cue. Corsair and Ragnar both lifted their lances up and readied themselves, the older Sedrid holding both a shield and the reins in his other paw.

  Quickpaw whimpered.

  “It’s all right,” Corsair’s voice sounded muffled. “You won’t hurt him. He won’t hurt you.”

  It was with that sentence that the soldier yelled.

  “Begin!”

  The drummer struck the drum, creating a slow rhythm.

  “Hyah!” Ragnar snapped at the reins and sent Harangoth speeding towards him, lance ready to be thrust forwards.

  “Away!”

  Corsair yanked the reins and darted Quickpaw to the side. Ragnar’s strike was sloppy and would probably have missed even if he had remained still. Corsair hurried away from his brother, making a quick turn at the opposite end, before yelling out and thrusting his lance at him. Ragnar weaved out the way and created distance between them, giving him time to switch to his sword, before he came forward and swung.

  Clang.

  Corsair yelped as he felt the sword strike him.

  “One hit!” the soldier yelled.

  Corsair drew his sword, hastily placing his lance back against Quickpaw’s flank, and swung back at Ragnar. His brother made a feeble attempt to deflect the hit and it struck his arm, making him grunt.

  “One hit!”

  Quickpaw drew back. He and Harangoth repositioned themselves opposite one another before both riders charged. Corsair and Ragnar swung at the same time, their blades meeting in the middle with a crystal-clear clang. Both deflected and parried swing after swing, accompanied by the sound of blades swiping through the air and the occasional clang of metal striking metal. Corsair backed off, distancing himself from Ragnar. His brother pursued, lifting his sword up in an attack that a blind wolf could have seen coming.

  “Duck!”

  Quickpaw lowered himself to the ground, allowing Corsair to evade the swipe at his head and jab up at his brother. Ragnar grunted as the blade struck his side, leading Harangoth away from him.

  “Two hits! Final warning, Ragnar!”

  To make the battle seem authentic, his brother unleashed a swarm of attacks to overwhelm his brother. Each attack was equally punctuated by a pause long enough to allow Corsair to prepare for the next swing, but not so long that the others would realise he was going easy on his brother. Corsair blocked each one, yanking back on the reins and bringing his steed away. Ragnar prepared a swing, holding it back long enough so his brother could interrupt him.

  “Lunge!”

  Quickpaw, confronted with the idea of attacking his friend, hesitated. This lapse in determination meant Corsair couldn’t interrupt his brother’s swing and, instead, felt the sword knock against the side of his helmet. On reflex, he grabbed for the saddle and prevented himself falling over the side, groaning.

  “Two hits! Final warning, Corsair!”

  Drawing back, Corsair arrived at the opposite end of the arena and exchanged his sword for his lance. His brother, positioned at the other end, copied him and both wolves stared at each other for a moment.

  Ragnar gave him a delicate nod, one only he could notice. The crowd was silent in anticipation.

  Finally, they both snapped at the reins.

  “Hyah!”

  “Go!”

  Yowling, both ictharrs charged towards each other, each rider aiming his lance at his opponent. Ragnar was aiming to miss, looking to careen past his brother and swing around for another joust, but Corsair made sure he would strike his target. Guilt tried to avert his aim but he could feel his father watching him.

  Staring at him.

  I need to win this.

  With a cry, Corsair thrust the lance forwards as the two ictharrs met. The tip of the dulled lance struck Ragnar and the force, accumulated from both the momentum and Corsair’s strength, knocked him backwards off Harangoth and sent him plummeting to the snowy ground. He grunted as he landed, lance rolling away from him.

  “Finish! Corsair Sedrid is victorious!”

  The crowds applauded furiously, excited by the spectacle, but he didn’t care about them. He brought Quickpaw to a halt and dropped down, rushing over to his brother and falling to his knees.

  “Ragnee? Ragnee, I’m so sorry…”

  “It’s fine,” Ragnar said, removing his helmet. “We’ll both make it in now, for sure.”

  He offered his paw and Corsair took it without hesitation, helping Ragnar to his hind paws. Corsair dusted the snow off his brother’s armour and then lifted his own visor, thankful to feel the cold breeze against his face.

  “Hey!” a soldier yelled. “Back to the wall, no delays!”

  Not uttering another word, both brothers took their reins and led their companions back to the wall. Quickpaw drew up next to Harangoth and mewled, apologising for defeating him. He growled back, telling him not to worry, and both masters petted their steeds on the side of the neck.

  Corsair arrived beside Axel.

  “Good fight.”

  “Thanks. Ragnee went easy on me.”

  “That’s a sign of a good brother if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Corsair looked right and cast his gaze over to Ragnar. He was tending to Harangoth, muttering reassurances and praise to him. He and Quickpaw both gazed at their counterparts in admiration.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know what my sisters would have done?”

  “What?”

  “Claimed the glory like the unforgiving monsters they are.”

  Corsair laughed and looked back to the box where his parents were sitting.

  His mother beamed, as always, proud of her son being able to hold his own in the arena. She gave a small wave and he only smiled in response, not wanting to be scolded for interaction by the soldiers.

  But then he saw his father’s face.

  He wore his typical scowl, eyes focused on him, arms crossed as he reclined in his chair. His ears twitched, maw held firmly shut.

  Corsair placed a paw over the left side of his neck.

  Did I not impress him?

  He shook himself free of his worry and focused on what was ahead. The next two wolves were summoned and he waited, knowing that soon he would fight again.

  “Corsair Sedrid.”

  Lieutenant Maximus Verschelden stared towards the arena from the stables, peering through a gap between houses that gave him enough of a window to see the prince standing beside the idiot Axel Auryon.

  He had won the first fight.

  Then the next.

  And then the next.

  He was on a winning streak. Every single opponent he faced failed to bring him down. There were close calls and moments where Lieutenant Maximus was sure he’d be defeated, but he always came through to victory at the last moment.

  “So… you decided to stay on for a month and still make it into the
Krosguard, huh? I thought of you as a coward who would give up the moment something hard got in your way.”

  Corsair was talking with Axel, watching the fight rage in front of them.

  “But you stayed on. Maybe in some people’s eyes that’s impressive but I know you’re bottling up all that fear. You’re still the little pup I know you are.”

  He smirked and looked behind him. His armour was arranged within the stable, waiting for him to don it, and beside it stood Thornfang. She was sitting there in silence, fearsome eyes staring down at the ground.

  “If he keeps this up, he may end up at the top of the ranks. And he’d definitely make it into the Krosguard.”

  Thornfang looked at him as he approached.

  “At this rate, he’ll be fighting me.”

  He smiled. He stroked the side of her neck.

  “So, when we fight Quickpaw… I want you to tear out his throat.”

  Thornfang flashed her serrated fangs in understanding.

  The Allure of Rivalry

  (1139, Aestiom)

  Ophelia Sedrid winced as one of the riders was sent flying off his steed by a well-placed hit, making the crowds groan in sympathy.

  “Hit! Final warning, Thomas!”

  Thomas grunted and threw himself back on to his ictharr, rushing away as his opponent gave chase. Everyone’s eyes followed them, appreciating the intricate and fluid dance of combat in the arena, but her eyes lingered on her sons.

  Corsair and Ragnar had slowly moved towards each other throughout the tournament, both watching the fight while clad in armour. Their helmets were laid by their hind paws. Every few seconds they would murmur something to each other, drowned out by the cheering of the crowd and the sounds of combat, but she didn’t care.

  I love you two so much.

  She knew that this was possibly the last time she would see them. It pained her. The fact her sons would be at the risk of death during their time on the front was unfathomable and she felt nothing but guilt for allowing them to be placed in harm’s way.

  But it was their duty as the Winter Baron’s sons, as Arthur said.