All she could do was pray they would be safe. That God was watching.
She saw movement to her left and noticed Alpha McVarn approaching. He slipped through the blockade of guards and stopped by the Winter Baron’s side, saluting.
“Winter Baron.”
“Yes?” Arthur said.
“I wanted to make sure you were comfortable, Winter Baron. Anything to eat or drink? I didn’t want the townspeople trying to bother you for a quick Iggregom.”
“I don’t want anything.”
Alpha McVarn looked towards Ophelia.
“And you, Milady?”
“I am quite well, thank you.”
“Of course, Milady. Winter Baron?”
“Yes, Alpha?”
“I wanted to speak about your sons. They had a slightly rocky start at the beginning of this month but… they’ve progressed well throughout the course‒”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. Leave us, Alpha.”
Alpha McVarn looked towards Ophelia, holding her gaze, and gave a polite smile despite the discourtesy of her husband. He walked back to the group of officers he was deliberating with, all focused on the match.
Ophelia looked at her stone-faced and almost disinterested husband.
“Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“That was rude. He wanted to talk to you about how well Ragnar and Corsair are doing.”
Her husband ignored her. He kept staring into the arena, that familiar scowl upon his face, and Ophelia followed his gaze to find it training on Corsair. Her son was oblivious, lost in conversation with a white wolf beside him.
“Why are you staring at Corsair like that?”
“Not him.”
She revaluated where her husband was looking and saw where his gaze was truly directed.
Quickpaw stood beside Harangoth, highlighting their significant height differences. While Ragnar’s companion continued to stare ahead, glancing every now and then down at Quickpaw, the white ictharr was not so disciplined. He lay on the ground, staring up to watch the snowflakes fall. Once his eyes were focused on a specific snowflake, he would follow it down to the ground with wide eyes and attentive ears, waiting for the right moment before throwing his front paws up to catch it. A look of disappointment followed before he was distracted again with the next snowflake, already devising a scheme.
“It’s that,” Arthur said.
“Arthur, we’ve talked about being harsh towards Quickpaw.”
“It has no discipline. Look at the line – all these ictharrs, when I look at them, look as if they belong in the Krosguard. They have discipline. Then you look at… that‒”
“Arthur!”
Her husband, ignoring her, jabbed an accusative digit at the ictharr. Quickpaw attempted to capture a snowflake again, somehow managing to lose his balance and roll on to his back. Harangoth looked down at his friend, seeing him lying belly up, tilting his head in confusion. Their masters noticed this and gave a quick tug on the reins, urging their steeds to return to their positions.
“Trying to catch snowflakes, Ophelia, snowflakes. It has the attention span of a dumb-minded maug. No, a maug is too smart for that. Most probably a gerbeast waiting to be slaughtered.”
“Arthur.”
“Ophelia.”
Her name was delivered in a growl, one that ordered her to silence herself.
“I know what I’m saying. Corsair found him hurt in the woods. For all we know he was the runt of the pack and got left behind because he was weak. He isn’t trained and he isn’t properly bred. We made a mistake taking him in. It’s softened him. He isn’t an ictharr.”
Arthur looked away, returning his gaze to Quickpaw. Ophelia continued to stare, a part of her wondering what made her husband so hostile towards him.
She looked back at her son.
I love you, my cub. I will always watch over you. God will always watch over you.
“Grrrah!”
The fighter swung his dulled sword and struck his opponent on the side of the head. The crowd yelled as he fell off his ictharr, roaring in celebration of the warrior’s victory.
“Finish! Thomas is victorious!”
Corsair watched the opponents gather up their things and lead their ictharrs back to the wall, the victor bathing in his glory while the loser traipsed back with an ashamed ictharr. Quickpaw watched them walk past, tilting his head as he did so, and tugged against the reins to follow.
“Not right now, Quickpaw,” Corsair said, patting him on the head.
His ictharr growled, accepting his master’s instructions, and remained where he was.
Two intense hours of fighting and rushing from one side of the courtyard to the other left all the wolves on the verge of exhaustion, still standing upright to save face. Some had their tongues hanging from the corners of their mouths, their companions still filled with enough energy to keep going. Quickpaw continued to watch the snow fall, tilting his head left and right in bewilderment.
Alpha McVarn, finishing his conversation with his subordinates, stepped out into the open.
“Thank you all for attending the Krosguard final training day. It has been a brutal two hours of pitting our riders and their ictharrs against one another during this final assessment. I ask that you show your support and gratitude to these fine wolves. They have thrown themselves at the hardest fighting force Vos Draemar has and, while some have left us, this group has fought on. Regardless of whether they enter the ranks or not, they’ve struggled for a month without tiring.”
The audience applauded, showering the remaining trainees in praise, until Alpha McVarn raised his paw and silenced them once more.
“Before we conclude, however, we would like to close with a final duel. As tradition, we always have our best fighter of the cohort compete against one of our greatest riders in the Krosguard. Already boasting a victory against me, I call…”
He turned.
“…Corsair Sedrid to the arena!”
The crowd applauded as Corsair’s head snapped up to look at them, ears flat and eyes wide.
“What?” he said, turning to look at Axel.
“You’re on, go!”
Axel gestured for him to hurry up and Corsair did so, leading Quickpaw out into the open by the reins. His ictharr padded alongside him, scanning the faces of the crowd, eyes wide and maw agape in excitement.
“You haven’t lost a fight today,” Alpha McVarn said. “This hasn’t happened in 30 years, son. It’s a title to wear with pride.”
“Thank you, Alpha,” Corsair said, looking to his father with a gleaming expression on his face.
His father met his gaze with a scowl.
Corsair looked away.
“Before we end today’s fighting and your final day of training in the Krosguard, you are going to face Lieutenant Maximus Verschelden.”
Corsair’s already faltering expression collapsed.
“W-what?”
Alpha McVarn was already walking out of the courtyard and back to his advisors, the crowds cheering and whooping for Corsair. He turned, making eye contact with Ragnar, unsure of what to do.
“Behind you!” he yelled.
Corsair heard something charging towards him and threw himself out the way, rolling towards Quickpaw and pushing himself up on to his hind paws. Thornfang shot past, plated in armour, circling around at the other end of the courtyard. She turned and stopped, her rider pulling on the reins.
In the saddle sat the Butcher of Tomskon.
With armour clinging to him and masked helmet on, the only thing Corsair could see were his two harsh eyes glaring out at him through the two holes. A moment of terror passed where he became frozen, feeling the temptation to flee rise.
But, with a growl, he steeled himself.
“Come on, Quickpaw.”
Placing his helmet on his head, visor still up, he climbed into Quickpaw’s saddle and drew his lance. He growled as he glared back at his opponent, clenching one paw ar
ound one of the reins while the other tightened around the shaft of the lance.
The Butcher of Tomskon stared.
Corsair Sedrid slammed his visor down.
Neither yielded.
“Ready!” a soldier yelled.
The lupine drummer prepared himself, raising his drumsticks into the air.
Silence.
We’ve got this. We’ve got this.
“Begin!”
The drummer rapped the drum, this time with a wild tempo. Corsair’s heart mimicked that reckless beat. With a snap of the reins, the Butcher of Tomskon sent Thornfang hurtling towards them.
“Hyah!”
Corsair yanked the reins to the left and Quickpaw yowled in panic, following his commands. He felt the air right next to his head split as the lancehead tore through it. The crowd groaned in anticipation, watching as Corsair rode Quickpaw around to the opposite side and turned.
His enemy charged again, aiming his lance at his head. Corsair turned and evaded the attack, speeding across to the other side.
“Stay still!” The Butcher of Tomskon yelled.
“Left, Quickpaw!”
He turned and, despite his agility, he could do nothing to stop the incoming battering ram.
Thornfang rammed into Quickpaw’s side. Corsair’s heart wrenched as he heard Quickpaw yelp in pain, collapsing on to his side, before he flew off the saddle and rolled through the snow. There was a pained yap from Quickpaw as the Butcher of Tomskon rode past, prodding him in the side with his sword.
“Hit!”
Corsair hurried to his hind paws, drawing his sword and looking back towards his steed. He was on his side in the snow, trying to get on to all fours while still dazed. The Butcher of Tomskon was turning around to charge him again, sword at the ready. Corsair rushed towards Quickpaw, dodging out the way of a swing, and helped his steed on to his paws. Quickpaw gave a growl of thanks while his master leapt on to his saddle, taking up the reins and turning‒
Quickpaw yowled to alert him but it was too late.
Corsair’s eyes widened as he saw his opponent on top of them. He opened his mouth to scream. In panic, he tried to summon his sword from his scabbard but failed, pulling it in a way that made it snag on the leather.
The crowd gasped as the lieutenant’s sword clanged against the helmet.
The force behind the swing knocked him from his saddle, sending him spiralling down to the snow while his helmet flew from his head. He landed and grunted. The world spun around him, his head throbbing with pain, unable to understand what he was doing with his disorientated senses. He attempted to push himself up but lost his balance and fell into the snow again.
He could see his mother standing, paws to her mouth in horror of what she was witnessing. Axel held Ragnar back.
Corsair was one hit away from losing.
I’m in anyway. I win. He loses.
But that didn’t matter as he realised Quickpaw was still being chased by Thornfang, Lieutenant Maximus targeting him and ignoring the vulnerable opponent on the ground.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Leave him alone!”
He pushed himself up to his hind paws, stumbling, and drew his sword. Quickpaw shot past him, eyes wide, wanting to flee from the monster but continually glancing at his master, afraid to leave him behind. Thornfang was slower, easily outmanoeuvred, but she had the advantage of greater stamina. Quickpaw was exerting himself, almost tumbling into the snow.
“Quickpaw, come here!”
In Quickpaw’s panicked frenzy, he couldn’t hear him nor did he have the option to. The Butcher of Tomskon used Thornfang to act as a wedge between Quickpaw and the prince, still wary that Corsair could hit him and often checking over his shoulder. Corsair tried to approach and attack Thornfang but failed, unable to rush after her.
“You’re fighting me, not him!”
The audience clamoured, booing the lieutenant as he hunted Quickpaw. Quickpaw yowled and yapped, trying to call to his master for help, but Corsair couldn’t do anything.
“Stop!”
No one dared intervene despite their passionate complaints, not willing to get between two ictharrs locked in battle. Thornfang intercepted him and rammed him down, pinning him with one mighty paw. He scrambled desperately, trying to propel himself away, but nothing worked.
Corsair knew he was too far away to get closer in time. He dropped his sword and leaned down.
As he was carrying out his plan, he heard the audience gasp.
“Someone stop him!” a wolf yelled.
“Lieutenant, what the hell are you doing?” Alpha McVarn ordered.
Corsair looked up, plan ready to be executed, and saw Thornfang’s hellish maw open. Her serrated fangs were on display, open and aimed to sink into Quickpaw’s neck. The Butcher of Tomskon didn’t try to stop it.
“No!”
Corsair hurled the snowball.
It shot across the gap and, as Thornfang was bringing her fangs back to lunge forwards, the snowball struck the Butcher of Tomskon in the side of the helmet. Snow shot through the right eyehole and into his eye, causing him to yell out and yank on the reins. Thornfang pulled away at the last second, alleviating the pressure on Quickpaw. Eyes wide and whimpering, Quickpaw darted back to his master.
“Are you okay?”
Quickpaw whined. Corsair glanced at his opponent as he recovered from the hit, turning around to charge.
“OK, I need you to keep him distracted.”
Quickpaw gave a confused growl but his master gave him no time to enquire further. The Butcher of Tomskon charged back and, with a maddened look in his eyes, aimed for the wolf’s head. Corsair stood his ground, sword at the ready.
He’s aggressive. He’s always on the attack and always charging back and forth to prevent me from retaliating.
He dodged the attack as the Butcher of Tomskon hurtled past. Quickpaw yapped up a storm. The crowd complained and groaned, annoyed. Thornfang focused on him again, giving chase.
He’s weak on defence. He’s never had to defend before because there’s never been a scenario where he’s had to rely on that.
There was no time to doubt himself. Thornfang continued her pursuit of Quickpaw, still lagging behind somewhat.
“To me!” he yelled. “To me!”
Quickpaw yapped in response and rushed towards him, Thornfang hidden behind his body. Corsair readied his sword, holding his ground, and yelled to his steed.
“Left!”
Immediately, Quickpaw threw himself to the side as Thornfang leapt forwards with maw open. She was met with a yell and a strong swing, the broadside of the blade smacking against the side of her head and knocking her off course. The crowd cheered, applauding the successful hit.
“Hit!”
The Butcher of Tomskon grunted and steered around, turning on Corsair, but Quickpaw began yapping again. The Butcher of Tomskon tried to lead Thornfang forwards but she was distracted by the continuous noise. She ignored her master and turned, roaring at Quickpaw.
“Not him, get Sedrid!”
Corsair took his opportunity, yelled out, and swung at Thornfang’s head. Hearing him attack, she stepped back out the way and knocked him down with a swing of her paw, opening her mouth and revealing her fangs once more.
Before he could back away, she thrust her fangs towards his tail.
“No!” his mother wailed.
With a snarl, Quickpaw leapt forwards and knocked the black ictharr down. She was too formidable to fall from the weak attack but the Butcher of Tomskon was caught off guard and fell from the saddle. He rolled across the snow, helmet falling from his head. He scrambled up to his hind paws and drew his sword.
The Butcher of Tomskon turned to climb up into the saddle again but Corsair rushed forwards and attacked with a swing. Thornfang turned to defend her master before she was hit across the snout by Quickpaw, taunting her. Without her rider, all she could do was endlessly chase him, bounding through the snow to sink her fangs into his flesh.
“Keep her busy!” Corsair yelled.
The Butcher of Tomskon yelled out and brought the sword down from above. He parried it and clashed his blade against his, locking them in a stalemate. They both leaned in against their swords, glaring at one another.
“One hit is all it takes, Sedrid. One hit.”
Snarling, Corsair shoved him away and took a step back. He watched the opponent growl and bare his fangs, ready to attack, before the Butcher of Tomskon charged forwards and raised his sword.
Now!
Corsair took his chances and stabbed forwards. The blunt tip scraped against the metal of the Butcher of Tomskon’s torso plating, knocking him back and interrupting his attack.
“Hit! Final warning, Lieutenant!”
“What the hell is going on?” someone yelled. “Someone interrupt this thing!”
“Do you want to get in the middle of that?” someone else bellowed.
Yelling out, the Butcher of Tomskon unleashed a series of swings at him. Corsair weaved out the way of every slash and swing. Upon the final attack, he couldn’t back away further and was forced to parry the blow, returning him to the clash with the brutal wolf.
“I’m ending this now, Sedrid. Learn your place!”
Corsair tried to break the clash but, before he could rear back to separate, he felt his sword get thrown upwards. With eyes widening, he saw his weapon fly into the air.
He was left completely defenceless.
Everything slowed down.
The lightning speed of the drumming was reduced to nothing more than a resting heartbeat thudding inside Corsair’s head.
His eyes watched the sword’s trajectory in flight, seeing it arc up above. It was destined to land a metre behind the Butcher of Tomskon.
He saw the Butcher of Tomskon draw his sword’s hilt into him, bringing the sword tip back to stab Corsair.
Corsair reacted in time.
He spun around the sword, dodging the tip, and felt his body graze against Maximus. His paw rose to snatch the sword from the air, the pommel aiming down towards the ground, and there was a moment of frozen movement where everything held still.
The crowd fell silent. Not even the snowfall stirred.
Corsair caught the sword, turned, and swung at the Butcher of Tomskon’s head.
The Sharpened Fangs Of Lupine Spirit Page 16