The next hour, following the declaration of the new Winter Baron, was filled with a wealth of condolences and sympathies for the young Sedrid. He met friends and colleagues of his father, names he vaguely recalled hearing months and years ago. He was unacquainted with the majority but, knowing better than to question their identity, he nodded and thanked them.
Now, however, the two brothers knelt before the memorial.
A new inscription had been added to the timeline of Winter Barons and Baronesses, stretching back to the origins of the Clan of the Great Lupine with an ornate engraving of the first Winter Baron. Corsair’s eyes scanned each row left to right, reading every inscription in his head, before he finally arrived over his father’s name.
Winter Baron Arthur Sedrid. A great leader taken from us by unfortunate circumstances. May God bless his valiant soul. 1079 – 1139.
All Corsair could do was stare at the one thing he could remember his father by, with his body stowed away and his helmet given over to his loyal colleague. It came as a surprise to them all, particularly Ragnar, but it was for no reason of material gain. His brother was a kind person. He was not the type to put his loss of leadership, something so material, over his father’s death.
He glanced to his left. His brother was kneeling beside him, still facing the wall, inhaling and exhaling with a steady rhythm. His shoulders rose and fell with every breath. Corsair sensed an unusual calm over him.
I should say something.
His brother beat him to it.
“I feel like you want to say something.”
Corsair hesitated. Ragnar turned his head.
“I know it was difficult to go up there and say those things about Dad. After all you’ve been through with him, the toughest thing to do would be to save face for everyone.”
“Did you mean it?” Corsair said. “What you said?”
“Some. Part of me wanted to bring up Ignatius Mount and 10 years ago but… I don’t know. I didn’t want to unearth all of this knowing you’d be the focal point.”
“Yeah. Thanks, I appreciate it. I just…”
A pause.
“Go on,” Ragnar said.
“I… a part of me feels bad for saying this. Especially as it’s the day of his funeral.”
“I think that’s the best time for you to say what you need about him. No one else is listening. Say it if you want to.”
Corsair waited. He glanced back to the front podium, the place where his father declared war a month ago, and back to the engraving. His eyes focused on the chiselled letters, feeling a paw move up to the side of his neck.
“I hate him.”
A pause. Ragnar didn’t interrupt, eyes focused on his brother.
“Before what happened, I loved him like nothing else. He was the greatest father I could ever ask for. He played with us. He talked to us. He tucked us into bed every night when we were little. But then it all changed after what happened. A little bit before then, even. It was probably the change in his attitude that led him to bite me.”
Ragnar listened.
“And for the last 10 years, I’ve never resented a wolf more. I’ve never felt so much anger towards someone for the way they’ve treated me. I’ve never felt so much disgust for a person who would dismiss me and everything I did at every turn. I thought I’d feel this about someone else, someone like Maximus. Not Dad.”
He sighed.
“And… now I’m confused.”
“Why are you confused?”
“I’m confused because, all this time, I’ve told myself I hated him. For years, I’ve let these thoughts brew over and over again but last week, when I saw him die… I cried. The person I hated the most made me sprint from Mr Duncan’s tavern to be by his side. I… don’t understand why it hurt so much.”
Corsair looked over at him.
“You felt it too, right? That pain? That feeling of being pulled in two?”
Ragnar sighed and looked at him.
“Maybe… maybe we’ve been mourning for the last 10 years and it’s only come to a head now.”
Looking back at his engraving, Corsair couldn’t help but agree.
Both Sedrids’ ears stood as the door opened with a creak, looking over their shoulders.
At first glance, he knew that the new arrivals were more than regular visitors. A team of eight soldiers stood there, all dressed in master-crafted steel armour that was so highly polished it was as if they were walking mirrors. Every panel of metal was engraved and etched with insignias and symbols, from their shin guards to their helmets’ cheek pieces. Corsair was dazzled. Each soldier had a helmet placed on his head, consisting of a mask that covered their snouts and faces. The fronts of their torso pieces were shaped into the outlines of abdomens, metal muscle shielding the flesh beneath the armour.
At the centre of the entourage were two figures and Corsair’s eyes were immediately drawn to the stature of the schnauzer.
The figure was dressed in the finest of clothing, with every thread of his red cape embroidered with an affluent needle. His body was clad in royal robes, laden with silk and velvet, and his hind paws were shielded from the snow by thick leather hind-paw socks. The black schnauzer, his fur greying beneath his short snout, wore a glorious gold crown encrusted with countless jewels and diamonds of values Corsair could not fathom.
“Ah, there you are,” the schnauzer said, his grand and wavering voice bearing the trace of an accent. “You must be Ragnar and Corsair Sedrid, are you not?”
Both Sedrids stood, Ragnar leading the way to the front entrance with Corsair following.
“Uh, yes, I’m Ragnar. This is my brother, Corsair.”
“I see.”
The two lupines stopped before the schnauzer.
“Apologies for the sudden intrusion. Your mother directed me to the Great Hall of Wolves to offer my condolences regarding your terrible loss. I am Damien Farramor, King of Opulus.”
The two wolves stood there, mouths agape.
“You’re the King of Opulus, Your Majesty?”
“No need for the astonished look. A hound of my age still has enough spirit inside them to lead a kingdom. Isn’t that right, Valour?”
As the king turned to his right, Corsair’s eyes fell upon the second figure. A hound dressed in gold-tinted armour from hind paw to neck, with every inch of fur covered by interlocking plates of metal, stepped into the hall. A laurel crown of black metal reached around from the back of his helmet to the front, the ends stopping just above the eyes. A longsword pointing downwards, its blade wrapped in a chain of black laurel leaves from hilt to tip, was painted on his right shoulder guard. From the waist hung two blood-red garments, one covering the front of each leg. The Kingdom of Opulus’s emblem was emblazoned on each standard. It was that same downwards-pointing longsword once again, the golden crown beaming from above its grip. Protruding from the left side of the blade, face carved into one half, was the black head of a cat – from the right, the black head of a dog peered out.
However, as the knight lifted his helmet, it wasn’t the armour or intricate decorations that got Corsair’s attention.
It was the wearer.
Before him stood a doberman, just as tall as he was, with his helmet tucked beneath his arm and his longsword sheathed in his buckle. Two golden eyes.
Corsair remembered those two eyes. He remembered how he had been knocked down, defeated, and stared up into them as the tip of the victor’s blade was pressed against his neck.
Corsair saw the doberman offer a paw.
“Corsair Sedrid,” he said in a kind voice with a shade of an accent. “I am Valour. We fought a while ago.”
“You beat me.”
“I did, yes. I have to admit, though, that it was luck. I was prepared to have you kick my arse back to Opulus.”
Corsair chuckled along with him. He appreciated his modesty, hiding the fact that he had demolished the wolf, and it made the sudden meeting less awkward.
“Valour
is my personal advisor,” the King of Opulus said. “And commander of the Militaria chapter of the Royal Order – the finest hound knights in all of Vos Draemar.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“But, anyway, I have come here to offer my sincerest condolences for your terrible loss. Your father perished on his journey to my kingdom and I cannot help but feel partially responsible.”
“Don’t, Your Majesty,” Ragnar said. “It… it wasn’t your fault. No one could have seen it coming.”
“Indeed. The future holds bizarre events – it is the unfortunate way of reality. Was your father buried here, if I may ask?”
“His body is buried in the church graveyard but it’s tradition for us to remember them here. They commemorate the Winter Barons and Winter Baronesses back where we just were.”
Ragnar turned, pointing to the back wall of the hall.
“I can show you, if you want.”
“That would be kind. It would be good to have the opportunity to pay my respects to your father. Legionnaires, stay here.”
“Dominus patria regis, Rex,” the legionnaires said in unison, taking up positions by the door. Corsair narrowed his eyes in confusion, an expression Valour saw.
“New Opulusian,” he said. “It means ‘loyalty over all, King’. It’s the Opulusian Legion’s motto. Excluding the word ‘king’, anyway.”
Corsair nodded, appreciative of the explanation. They walked in silence up the aisle and towards the memorial site, arriving as Ragnar pointed to the engraving.
“Here it is, Your Majesty.”
The king knelt and placed his paw on the space beside the engraving, eyes scrutinising every curve and dot of his name.
“It is a great shame. I would have enjoyed meeting him.”
“He was a good leader.”
“I can imagine. This capital is a thriving community – the people I have spoken to were delightful. It is a product of a good rule.”
The king stood and turned to face Corsair.
“I apologise if I seem too conversational in a time of grief. I don’t mean to be insensitive.”
“Not at all, Your Majesty,” Corsair said. “Some wounds can’t be healed, no matter what. It doesn’t matter if you’re polite about it, I guess.”
“Wise words, Corsair, wise words. I will shut my maw and leave you two alone. Commander, I believe it is time we took our leave.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
As Valour relayed the orders to the legionnaires in New Opulusian, the king turned and shook paws with Corsair.
“It has been a pleasure meeting you.”
“You too, Your Majesty.”
He turned and shook Ragnar’s paw.
“It has been a pleasure meeting you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Your Majesty.”
The king stepped back, addressing both of them.
“Please know that you have my best wishes for your family during these dark hours.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the two wolves answered.
Corsair turned to Valour to shake his paw and met his eye as they exchanged farewells. There was a sorrowful look there, apologetic, and – while Corsair didn’t say it outright – he appreciated the sensitivity shown.
“Maybe we’ll meet again over a pint?” he said.
The prince only chuckled, a non-committal response, and the doberman sensed it was best to leave it at that. They turned, the king signalling the guards to march out the front of the hall. Corsair turned back to the wall.
Why didn’t you love me? Why did you treat me as you did?
Why does it hurt if I hate you so much?
Chapter Eighteen
Nights later, Corsair turned down the breeding ground of nightmares that was his bed and decided to walk through his home town.
He was becoming more accustomed to the silence of Grand Wolf Plains. There was a time, merely days ago, where he had preferred the comfort of strong daylight over the dim light of lanterns, but now it had all changed. He could hide in the dark, circumvent the horrible thoughts that would chase him in his sleep, and dwell on what had happened. It would give him the opportunity to try to clear his head.
He couldn’t endure sleep any more. He couldn’t survive the harsh memories that flashed before his eyes. The memories of his father dying and shunning him, of his father biting him in the side of the neck. All the bad memories had resurfaced and they were searching for him, lurking in his dreams.
Not tonight.
Walking through the town centre for the fifth time, Corsair stopped to listen to the silence of the night. No ictharr stirred, no trader badgered him, no playful cubs scampered past.
All was silent.
He looked up at the monument. Julian Krosguard stood forever vigilant, watching over the citizens with a careful yet miserable eye. Misery hovered around the statue, despaired at the loss of a great leader. However, it still stood ready to defend its people with shield and sword in paw.
Corsair looked to his left and saw the Great Hall of Wolves. Its bleak shadow loomed in the distance, left in darkness. He remembered all the times he would see his father at the front of the hall, addressing the public with the Winter Baron’s helmet on his head. Those golden wings glinted in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
He couldn’t think of anyone else who wore that helmet better than Arthur Sedrid.
But, now, it rested on Alpha Tiberius’s head.
His father would have never chosen Corsair as the next Winter Baron. He knew it after their fierce confrontation with one another yet he never expected him to pass it over to a non-Sedrid. Ragnar was the rightful heir – he was respectable, disciplined, mature. Harangoth even matched him perfectly. For what reason would his father decline him the right to the helmet?
Maybe his father had been blinded by anger, believing that if such insubordination arose in his younger son, then it might have originated with his elder.
He felt his eyes water.
I have to move on from him now. He’s dead. It’s been a week.
He shook his head and fought back the sting of tears.
I need to move on from him now.
But Corsair didn’t know what he would even be able to move on to. All that was left of his father’s legacy was a bloody war being fought in the east and that wasn’t under Sedrid control any more. It was in the paws of Alpha Tiberius, not even a relative of his father, and his family was left barely relevant to the leadership. All that was left was Ragnar, who was waiting until he was ‘mature enough’ for the helmet to be passed to him.
He partially understood it. Neither he nor his brother was experienced in leading an army during wartime. That was a hefty responsibility, one that could not be placed so easily upon a wolf’s shoulders. But it was their birth right. They were Sedrids, the next in line to leadership. Having it denied seemed wrong, almost as if they had been teased with the idea of it for 20 years.
It’s a lot of pressure. Maybe, right now, it’s for the best.
That’s all he could conclude about it.
He strode down the main pathway, moving towards the east wall. The snowfall was light, drifting down from the heavens, and it was so soft that Corsair didn’t even notice it landing on him. He was scanning the surroundings, looking at the skeletal shadows of the trees that covered the south of Grand Wolf Plains.
“Stop right there!”
He turned his head.
Three Opulusian legionnaires approached him, their leader with a lantern in his paw while the other hovered over his sheathed short sword. They converged on him with intent but, upon realising who it was, the ferocity behind the eyes relented.
“Oh… apologies, Sir. I thought you were someone else.”
“It’s all right.”
“Any reason you’re wandering around at this hour?”
“Just thinking. Enjoying the quiet.”
“I’d recommend that you return home, Sir. If that’s not
possible, then keep your eyes open – you never know who’s wandering around at this hour.”
“I’ll be careful. Thank you.”
The leader turned and jerked his head in the opposite direction, leading them off past Corsair. He watched them leave, the small orange radius of light disappearing down the pathway as the hounds continued their sweep.
Some form of agreement had been reached between Alpha Tiberius and the King of Opulus. Days before, Corsair had seen a convoy of Opulusian legionnaires arrive at the heart of the town, disembarking from their vehicles and taking up residence in the barracks to the north. They arrived to the welcoming arms of wolves content with their support against the Land of the Sun and Moon. Their sleek steel armour and stoic facemasks were sights to behold, particularly en masse.
They were certainly sterner than the lupines who came before. Some wolf patrols still roamed around but they were in the minority. In a short space of time, the Opulusians replaced the lupine soldiers patrolling the streets until the sight of armed wolves became a rare occurrence.
Corsair walked on for another minute before he saw a figure up ahead, standing motionless to the side. There was someone shrouded in a dark cloak, facing away from him and peering out towards the south. He took two steps towards the figure before he stopped, eyes focusing on the cloaked back.
His paw shifted on to the pommel of his longsword, tucked away into its scabbard.
“Is everything all right?”
The figure turned, surprised by the sudden sound of the voice, and Corsair’s paw clenched over the sword in anticipation. A millisecond later, his paw relaxed as he saw the six strands of black fur shooting down from the wolf’s jaw. He felt relieved when he saw paws gloved in white fur and that familiar strip of white running down the snout. A silhouette of a bow hung over her shoulder by the string.
Rohesia stepped forwards.
“You’re home?” Corsair asked.
“Most of us were brought back after your father…”
She stopped herself.
“I’m… so sorry, Corsair.”
His immediate response was to dismiss it as nothing, but the polite retort seemed hard to conjure in his current state of mind. Instead, he nodded, using silence as a way to cover up his emotions.
The Sharpened Fangs Of Lupine Spirit Page 24