Wittendon wanted to tell Sarak everything—the tunnels, the rhyming cat, the deadly blades of Crespin, but he stood there still as a stone and said, “Well, she has the parties to keep her nose from her books, too.”
“Ah, yes,” Sarak said. “Is that the reason for the sulking, the distraction? Does it bother you to think of her dancing with others, laughing?”
Wittendon couldn’t believe how easily Sarak had just filled in a blank that hadn’t been there.
“And there is the Fortune Ball coming up. She’ll be there with bells on. Maybe even literally depending on what’s new in fashion.” Sarak smiled at his friend. “Come on then, I’ll take you to the village for some food. It’s on me, good prince.”
Wittendon did not really want to spend more time with Sarak right now, but there was nothing to do but accept. They cleaned and sheathed their weapons and began the walk down the hill. “She’ll probably have a warm supper waiting for you,” Wittendon said, looking for an excuse to skip out on lunch.
“After this morning, I should have appetite enough for both. Come now, you need some cheering up.”
Crespin watched his son and Sarak walk down the hill. He had chosen Sarak for his skill with a blade, his unusual prowess in magic, and the easygoing attitude Crespin knew would be helpful to Wittendon. Watching them walk, then run down the hill in their wolken forms, Crespin noticed something that had escaped his eye before. On every other bound, the young trainer lifted his right leg higher than his left. It was an unusual trait for one of such speed. And a trait he had seen in only one Verander before.
Crespin met them at the bottom of the hill with a nod just as they shifted into their flesh forms and tightened their cloaks.
“How goes the practice this promising day?” the king asked, briefly acknowledging his son, but addressing Sarak.
Sarak bowed. “Quite well, my lord. Your son has improved exponentially since our first meeting.”
Crespin stared into Sarak’s dark eyes, noting the way a ring of yellow seemed to surround each iris. “Yes,” the king said. “I have been watching. Do you know, good Sarak, that you move in a way that recalls to me someone I knew many moons before your birth?”
“A dear friend, I can only hope, my king,” Sarak replied with a flattering bow.
“A peer,” the king said. “And a man I was forced to respect.” The king turned with an enigmatic swish of robes and left.
When he was gone, Sarak turned to Wittendon. “Well. I can see now how you and the mighty king have communication issues sometimes.”
“That was more of a compliment than he’s ever given me. I’d take it if I were you,” Wittendon responded, handing their weapons to a servant before the two friends headed into the village to eat.
Chapter 26
The dogs kicked mud at each other. It was something Pietre couldn’t quite get used to.
He and Humphrey had come for a training session with Markhi, but instead were met by the sight and sound of dozens of dogs who had gathered around a field by the creek bed. The field was comprised entirely of thick black mud and filled with paw prints and skid marks. Dogs and pups rested among rocks on a high bank overlooking the field.
Although Pietre had been lying to his mother for the last month about hunting with the dogs, he’d never actually seen more than a few at a time, standing at a distance as they waited for Markhi. The noise of all those canines barking and talking made Pietre’s head hurt, but it excited Humphrey who couldn’t seem to keep his tail or tongue from wagging.
Markhi stood in the middle of a huddle with eight large dogs. When he lifted his head, he saw Humphrey and Pietre and gave a curt nod. Pietre rubbed the stone in his pocket as he’d become accustomed to doing when nervous. A smaller, heavyset dog came hurtling toward them, ears flapping with every bound. Humphrey stopped wagging and stood with head erect and body still. The small dog rammed to a halt and stood right in front of Humphrey. He looked up at Humphrey’s bulk with nothing less than disdain and said, “Markhi, the arch hound of the great pack Sontag, welcomes you. The great captain Markhi invites the dog Humphrey to play mudball. Will you accept?”
Humphrey tossed his head back, looking to a host of lovely young she-hounds on the upper bank. “Yes,” he said, confidently.
“Excellent,” the dog said, with a sly smile that made Pietre lean over to Humphrey and whisper, “You sure?”
“Of course,” Humphrey replied. “Look how small and old most of them are. I’ve totally got this.”
Pietre smiled in almost the same way the little dog had. “Okay,” he said and went to find a place for himself among the rocks and spectators. It proved to be a little harder than he had expected. Every time he saw a small spot of grass or a nice flat rock, one of the dogs seemed to move into it just before he did. They never looked at him, just drifted over into the available space. He stood there awkwardly for a minute, hoping Humphrey’s reception was better than his, when he heard a soft female voice whisper, “Come human. You can sit right here.”
The dog’s fur was cream-colored and thick, although when he looked into her face, he was met by the blackest, roundest eyes he had ever seen. He sat nervously on a rock and she seemed to smile at him. “I am Alekas,” she said. The dogs around her looked away, clearly not thrilled by their new seat-mate.
Humphrey walked to the mud pit. Markhi didn’t acknowledge him, nor did the other dogs. There was barking and snarling among the eighteen or so competitors. “Hey, flea bag,” a voice said loudly into Humphrey’s ear. Next to him stood an enormous dog, obese and ugly with tiny eyes shrouded by dirty brown fur. “You go to that end with the other butt sniffers.”
Humphrey lifted his lip in a snarl and was about to say something, but behind him a dog shouted, “Hey newbie, over here.” Humphrey gave the fat dog one last look before turning to the dog who looked like the team captain.
“You ever played before?”
Humphrey shook his head.
“Well,” the captain said, “see that ball in the middle. We run for it. When we get it we take it past the line at the other end. Got it?”
What wasn’t to get? It sounded like the easiest game on earth. Humphrey nodded and his captain looked at him skeptically. “Oh, and that dog who was insulting you—you probably want to keep a safe distance.”
Humphrey snorted. He doubted that fatso could catch up to him if he tried.
Humphrey’s team lined up and a little yapper next to him said excitedly, “Keep your head low. Fake. And block. And fake. And block.” The dog bounced around like he was made of springs. “And fake. And block.”
The crowd was pounding on the rocks and barking. Competitors at each end puffed their chests, jumping and sliding. Humphrey stepped into the mud—it was like trying to walk in six inches of porridge. He searched the bank to see Pietre and caught sight of him just before the dog refereeing barked twice and the mud went flying.
“Is it safe?” Pietre asked Alekas, once the roar of the crowd had died down a little.
“Safe?” she said. “That’s not a word we use much.” She smiled, but Pietre found he couldn’t quite return it. Humphrey might have been full-grown, but he was young and too confident.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Alekas said. “A strong dog like your friend—he’ll be fine. Now where do you hail from?”
“A village,” Pietre said, trying to catch a glimpse of Humphrey through the mud. “A few miles south. We—” he paused, not quite sure how to put it. “The dog Humphrey and I travel together.”
She laughed. “Yes, well, obviously, he’s not from around here.” Her dark eyes glistened and she added, “He’s huge. And he doesn’t carry himself like the dogs in this pack.”
Pietre knew Humphrey had grown big, but until now, Pietre hadn’t realized that even among the dogs, Humphrey’s size was an anomaly.
Just then, the ball slipped away from one of the players on the field. The spectators screamed, barked, and howled like lunatics—especially th
e women. “Come on Borl!” several of them were shouting. “Silva,” a group of others yelled.
The younglings and pups in the crowd were tackling each other and growling, eager to seem as tough and big as the grown dogs. Some of the youngest and oldest just wandered around sniffing things—grass, mud, old fossils, even the dung. Pietre grimaced and Alekas asked, "You humans don't revel in the joys of smell like we do?"
“No, I guess not,” he said.
“You are missing out,” she replied. “You can learn a lot with your nose. It brings much pleasure, like tasting food.”
“Some things are better left untasted,” Pietre said, looking at a small speckled dog sniffing at another’s back end.
Alekas laughed. “Ah, boy, there are no bad smells. Just interesting ones. And you can learn things from them all.”
There was a loud roar and thunder of feet as the dogs stampeded toward a mushy leathery ball at the center of the pit.
Humphrey charged out, but was late to the first tussle, where dogs and more dogs smacked into each other. As the other dogs collided Markhi cut right then left as his opponents lurched for him. Two of Humphrey’s teammates lunged at the same time, and at the last second Markhi ducked and the dogs crashed long ways into each other and flopped into deep mud. The crowd roared with delight. "Markhi!" they shouted.
As his mentor darted forward, Humphrey became more and more determined to stop him. Markhi approached the end of the pit and Humphrey anticipated what the dog captain would do—a quick recoil and a head fake to the right. As Humphrey lunged out of the mud, at least five feet in the air, there was a gasp from the audience. Markhi braced for impact as Humphrey’s legs stretched out, ready to tackle the leader. In his mind, Humphrey could practically hear the she-dogs swoon.
It was too bad he didn’t hear Pietre shouting, “Look out!” because just before Humphrey hit Markhi, a glint in his peripheral vision became a gnarly, fat face. Borl’s 200-pound body smashed into Humphrey’s ribs, taking his breath and sending him face first into the black mud. He felt like he was suffocating, although he knew he must still be alive because he could taste the mud as it filled his mouth, nose and throat. Humphrey got up, spit, gagged, and tried to shake the mud out of his ears. It stuck there stubbornly, making it hard for Humphrey to hear. Unfortunately, he didn’t need to hear to notice the crowd laughing and cheering for the opposite team.
Markhi rose out of the mud, with the ball in his teeth. He had scored.
“Nice move, stupid,” Borl snarled as Humphrey limped back to his side of the field. “Next time, save yourself the trouble and just run the other direction.”
Humphrey kicked up his heel, flicking a blob of mud right into Borl’s mouth. “Score,” he whispered, as the dog spat and coughed.
When the referee barked for round two, Humphrey was ready. He had stopped thinking about the she-hounds and stared straight at his opponents.
When the ball came near, he charged. Markhi still beat him to the ball, but it was close. Humphrey’s teammates stopped Markhi and forced him to pass to a black dog with a wiry frame and a lot of grit—a sentinel the crowd called Silva. The dog ran towards the goal, as their captain yelled, “Wolf sniffers!” but after a few yards Silva was tackled so hard the ball flew out of his mouth into the air where it was snatched by the little bouncy dog on Humphrey’s team. The bouncy dog ran faster than anybody else. He almost made it through the thick line of blockers until Borl knocked him in his head. Before he went down, the little dog tossed the ball straight to Humphrey. Borl and the bouncy dog landed with a slurp as the blockers stumbled on top of them.
“Dog pile,” the crowd roared gleefully.
Humphrey didn’t hear. He just ran toward the goal. His ribs still hurt, but he knew Markhi was right behind him and he ran with everything he had. He was only feet from the goal, but he could feel Markhi at his heels. Even on solid ground it would have been hard to outrun Markhi. In thick mud it was impossible. Humphrey slowed for just an instant and set his hind legs as firmly as he could. Using all his strength he sprang forward. Markhi saw it and jumped too, but Humphrey soared past him and across the goal line.
For a split second the crowd was silent and then the entire pack of Sontag broke into noise—barking, stomping, banging, and yelling.
Pietre whistled above everybody else.
Humphrey shook off the mud and tossed the ball in the air, trotting back to his team.
“Beginners luck, punk,” Borl said, but he was smiling.
Markhi came over to him. “Not bad,” he said, looking to the sun, which had begun to sink.
Pietre came over to them and also looked to the sun. Humphrey supposed that they would need to hurry if there would be time for a bath in the creek before dusk. But when he saw the she-hound at Pietre’s side, hurrying suddenly fell off his priority list. Besides a few brief memories with his mother, he had never actually seen a she-hound up close. This one, he decided, was an excellent specimen to begin with. He tried to say hello, but all that came out was a strange sort of yip.
Markhi nudged the boy as they walked back to the path. “Do you think the Veranderen are the only ones who can participate in sport?” he asked laughing.
“I think the Veranderen tournament would pale in comparison with yours,” Pietre said smiling.
“Indeed?” Markhi said, not quite catching the joke in Pietre’s tone. “You know, I’ve always thought much the same thing.”
Humphrey said nothing. He hadn’t stopped staring at the she-hound.
She smiled at him, sniffing courteously at his ear, and he was about to try to say something again when Markhi looked once more to the sun and said a bit more urgently, “The hour grows late.” Just as he said it, a woman came into view, holding her skirts and hurrying down the hill. Humphrey turned, surprised to see Carina pink-faced and out of breath.
“She has never come after me,” Pietre whispered. “Not in all my years.”
“It is nearly dark,” she panted, ignoring the pack of muddied dogs who were all staring at her. “There have been wolves around the village all day. They’re tightening the security. We must go. Now.”
For the first time, Humphrey noticed the sun, sagging like a tired child toward its bed; for the first time Humphrey realized how far the mudpit was from the village. And for the first time, Humphrey saw the fear in Carina’s face drip into her stature and voice. She looked old.
“Now,” she repeated.
“Stay for another round?” a dog called to Humphrey. And for a small moment Humphrey paused.
It was Markhi who actually stepped in and said, “No, we must get this woman and child back to their village as quickly as possible.”
“But what of the wolf Zinder’s new restrictions?” a fat gray short-hair asked. “We are forbidden from helping that kind.”
“We have put this human at risk,” Markhi said. “Zinder instructed us not to offer our protection. He said nothing of helping humans in their haste. Now move.”
To Carina he said, “The boy can ride on one of our larger dogs, but you, good woman, are too large and long. You must simply fly.”
Alekas and Humphrey slowed to run alongside Carina. Even so Carina—fit and strong from years of labor, but running on two human legs instead of four canine ones—could not keep up.
“Take him,” she said, gesturing to Pietre. “Take him and leave.”
In her words, Humphrey heard the voice of his own mother as she had tossed him to Pietre while fighting a wolf.
“No,” Humphrey said. “You will not be left behind. Get on my back.”
“I cannot,” she huffed. “I’m too long and too heavy.”
“Hold your legs up along my sides and bend your head low. We will make it.”
She climbed onto the great animal and held his shoulders, bowing her head so that it touched his neck.
As the pack neared the village, a sliver of dim sunlight remained above the horizon, but the Blødguard and several of the Königs
varen had begun to gather around the gates of the village. They stood there, a gray and black line of fur and fang.
“We will make it sweet Cari,” Humphrey said, breathing hard. “You will see; we will make it.”
They arrived at the gates just before the sun sank, but an enormous wolf with wild eyes and a frothy mouth stopped the company. He ignored the dogs so completely that Humphrey was surprised. He asked only to see the humans’ papers.
“Papers?” Carina asked, her breath coming out in raspy hiccups. “The people of this village have no papers. Most cannot even read.”
“Today, houses were searched and papers were issued to all humans by order of the great general Wolrijk,” the wolf said—his eyes wandering over the woman as though he stood before a buffet table. “If you have none, you may not now pass.” A line of drool dripped from his lip.
Humphrey felt Carina sag beside him. Markhi stepped forward. It was clear that Markhi recognized the drooling wolf, and that something about that recognition made Markhi angry. “This is ridiculous,” Markhi said. “The humans have been caught up in the wood; let them through.”
“You,” the wolf general Wolrijk said, striding out from behind the dilapidated city gate, “have no jurisdiction here. In fact, you are not to be aiding humans at all. You will leave at once or you will suffer severe disciplinary consequences.”
The drooling wolf let out a howl and Markhi whispered, “The lunatic who attacked Silva. He is even more deranged now than before.”
Wolrijk smiled.
Markhi paused. Humphrey knew Markhi was trying to decide if he should stay or go. The safety of his pack was at stake.
“The law given to us,” Markhi stated slowly, as though trying a bit of diplomacy, “was that we not protect the humans if they were caught out after dark. It says nothing of aiding them in a safe return.”
Wolrijk growled at him. “The idea behind the law—as I see it,” he said, “is that you are not to give them aid at all. And how I see it is all that matters.”
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