Imperium Lupi

by Adam Browne

  It was perhaps some twenty-five years ago now that a starving, orphaned Rufus Valerio had been discovered picking through bins for edible gleanings by a Bloodfang talent scout; Ivan hadn’t even been born at the time. After undergoing a painful induction and enrolling in the Bloodfang Academy, young Valerio had set out like any other Howler. Unlike almost every other Howler, he had exercised both mind and body, finding time to read imperiology and philosophy at the famous Arkady University. Socialising amongst the academics of Lupa, many of them daring, liberal types, Rufus had developed some fanciful ideas, harbouring not only sympathy for the little beasts, but advocating true universal equality – what was known as Impartialism. Worse, Rufus was widely mocked as a ‘hyena-lover’ for his compassionate stance towards the lately conquered hyena tribes.

  It was not a good look for a Howler, all in.

  Ivan’s thoughts were dashed by a loud creak on the stairs; a big, dark wolf was descending from the above floor, stooping to fit through a gap meant for lesser beasts. He was wearing an off-white tunic and baggy black breeches with knee-high white silk gaiters.

  “I knew it,” Ivan said.

  “Behave yourself,” Rufus hushed.

  Casimir’s giant wolfen ‘son’ picked his way through The Warren and approached Rufus and Ivan without trepidation. He stood with his paws behind his back, his warm face full of smiles. His thick chest and smooth, chocolaty-furred arms bulged with muscles, and he was possessed of extraordinary fiery-orange eyes, like two smouldering charcoals.

  “Good morning, Howler Rufus,” he greeted cheerily, in a profound yet young and airy tone.

  “Good morning, Bruno,” Howler Rufus crackled, exhaling strawberry vapour and looking knowingly across to Ivan.

  The white wolf was staring.

  Kicking Ivan’s gaitered shins under the table, Rufus did the honours, “Bruno, this is my partner and dear friend, Ivan Donskoy.”

  Bruno extended a big, dark brown paw, “Pleasure, Howler.”

  Ivan, eventually, cleared his throat, crossed his legs and nodded but once, “Citizen.”

  He conspicuously did not extend a paw.

  Rufus growled, “Please excuse Ivan’s rudeness. He’s a terrible bore sometimes.”

  Bruno slowly withdrew his paw and shrugged his muscled shoulders. “Well, I know my size can be intimidating,” he suggested cheekily, adding, “Maybe a three-season waffle will break the ice, yeah?”

  Laughing at Bruno’s gall, Rufus wagged his smouldering ember at him. “My thoughts exactly!” he agreed, venting imperium like the very mono that had ferried him here.

  With red clouds swirling around his face, Bruno turned away and sneezed loudly into his cupped paws.

  “A-aaaa-achoo!”

  “Oh, Bruno!” Rufus gasped. He stood up, opened a window and flicked his ember out onto the street, where it proceeded to fizzle in a puddle. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot!”

  He patted Bruno on his vast back.

  The youth rubbed his watery eyes. “It’s all right, sir,” he coughed. “No ‘arm done.”

  “No, it was utterly thoughtless of me, especially since you’ve been ill. Forgive me.”

  “Really. Forget it.”

  Ivan noticed Casimir wiping down tables in a pretence of business, whilst listening to the goings-on with those great white rabbit ears.

  Bruno hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m fine, sir,” he said, sounding suddenly bunged-up. “I’ll, uh… go whib up a couble of waffles, yeah?”

  “That’d be splendid,” Rufus declared, looking at Ivan and saying with intent, “Wouldn’t it Ivan?”

  “Oh, splendid,” Ivan agreed, with a tinge of sarcasm.

  Coughing a little, Bruno headed into the kitchen, donning an apron as he went. Ivan watched Casimir predictably finish up wiping a table and follow his son into the kitchens, whereupon they exchanged heated whispers. Ivan couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  Rufus initiated his own whispers. “Well?” he urged, leaning across the table, his face alight with excitement.

  “Well what?” Ivan said, as if he didn’t know.

  “Stunning, eh?”

  Ivan turned his icy gaze, “Have you no shame?”

  Rufus spread his paws. “You saw him!” he woofed, before lowering his tone. “No, you felt him. Don’t tell me you didn’t sense his corona. Your face was a picture.”

  Ivan shifted in his seat, but said nothing.

  “Apparently, he dabbles in boxing,” Rufus added.

  “A rabbit pastime,” Ivan derided.

  “Indeed. Still, a body like that’s not natural in a wolf his age.”

  “Dodger then?”

  Rufus shook his head, “Doesn’t seem the sort. Besides, he’s still allergic to ash. If he was a dodger he’d be smouldering embers between stings; he’d be accustomed to them.”

  Ivan begrudgingly admitted, “But his corona’s strong.”

  “He may have been exposed to imperium somehow without his knowledge; accidents happen. Or he’s just exceptionally prone to natural uptake. Either way he’s not just another Howler, he’s exceptional… perhaps the most exceptional.”

  “You’re not suggesting he’s a pure-blood?”

  A raised brow, a spread paw.

  “Oh Rufus, they’re rarer than worms teeth!” Ivan scoffed.

  “Nowadays, but Bruno’s fifteen or sixteen; he doesn’t quite know himself. Still, that’d put his birth in the middle of the war, and some years before the Lupan Laws were amended to exclude Howler marriages. He could be among the last wave of cubs legally and openly born to two Howlers.”

  “Then how’s he gone this long without being noticed?”

  “Being a war orphan he’s off the records, my dear Ivan. His parents are long-forgotten, even to him. The good Citizen Casimir gave him his own surname; Claybourne.”

  Ivan had to concede a grumbling, “Mm.”

  “In any case, Bruno needs to be inducted... and soon. As you say, his condition is a death sentence.”

  “You’re going to bring him in?” Ivan huffed.

  “Naturally,” Rufus replied. “What do you suggest, let him prowl the streets looking for black-market stings?”

  “No, I ‘suggest’ you urge him to move to Everdor. Out from under the Ashfall he’ll get no worse and live a fairly long life.”

  Rufus dismissed the notion, “He’s too far gone. He’ll last longer as a Howler than not.”

  “Even on our meagre sting rations? He’ll rot like all the rest of the old, unwanted pure-bloods! You only just about cope yourself.”

  No reply.

  Defeated, Ivan closed the matter down. “Fine, you’re the imperiologist, Rufus, not I!” He leant back in his chair, “But be it on your head when Josef has to put him down.”

  “I was right about Uther, wasn’t I?” Rufus chirped. “Wolves said he was too hungry, now look at him. Magnificent.”

  “No, Den Father Vito was right about him,” Ivan corrected acerbically, “you just ‘intervened’, and look how grateful he’s been ever since.”

  “I didn’t do it for gratitude.”

  “Did you not?”

  Rufus scowled, ears low, but before he could speak Casimir emerged from the kitchens, tray in paws, bearing a pot of tea, two rough stoneware teacups and a tiny pot of honey. Whilst the rabbit set them down on the table Rufus chatted away like an old friend, as friendly with him as he had been towards Bruno. From this cordiality, Ivan deduced Rufus must have been coming here for a while, scoping out the talent. Now all he need do was get Bruno to sign away his freedom before another Howler nabbed him.

  Ivan knew that nothing he said or did would alter the situation. Bruno was doomed.

  “Isn’t that right, Ivan?”

  Ivan looked up from pouring his tea. “What?”

  “See? Miles away,” Rufus told Casimir, grabbing the pot and pouring himself a cup. “Away with the butterflies. I can’t take him anywhere these days.”
<
br />   “It’s a mutual affliction,” Ivan countered.

  Casimir laughed a little, but no doubt not wishing to upset either Howler, mediated, “I’m sure he was thinking of some lovely girl, Rufus.”

  Rufus almost choked on his tea.

  Fortunately, a timely interruption arrived in chef form. “Here’s your three-season waffles,” Bruno declared proudly, swooping into the room with two dishes in one vast paw and condiments dwarfed the other.

  Rufus checked the old clock behind the bar, “That was quick.”

  “You’re my first customers,” Bruno explained, deftly setting down the meals as the Howlers cleared their helmets from the table. He added modestly, “Anyway, it’s just pouring batter on a waffle iron; nothing complicated.”

  Picking up a fork, Ivan prodded his fancy-looking waffle as if inspecting a squashed beetle. It was topped with roasted nuts, fresh fruit and with some kind of sticky gloop Ivan couldn’t for the life of him identify.

  “What’s this?” he asked bleakly, swiping his finger through the red sauce like blood at a crime scene

  “Secret sauce, Howler,” Bruno claimed proudly, thumbs tucked into his apron straps.

  “Patent pending, “Casimir joked.

  Someone called from the dark corners of the café, “Oi, can we get some service over here, please!”

  Casimir excused himself to wait on his few remaining customers, which he had neglected in favour of the illustrious Howlers – no sensible proprietor could do otherwise.

  Bruno turned to watch his father go, but stayed put. The young cook was alone with the Howlers.

  Rufus pounced. “Tell me, Bruno,” he began, without even looking up from his waffles, “have you ever considered working for the Bloodfangs?”

  “Bloodfangs?” the youngster laughed. “Doing what?”

  “Well, you’d make a fine Politzi Constable, what with all those muscles.”

  Bruno scratched the back of his neck. “Me, a Politzi?” he guffawed. “Nah, I’m too easy-going, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” Rufus crackled warmly.

  Ivan picked silently at his food, watching and listening as Rufus spun his silken trap.

  “This is awfully good,” the red wolf praised, pointing at Bruno’s speciality dish with his fork. “You should come along one day and have a look around Riddle Den. I’ll give you a guided tour.”

  Bruno scratched his head, “I’d love to, sir, but… uh….”

  “But what?”

  “Well… uhm….”

  “Look, you don’t have to be afraid,” Rufus interrupted in his gravely voice, glancing over at Casimir to check he was still occupied. “I’m here to help you.”

  Ivan emitted a scoff – it had begun.

  “Help me?” Bruno said, anxiously wringing his apron with both big, brown paws. “Whatcha mean?”

  Rufus’s voice lowered, “Come now, do you think I don’t know? That I can’t tell? My dear Bruno, I can feel you from across the street.” He continued to eat, “Getting pains in your legs yet?”

  Surprised, Bruno timidly admitted, “Yeah, sometimes.”

  “I bet. Excruciating business. I get it all the time, often at a most inopportune moment. Classic symptom of the rot.”

  “Rot?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes.”

  Seeing at last what Rufus was implying, Bruno woofed, “Aww, no, I’ve not got rot, sir.” He thumbed his mighty chest, “I’m allergic to imperium ash, is all.”

  Ivan and Rufus exchanged incredulous looks.

  “The doctor said so,” Bruno claimed, reading their disbelief. “I got a certificate of health; you know, to stop Howler talent scouts pestering me. Not that you are, sir, but-”

  Rufus interrupted Bruno’s nervous rambling, “What doctor is this?”

  “I dunno, sir.”

  “Well was he a qualified imperiologist?”

  “Pff! I dunno, it was ages ago,” Bruno said with a nonchalant guffaw. “I was just a cub. I remember he was a cat in a white coat. I can ask dad-”

  “Well, I am an imperiologist,” Rufus said pompously, putting down his knife and fork, “and what’s more a Howler, and you’re sick, Bruno. Very sick. You need imperium.”

  Silence.

  Bruno’s confidence gave way to creeping fear, “But… but I’ve never worked with imperium. I stay away from it on account of my bad chest.”

  “Very wise,” Rufus said. “Even so, you’ve been ingesting it by accident ever since you were born. We all do, every day. It’s everywhere; in the air, the water; even your fine waffle batter.”

  Bruno looked hard at the half-eaten waffles, as if he might glimpse the glittering trace of imperium.

  Rufus caught sight of Casimir. It appeared the white rabbit was coming back, but he instead gave Rufus a friendly nod in passing to the kitchen. Smiling disarmingly back, Rufus waited for Casimir to disappear before quietly lecturing with his son in imperious science.

  “You probably know that exposure to small amounts of imperium does nothing to most beasts,” he said, pointing at Bruno. “But you’re different. You’re one of us.”

  “You mean-”

  “Afflicted, yes, a Howler, if you will.”

  Bruno let out a sharp breath, “But I-I can’t be.”

  Rufus didn’t argue, only stated, “Our muscles are able to metabolise imperium, which makes them stronger and faster than those of healthy folk.” The Howler looked Bruno over, raising an eyebrow and flattering, “You’re the size of a house, I suspect you’ve noticed.”

  That made Bruno smile again, just a little; Ivan on the other paw rolled his eyes as Rufus continued browbeating his ignorant victim with science.

  “The imperium in our bodies is what gives us Howlers power,” the imperiologist went on, enjoying his role as the wellspring of knowledge, “but there’s a price. Whenever it’s burnt, whether it be in a car, a train, or our muscles, imperium of all colours decays into imperium ash. It’s bad enough when it clogs Lupa’s air, but when it fouls our bodies up it causes great pain… as well you know.”

  Bruno gulped audibly.

  “The liver and kidneys deal with most of it within a few hours and we get better,” Rufus added cheerfully, before immediately fading again. “However, a tiny fraction of the ash is fully-decayed imperium.”

  “Black-imperium?” Bruno all but mouthed.

  Rufus nodded. “The body doesn’t have the plumbing to excrete black-imperium,” he said, arms folding on the waxy, pitted tabletop. “It remains within us and starts attacking our flesh, causing localised necrosis – eyes, heart, brain, bits of us start to die.”

  Ivan silently ate his breakfast throughout Rufus’s lecture, as if the weighty subject were of no consequence to him.

  Valerio continued, “The body is clever though, and it locks the black-imperium away in our bones, which are made of minerals that do not rot, at least not very quickly.” A sigh, “But slowly the poison builds up, more and more, like a terrible secret we should’ve told someone long ago. Eventually the strain overwhelms our valiant biological countermeasures and we… succumb.”

  Bruno stammered, “B-but the stings you take, the white venom-”

  “White-imperium staves off the rot, Bruno, but even that can’t neutralise all the black-imperium,” Rufus said. “And besides, white-imperium goes bad itself, once used. The law of nature is an endless spiral into decay. Nothing lasts forever, not you, not mountains, not even this planet.”

  Bruno kneaded his apron with trembling paws; Rufus recalled his own dry-mouthed terror when told the same bad news by the Howler who had discovered him some twenty years ago.

  “You’ve two choices, Bruno,” Howler Rufus told his own discovery. “Either steal venom, for which you might be arrested and perhaps sent to some awful jail, or receive a sting legitimately for a day’s work.”

  “As a Howler?”

  Rufus raised his teacup, “You’d look very dashing.”

  Bruno guffawed sceptically. Rubb
ing the back of his neck he looked all around, searching for his father, for reassurance, a denial, anything. He looked back to Rufus and tried to speak but words didn’t come. “But this can’t be… I….” he faltered, leaning on the tabletop for support.

  Rufus touched Bruno’s paw. “I know, dear boy, it was the same for me,” he comforted. “I’m sure your induction will be smoother than mine.”

  Bruno’s eyes darted a little, “Induction?”

  “Your marriage, boy,” Ivan said drily, toasting with his teacup, “to the spiteful bitch that is white-imperium.”

  “Oh do shut up, Donskoy,” Rufus seethed.

  Casimir emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray of tea for the table he was attending, “Be right with yer, Howlers.”

  Nodding, Rufus wrapped up. “Don’t fret, Bruno. I’ll come back later, right after my meeting with the Elders, and we’ll chat some more.” He tapped his nose, “Don’t worry your dad though, eh? Keep this between us.”

  Gulping hard, Bruno nodded dumbly.

  Casimir returned to the table, “Everything all right?” he gruffed, paws clapping together.

  “Yeah!” Bruno barked, straightening up with a start.

  “You look off, lad. How’s the chest?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Taken your cough syrup?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Looking around, Bruno changed subject, “What did they want over there?”

  Casimir passed Bruno the latest order, but held onto the notepad long enough to say, “If you feel bad, go to bed. I can manage.”

  Bruno whined through his teeth, “Dad, don’t fuss me in front of everyone!” and departed for the kitchen, giving the Howlers one last glance.

  “He’s a terrible teenager sometimes,” Casimir excused on his son’s behalf.

  Rufus raised a paw, “Not at all. You’ve raised a true gentlebeast, Casimir.”

  “Ah, well, I try my best.”

  Ivan, to general surprise, spoke to the lowly rabbit. “How is it you have a wolf for a son, citizen?” he asked, his voice dripping with inquisitorial suspicion, rather than curious warmth. “Where are his real parents?”

  “Dead, I suppose.”

  “You ‘suppose’?”

  “It’s like I told Rufus,” Casimir explained, arms folding – he had usually strong arms for a rabbit, Ivan thought. “I found Bruno during the closing days of the war, buried under rubble. He was only three or four at most. He said his mother was dead and I just assumed the worst for the rest; the house was a pancake. Once peace broke out I told the Politzi, but they didn’t care. They said I could take Bruno to an orphanage or keep him myself. Call me soft, but by then I’d grown attached to the scamp. Aye. We’ve been rubbing along together ever since. Been over twelve years now.”