Imperium Lupi

by Adam Browne

  “How does he do that?” Linus snorted, looking enviously up the three or four story high building. “I-I can barely manage a fence.”

  Werner retrieved his hat from a colourful, imperium-laced puddle and flicked it off. “Maybe, Howler Linus, sir, but we’re the heavy-duty sort, me and you,” the massive hog claimed, slapping his gut. “We’re built for a fair fight.”

  The barrel-chested Linus felt he was a far-cry from the barrel-bellied Werner, but, ever-polite, he changed subject sooner than point out the obvious differences in their physiques. “Have you telephoned HQ?”

  “Yes, Howler. Vladimir’s on his way with reinforcements.”

  “And Rufus?”

  Werner shrugged, “I didn’t ask. He’s probably away.”

  “All right,” Linus breathed, looking back at the many nervous Politzi officers of various races taking cover behind boxes and barrels, imperium pistols loaded and authorised for use. Linus hoped things didn’t come to that, because the war-like hyenas would take a fair few Politzi with them. “Well, we had better negotiate then,” Linus declared. “Do we have an expert negotiator?”

  Politzi Constable Werner Schwartz smiled and proudly tipped his hat back, “You’re looking at one, Howler.”

  “You?”

  “I used to be something of a public speaker, yer know. Just give me a soapbox and a trumpet.”

  *

  Passing between the ash stacks that were still belching imperium waste of some kind or another into the smoggy Lupan sky, Uther opened a metal trapdoor and slowly poked his head inside the refinery roof.

  He saw a ladder leading down onto a metal walkway, and beyond that a great twisting maze of pipes and churning machinery. It sounded noisy down there, which meant the hyenas wouldn’t hear Uther sneaking about; the ambient imperium would also mask his corona.

  With a last visual check for the enemy, Wild-heart slid down the ladder and ducked into the shadows. He crept along the walkway, using pipes and vats and Ulf knows what for cover, until he spied something of interest down below.

  Standing in a clearing amongst the colourful tangle of tubes and trembling dials was an unusually muscular hyena addressing a little band of skinnier comrades. His massive, sandy-furred, spotty shoulders were turned to Uther, paws cupped neatly behind him. He wore nothing from the waist up, but his legs were encased in armour of a striking black and white zigzag design; geometric, abstract squiggles were typical of hyena art. Uther judged from his impressive build that he was a Chakaa, like that prince had been. No hyena grew that big just by eating all his greens, or bugs, or whatever they ate; he was on stings.

  The lesser hyenas hanging on the Chakaa’s every word were incongruously dressed in a mix of civilised clothes and traditional hyena ornament. Breeches and open waistcoats jostled with bandanas and necklaces strung with claws, horns and iridescent bits of carapace taken from various beetles and other bugs, whilst their stocky bodies and grim faces were painted white, like a hyena skull. They all held spears, some stood proud, others leant on them, as if bored. The spears were tipped with sharp and poisonous yellow-imperium. Strange. It must be stabilised, or else it would be fizzling away, Uther supposed. He also supposed they had stolen it from the Greystones, since only they knew how to fix yellow-imperium. Some hyenas nursed pistols too, though not many. Uther calculated most of the terrorists armed with pistols were posted at the entrances to hold the Politzi at bay.

  As the Howler looked on, a second outsized hyena approached the gathering. He was taller than the apparent leader and generally bigger. His legs were housed in the same black and white armour, but of a labyrinthine design of right-angled twisting lines instead of lightning-like zigzags.

  Two imperium-guzzling hyenas in one place? This is getting interesting.

  The taller Chakaa donned a black helmet embossed with a white skull design – something of a step-up from the skull face-paint employed by the others. The shorter leader faced the taller newcomer and Uther caught a glimpse of his typically thickset hyena face just before he too donned his own skull-themed helmet.

  He had striking purple eyes!

  There was only one way a beast’s eyes turned purple and that was by taking purple-imperium. It was potent stuff, which went to most beasts’ heads, sending them insane.

  Deciding he had to get closer, Uther crept along the walkway and down some metallic steps, until he was on the ground floor. He relied on his eyes to spot danger, his ears being inhibited by the churning machinery and his coronal senses the polluted atmosphere.

  Pipes hummed and vats bubbled in front of Uther as hot, liquid imperium was separated into its constituent grades by a noisy centrifuge spinning overhead, one of several dotted throughout the place. As far as Wild-heart understood from basic imperiology classes foisted on him and every Howler back in academy, each grade of imperium had a different density. Thus, in a spinning centrifuge, light white rose to the top, heavy black sank to the bottom and the rest gathered in layers somewhere in-between to be skimmed off into an appropriately-coloured vat, white first. The dreaded black-imperium remained inside the centrifuge until last, whereupon it was flushed out into special canisters and put aside for disposal in a pit somewhere.

  Therein lay a mystery; according to recent briefs by Vladimir, THORN had only been stealing black-imperium canisters, not the valuable white. What for? Were they going to make a dirty bomb? Poison Lupa’s water supply? When? How?

  Whilst Uther watched and contemplated, the taller of the Chakaa hyenas walked over to a drain cover and lifted it off. He was so strong he set it aside like a dustbin lid.

  For a second he looked in Uther’s direction, his purple-tinged eyes seemingly piercing through the bubbling vats of imperium into the wolf hiding in the shadows.

  Uther didn’t move a muscle.

  The big Chakaa carried on with his business. He climbed into the hole and a couple of other hyenas, ordinary beasts not nearly as strong, used a rope to pass down a spherical, metal canister stencilled with a black X and multiple warnings.

  Black-imperium and no mistake.

  Wild-heart watched the lethal black-imperium being gently lowered, canister after spherical canister. Most buildings didn’t have a sewer system big enough to crawl down, but here, well, all that pipe-clogging ash from the furnaces had to go somewhere, straight down the tubes and into the River Lupa

  The biggest hyena climbed back out of the drain; his coarse spotty fur and admittedly beautiful labyrinthine armour streaked with ash – filthy business, crime. To Uther’s surprise, a third Chakaa climbed out of the drain. He was shorter than either of the other two afflicted hyenas, but built like a wall – rather like Linus, Uther thought, if Linus was a dirty hyena. The third fellow’s armour was decorated with a swirling, wind-like design of black and white lines. These Chakaa had access to some nifty kit.

  The three leaders chatted merrily away. What were they planning? Uther couldn’t hear.

  Suddenly the Chakaa stood alert, rounded ears pricked. It took a moment to tune in, but Uther heard it too – someone was shouting outside the refinery.

  It was Werner, his voice magnified by a trumpet!

  “Now now, let’s not be silly, lads,” he crackled, in his friendly, pat-about-the-shoulders manner. “I know things ain’t so dandy between you n’ the wolves, but I’m a hog! I understand your pain, your pride. My people, we don’t have no country of our own neither, but we rub along, we do. You have to learn to compromise in this life, you know? Lupa is built on sacrifice and cooperation. You don’t have to be left out, if you don’t want. You can join in our family. Me and you, let’s talk this over, my fellow rootless friends. Send a representative out and let’s come to an agreement. We’ll give you asylum in our fair city. What do you say?”

  Nice speech, Uther thought, for a pig copper.

  The three Chakaa in skull helmets shared a brief discussion, then the taller one and the shorter one beckoned some of their hyena comrades to join them. They stro
de swiftly out of sight, leaving what Uther assumed was the leader and the majority behind to continue their work. Perhaps the other two were going to negotiate with Werner? Or else chuck an imperium-tipped spear in his gob. Either scenario suited Uther provided there were fewer sets of eyes to dodge whilst he located the hostages.

  With that in mind, Uther stole away from the pipes and turned to climb the stairs he had descended.

  “Oof!”

  Bumping snout-first into a hard, furry torso, a wall of rippling muscle and sinew, Uther caught a glimpse of a skull and purple eyes before a massive fist came in from the side and clouted him round the side of the head.

  Uther’s world exploded as a blast of plasma flashed over his helmet. The eisenglanz dulled the imperious energy, but the punch still knocked him for six.

  “Gagh!”

  Two powerful paws picked Uther up by his cloaked shoulders and hurled him against the corroded pipes. He slammed into them with a loud clang, his back and shoulders absorbing the worst of the blow. One of the pipes burst and hot, red-imperium vapour spurted in all directions, enveloping Uther in a hot, bloody cloud.

  Overcoming the pain and confusion, Wild-heart instinctively brought his pistol to bear on his hazy attacker.

  Crack!

  His pistol was slapped aside and he received a second plasmatic punch, this time to the ribs. Then those big paws grabbed him again and ejected him headlong from the choking imperium vapours. Uther stumbled and slid across the smooth concrete floor, winded, ribs throbbing.

  Coughing and spluttering, a bruised Uther reached for his kristahl swords and made to rise, to fight, or escape, but half a dozen glowing, yellow-imperium-tipped spears descended upon him from all directions, each one held by a ferocious, skeletal-faced hyena. They stopped short of running Uther through, but one or two pressed uncomfortably close, pinning Wild-heart to the cold floor, chest heaving, body aching, yellow-imperium reflecting on his chin.

  Some of the hyenas parted, allowing a much larger fellow into the circle of spears. It was the tallest of the three Chakaa that Uther had been spying on, the one with the labyrinthine armour. The impressive beast looked down on him with his purple eyes, his face masked by a skull helmet, one rounded-off ear glinting with decorative studs – his mighty body was home many such piercings.

  “I thought I saw a roach hiding here,” he spat.

  That shorter, burly Chakaa joined the circle, “What now, Themba?”

  “My hammer, Madou.”

  The biggest Chakaa held out a paw and his shorter comrade passed him said hammer. Not some little tool for knocking nails in, but a war hammer as nearly tall as he. The simple, cylindrical head was the size of a brick and had the telltale cold, oily sheen of high quality kristahl.

  The powerful hyena hefted his hammer in both paws and casually positioned its head over Uther’s, taking aim, before swinging it high above him like a railroad worker preparing to knock in a peg.

  “For murdering our prince,” he declared, “and suppressing my people, I sentence you to death, Howler!”

  “Wait a minute!” Uther yelped.

  No use, the Chakaa followed through with his mighty swing.

  “Themba!” someone cracked, coarse and sharp, their voice tearing the air like a thunderclap.

  A fraction later and the deafening knell of kristahl striking concrete exploded just left of Uther’s head, its metallic, corona-bending pulse reverberating in his chest and jolting every fibre of his being with involuntary terror. Breathing hard, Wild-heart opened his eyes. The hammer’s head lay nestled beside him, plasma still playing over its glittering kristahl surface, the pale concrete floor shattered in a spider-web pattern around it.

  “Schmutz,” Uther mouthed.

  The big Chakaa slowly withdrew his hammer, scraping its smouldering head along the floor, and looked across at whom had addressed him.

  Gulping, the reprieved Uther followed suit.

  It was THORN’s probable leader. He walked over to the group, paws tucked behind back, zigzag-patterned, eisenglanz-clad legs rattling. “Calm yourself, Themba,” he chided in that bristly voice.

  “But Nurka-”

  “I’m not a barbarian! Are you?”

  Themba let out an annoyed grunt and replied in his velvety, yet cavernous tenor, “It would have been a quick death. Better than they gave our prince.”

  “Justice will be done,” this Nurka assured simply. “Their time will come.”

  Big Themba bowed his head a little, “Chief.”

  Nurka looked down at Uther with just his purple eyes, his face unreadable behind his skull helmet. “Are there any other Redcoats scuttling around here, Howler?” he asked. “I know you Howlers work in pairs.”

  “You’re surrounded, mate,” Uther managed to growl. “If you give up now, we’ll go easy on yer.”

  “Is that right?” Nurka said.

  “You bet your spotty arse it is, skull-face.”

  Unable to abide such an insult to his leader, the shorter Chakaa wearing the swirling leg-armour kicked Uther in the side. “Wolfen scum! You’re addressing a chieftain!”

  “Madou!” Nurka snapped at him, purple eyes wide. “You disgrace yourself!”

  The stocky Madou backed off, ears low with shame.

  Satisfied, Nurka looked across at Themba, then down at Uther, “Do this… comedian no serious harm, but send the Howlers a message, one that will convince them to think twice before sending another fool in here.”

  “Yes, chief,” Themba acknowledged.

  Nurka looked to Madou, “Search the building. If you find anyone bring them to me.”

  Madou nodded, “Chief.”

  Once Nurka and Madou had departed, the latter taking half the hyenas with him to search the refinery, big Themba growled at his remaining compatriots, “Get him up.”

  The lesser hyenas descended on Uther, a scrum of paws, arms and elbows, pulling him to his feet. The odd punch to the ribs and kidneys was surreptitiously snuck in, but Uther didn’t give them the satisfaction of a response.

  Held firm, the wolf was relieved of his swords and his paws forced behind his back. Someone bound them with wire, wrapping it around Uther’s wrists and twisting it off. Howler-wire? It appeared this lot knew what calibre of beast they were dealing with, they knew Howlers could scorch mere ropes away in a second.

  Themba stepped up to Uther, proving he was more than a head taller. Grabbing the back of the wolf’s helmet with a big paw he ripped it off without unfastening the chin strap, which scraped painfully along Uther’s jaw, pulling out some white fur as it went.

  Uther emitted a snarl of pain, and the hyenas laughed at his expense – save Themba that is.

  The big hyena took a step back, armour and decorative piercings tinkling. Dropping Uther’s helmet on the ground like a tin can he smashed it in with his mighty hammer. Sparks of plasma played over the metal and the fang-shaped red-imperium décor beneath the eyelets flashed one last time, before fading for good.

  Uther’s nostrils flared with rage; his precious eisenglanz helmet, with which he had suffered through so much pain and toil, was no more. It’s just an object, he tried to tell himself, don’t let it get to you. That’s what he wants.

  Themba drew a short, kristahl sword from a scabbard nestled inside his right thigh plate and ran it up inside the prisoner’s mantle. Uther tipped his head back to avoid the deadly blade as it popped out the neck of his red cloak, which made the lesser hyenas laugh and snort again.

  Themba tugged his blade violently upwards, cutting through the tough imperium-weave and causing Uther’s brooch to ping off like one of Werner’s brass buttons during the annual Wintertide Riddle Den dinner. The brooch rolled away into the darkness and lost its sparkle, whilst Uther’s cloak hung limply around his shoulders in tatters, before Themba ripped it away altogether, leaving only Wild-heart’s many-buttoned red tunic.

  Staring always at Uther with those purple eyes, Themba threw the torn mantle on the floor and
wiped his ash-stained feet on the very symbol of the Bloodfangs.

  Uther lunged forward, “You son of a maggot, I’ll-!”

  Themba instantly punched him on the snout, not a plasmatic punch, just an ordinary one. Even so it was like being cuffed by a bear and Uther would’ve fallen on his tail but for the other hyenas holding him aloft.

  Spitting blood from a split lip and throbbing nose, Uther righted himself. “I’ll have you,” he spat, chin high.

  Satisfied he had teased a rise from the stoic wolf, Themba gathered up Uther’s ruined cloak and helmet, “Take him; I’ll deliver our message.”

  *

  Werner stood atop a box at the gates to the refinery’s grounds, brass speaking-trumpet held to snout. Fellow Politzi were stationed either side of him and at every exit. Several painted hyenas peered curiously back over boxes and barrels from inside the complex. No pistol could shoot this far, at least not with anything approximating accuracy, so both THORN and Politzi were quite safe, though only the terrorists were warm and dry in their makeshift fortress.

  “Do you have any demands?” Werner shouted, rain dripping off his cap and trumpet. “Money? I can do money. Transport? I can arrange it. I’m the Politzi Chief of this whole district, it’s no problem. Just come on out and we’ll talk over a nice, cold beer.”

  Silence.

  “You hyenas like beer, doncha?”

  The hooded Linus looked up at the hog, “I don’t think you’re getting through to them, Werner.”

  “No, sir,” he freely admitted. “They’re fanatics.”

  “They may not understand much Lupan.”

  “Reason is lost on ‘em, sir,” the portly Werner assured, before speaking amiably into the trumpet again. “Do you have a leader? Can we speak to him?”

  “Or perhaps her?” Linus suggested.

  Werner gave the stout Howler a double-glance, “Her?”

  A nod, a stammer, “Hyenas are m-mmm-matriarchal. The females are in charge; males are subservient.”