Imperium Lupi

by Adam Browne

  “Watch it, boy, or I’ll have you thrown off our land and your bike impounded!” Rufus growled, barging the bigger Tristan with his shoulder in passing. “Come on, Vladimir; let’s show this wet-eared pup how it’s done.”

  Vladimir rolled his eyes.

  Linus couldn’t believe it. What had come over Rufus?

  Doctor Josef sighed, “You’re all being quite foolish. Rafe will take care of everything. Leave it to him.”

  Ignoring the cat for fear of throttling him, Rufus strode across the road with growing speed, dashing into the alley. The others followed him, the youngsters first, Vladimir last, and then one or two braver Politzi eager to see the battle – no doubt this was going to be a rare spectacle.

  Werner, less brave, or more intelligent, squeezed behind the wheel of a Politzi car along with young Constable Claybourne and drove straight past the alleyway, for it was too small, taking instead the main road. Following his pink porcine nose through the ever-thickening riverside fog, Werner drove round the deserted industrial block and down the next road to where he assumed the alleyway must lead. Judging he was approaching the spot where it ought to emerge, he slowed down and searched for a rent in the otherwise uniform brick walls. The street lamps passed lazily overhead, their warm light dancing on the rain-flecked bonnet, whilst the window wiper squeaked back and forth over the vertical windscreen.

  “Sir!” young Claybourne said, pointing at a rift between buildings. It was dark and foggy, like a mysterious chasm leading to another world.

  “I see it, lad,” Werner snorted.

  He stopped the car. They waited. The engine ticked over and the rain patted noisily on the roof.

  Nothing.

  Had they taken a wrong turn? Had the centipede gone elsewhere? It could climb anything, go anywhere, there was no law that demanded it take the alley, except that bugs tended to follow the easiest path they were presented with, as Werner explained to young Claybourne.

  “How’d you know that, sir?” the rabbit asked.

  “Bugs are like us, Borce,” Werner maintained. “On your way home tonight what’ll you do, take the roads, or climb over all the houses?”

  “The roads, sir, but I’m not a centipede the size of a thumping train.”

  “Even so, and mind yer language.”

  Borce looked down the alley, so still and silent, “Maybe… maybe it’s killed ‘em, sir?”

  “Who?”

  “The Howlers, sir.”

  “You sound just like your uncle. What a pessimist! Give ‘em a chance, it’s only been two minutes-whooaaagh!”

  Werner crunched the gears and slammed a trotter on the accelerator, reversing the car so hard that Borce had to hold his paws forth to keep from head-butting the window. The car whined backwards just in time as a veritable freight train of blue and orange centipede steamed out the alleyway and charged across the road. It curled away from the opposite side of the street and started stampeding down the road after the Politzi car, its bejewelled blue face illuminated by the headlights, antennae whipping the bonnet.

  “Faster, chief!” Borce yelped. “Faster!”

  Werner shouted back, “I can’t go any faster!”

  “It’s gaining!”

  “Shoot it, lad! Quickly!”

  “W-w-what?”

  “Pop one in its head. Quick, before I run out of road!”

  “A pistol won’t do schmutz!”

  “Just have a crack at it, lad! Go on!”

  Borce fumbled with his pistol, spilling glittery imperium powder all over his lap as he tried to reload it. The whining, squealing car swivelled side to side as Werner battled to keep it from skidding round, not wanting to stop, not wanting to find out what might happen if he did.

  Werner checked the mirror for obstacles, but couldn’t see anything for the fog. “Hurry up, lad!”

  Constable Claybourne opened the passenger window and with a shaking paw fired in the general direction of the centipede.

  A hit!

  The beast reeled away into the rolling fog in an instant, almost the exact instant the car mounted the kerb and hit a lamppost. The engine conked-out and the headlights with it, casting Werner and Borce into the misty, orange gloom emanating from of the bent imperium gas lamppost flickering overhead.

  Once they had stopped rattling around in their seats, the Politzi pair took stock. Wiping condensation from the cracked windscreen, they watched flashes of light explode in the mist ahead like giant fireflies. The faint silhouettes of four Howlers danced all over the road, leaping and rolling and letting off bright sparks of imperious energy against the great, swooping, skeletal shadow of the centipede, trying to find a chink in its armour. It was like a giant shadow-puppet show.

  “Go on, lads, get it!” Werner laughed, punching the air. “Ohohoooo! Look at ‘em go!”

  Borce Claybourne sat in silence, straining his eyes. He had never seen the like before. The true power of the Howlers was a thing rarely glimpsed; pistols, threats, merely the presence of an imposing cloaked wolf usually sufficed to maintain order, but a centipede had no respect for Lupa’s laws, no concept, it understood only nature’s law – kill or be killed.

  Four Howlers was too much even for the centipede. The many legged beast twisted round and started fleeing up the road – in the direction of the Politzi car!

  “Get down, lad!” Werner shouted.

  No sooner had they ducked than the centipede mounted the bonnet, crushing it in. The terrible din of legs clacking and scraping over metal assaulted Borce’s ears and he cupped his head in his paws. The car rocked violently to and fro, as if being shaken about by a riotous mob. The windscreen smashed and the roof caved in, inch by inch, step by step, as the centipede’s many legs thundered heavily overhead.

  Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.

  The passenger door opened, only to fall off its hinges, and Constable Claybourne felt a set of strong paws pull him tail-first from the wreckage – and it was a wreck. The Politzi car had been reduced to a mangled, steaming heap of twisted metal, the Bloodfang crest barely discernable in the crumpled chaos.

  Young Borce looked around and saw, of all beasts, that Vladimir had pulled him from the car.

  “You hurt, constable?” he asked.

  “N-nnn-no, sir,” he stammered.

  Meanwhile, Linus was having trouble extracting the plump Werner from the wreckage.

  “Breathe out!” Linus instructed, tugging on his breeches.

  “I am, sir!”

  “Suck your gut in!”

  “I have, sir!”

  Finally, Werner’s pink and red bulk popped out the deformed door like a cork and he fell on top of Linus, causing the Howler to ‘breathe out’, as it were.

  “Gaaagh! Gerroff me!”

  “Sorry, sir. Getting off, sir.”

  Werner helped Linus up and adjusted his sodden cloak.

  Howlers Tristan and Rufus were nowhere to be seen, nor was the centipede, it had run over the car and up the side of the building into the pea-souper of a fog, vanishing.

  For a moment Borce assumed that was it, that Linus and Vladimir had lost the scent and were out of the fight.

  “Awooooooo!”

  A bright wolfen howl echoed over the misty rooftops, stirring Borce’s heart – of course, the Howlers could find each other, even in the foggiest Lupan night, or deepest monotonous forest, they simply sang their ancient song.

  “That’s Rufus,” Vladimir said. “This way, Trooper.”

  Linus followed the Grand Howler down the nearest alley, leaving Werner and Borce behind.

  “Awooooooo!”

  Navigating the fog-bound, puddle-strewn alleyways, the Howlers emerged onto an open street whereupon they found Rufus in the midst of a Howl, helmet off, head tipped back.

  “Where is it?” Vladimir panted.

  “Around,” Rufus replied, sniffing the air, “I can smell it.”

  Tristan appeared from the fog. “Smell it?” he puffed.
/>   Rufus sighed, “Take your helmet off, boy; use your nose.”

  “I’d rather not in Riddle District, thank you.”

  Linus explained, “Centipedes excrete ammonia, Tristan. It burns your nose and throat, but it gives them away.”

  Rufus beamed at Linus, “Looks like Mills knows his stuff… unlike some.”

  Embarrassed, Linus could but clear his throat.

  Tristan grunted a little.

  “All right, let’s split up,” Vladimir declared, removing his helmet and sniffing about. “If you find it, leave it be and howl for backup.”

  *

  Gunnar rubbed his brown paws together and tightened his sandy-yellow cloak about his shoulders. It was a cold, wet night for guard duty, but his wolfen heart was warmed by the sight of his red-cloaked Bloodfang compatriot materialising from the fog and crossing the Bloodfang-Greystone border, passing beneath the dripping arch with two steaming mugs in his paws.

  The hooded Bloodfang cheerily offered a tin mug to the Greystone, “Hot chocolate, mate?”

  “For me? Ta very much.”

  Gunnar pulled back his hood and removed his helmet, slinging it over the imperium rifle at his back. He carefully sipped at the hot chocolate.

  “Good eh?” said the Bloodfang, doing the same.

  “Yeah,” the Greystone agreed. “Mind you, hot water would do in this weather.”

  “Hah! Yeah, yeah, too right.”

  “You here all night?”

  “Aye.”

  “Me too. Gonna be a long night.”

  Fraternising with wolves from other packs was frowned upon, but everyone did it. Gunnar didn’t even know this wolf’s name, but if he was good enough to share his hot chocolate, he was all right, even if he was a scummy Bloodfang.

  “You ain’t like the usual fella,” Gunnar observed.

  “No?”

  “Nah. Weird he is. I tell yer, he’s only said two words to me in as many years.”

  “Two words?”

  “Yeah,” Gunnar said, “‘Thump’ and ‘off’.”

  “Hahaha!”

  “It’s true, I swear. All he does is give me funny looks.”

  “Well,” the Bloodfang sniffed, “he probably doesn’t want to get in trouble. They’re pretty strict regards mingling on our side of the wall.”

  “I bet,” Gunnar whistled.

  “Speaking of which, I’d better get back.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah, can’t be seen slacking, we’re on high alert. Got to keep me eyes peeled for terrorist scum, ‘en I? THORN’s been at it again, not far from here. Got half the district’s Politzi surrounding some factory or something. Right palaver.”

  “Daft hyenas,” Gunnar said. “All they’re doing is making it worse for themselves.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  The wolves tutted as one and shook their heads, before sipping their hot chocolate.

  “Funny smell around,” the Bloodfang said, sniffing.

  “Smell?” Gunnar replied, doing the same.

  “Aye. Not so bad here. It was stronger back there.”

  “Well it ain’t me.”

  “Hahaha! I’ll catch you later to collect me mug,” said the Bloodfang.

  “Nah, nah, I’ll drop it off your side,” Gunnar insisted, raising his comforting beverage. “Ta again. Much appreciated.”

  “No problem, mate.”

  Gunnar watched the Bloodfang mosey through the ghostly arch and vaporise into the fog like a spirit.

  What a nice wolf.

  He had almost disappeared from Gunnar’s sight when a long, black, spiny tentacle swooped down from the ceiling and snatched him up.

  “Gaaagh!”

  Spitting a shower of hot chocolate, Gunnar dropped the mug, drew a pistol and sprinted under the arch. The sight that met his eyes stopped him in his tracks. Dangling from the top of the arch was a gigantic blue centipede, orange legs splayed, vicious jaws clasping the Howler around the waist, drawing the squirming wolf up and away.

  “Help meee!” he cried, punching the centipede’s armoured brow to no useful end. “Aaaagh!”

  Gunnar found his wits and took aim, “Hang on, mate!”

  Crack!

  The centipede’s shimmering body twisted in pain, but it kept hold of its prize. Gunnar drew his second pistol and had another go, but the effect was the same.

  With his heart pounding so hard that his ears throbbed to every beat, Gunnar released the buckle that held his Greystone rifle to his back and skilfully swung the weapon under his arm, round to his front – his helmet fell off the butt and rolled away, no time for that. He unravelled the oil-soaked rag from around the breech and trigger, which had kept the powder dry this dreary night, and raised the rifle’s elegant, three-foot-long barrel. Peering down the sight he took aim at the centipede’s head as it chewed on the unfortunate Bloodfang.

  Too close; can’t risk it. Cursing through his teeth, Gunnar aimed a little further along the centipede’s body and pulled the trigger.

  Ka-crack!

  The rifle’s muzzle exploded with a thunderous pall, illuminating the monstrous beast, revealing for an instant its full, twisting, coiling body, just before one of its countless legs was blown clean off and sent spiralling away into the fog.

  That got a reaction. Dropping its prey the centipede withdrew back to the ceiling. It clicked and clacked swiftly overhead, dripping white blood from its wound as it snaked across the glistening brickwork and down to the ground. Round and round it went, over the walls and across the ground, until Gunnar found himself surrounded, trapped in the tunnel by an undulating noose of armour and legs.

  Standing astride his spluttering Bloodfang comrade the Greystone hurriedly reloaded his rifle, tearing the cartridge, pouring the powder, spitting the ball, aiming at the centipede’s head as it coiled round.

  Ka-crack!

  Off came an antenna – Yes!

  Gunnar’s triumph was brief. The furious centipede swooped towards him in an instant, grasping him in its poisonous pincers and piercing his sides.

  “Grrraaaagh!”

  Gunnar’s world collapsed into a jumbled mess as the beast savagely shook him to and fro, before hurling him against the tunnel wall. He bounced off the bricks and fell in a heap.

  It was all over, just like that.

  Through dazed eyes, the aching, throbbing Howler Gunnar watched the stampeding centipede approach, jaws agape, eager to feed on its well-earned dinner. But no, the centipede veered off and snatched the Bloodfang lying in the middle of the tunnel instead, dragging him away to the roof.

  Within a pitiful scream and bloodied gurgle, the Howler was ripped open and finished off, rendering Gunnar’s efforts to save him pointless.

  “Ulf’s fangs,” Gunnar whined.

  Trying to close his ears to the sickening crunches of his fellow wolf being devoured, the wounded Greystone rolled over and crawled away. It felt like every bone in his body was broken, that his sides were on fire. He wondered if he should call out for help, howl, anything, or would that simply attract the centipede’s attention? Maybe it’ll eat its fill and leave me alone. Maybe I can crawl through its legs.

  Trembling and panting, Gunnar dragged himself across the cruel, cold cobbles, aiming to creep under the centipede’s body and out into the open where someone might find him.

  Suddenly, between the centipede’s many legs, Gunnar spied a wolfen shape appear in the misty streets beyond the arch. It ran forward and leapt into the air!

  Thunk!

  With a coronal blast it landed beside Gunnar, a wolf made of iron, his mighty shoulders draped in a jet-black cloak. He looked down at the stricken Gunnar with blank yellow eyes of glass, his face obscured by an all-encompassing helmet. Without pause, he reached down and scooped Gunnar up. The young wolf yelped in fear and pain.

  “HANG ON, MATE,” the iron wolf soothed.

  He bent his legs and leapt, in a single coronal bound, over the centipede and out
of the arch, into the open. Sailing through the air, the wind and rain whipping at his face, Gunnar could scarce fathom what was occurring. The next he knew, he was lying on the cold, wet ground and several Howlers were looking down on him, a black-cloaked Bloodfang Captain, two Redcloaks, and an all-black ALPHA Prefect.

  “LOOK AFTER HIM,” said the iron wolf.

  The Prefect, a striking red-furred wolfess, raised a paw and grabbed the iron wolf’s arm, “Rafe!”

  The iron wolf Rafe waited, metal ears swivelling.

  The red wolfess let him go, saying gently, “Be careful. Don’t overdo it. All right?”

  With a nod, Rafe clomped towards the arch, the damp flags marking the passage to Greystone territory hanging limply either side, the centipede coiled within, snug and happy in its new nest, unaware that this wasn’t the wilds, but Lupa, and it could not be allowed to hunt here.

  “Shouldn’t we help?” said the Bloodfang Captain.

  “We’ll just get in his way, Ivan,” the Prefect replied. “Rafe works best alone.”

  This Ivan grunted, “So do I.”

  Several metallic paw steps approached and four more Howlers emerged from the fog, three Bloodfangs and an Eisbrand, all of them panting.

  “Jan!” said one, small and ruddy-furred.

  “Ah, Rufus,” the wolfess replied, affecting a suddenly haughty air. “Where’ve you lot been?”

  “We lost it in the fog,” Rufus excused, looking at the centipede. “We heard shooting.”

  “Yes, same here,” Jan admitted. She looked down on Gunnar and sighed, “I think it got one of ours, and this chap’s in a right old state.”

  Rufus crouched beside Gunnar – the closer he got, the stronger the comforting, crackling, imperious fire Gunnar felt emanating from him. Whoever he was, he was very powerful, this ‘Rufus’. The name rang a bell. He was some Bloodfang big shot, a scientist, a hyena sympathiser. Gunnar wasn’t sure, didn’t care, he was more worried about his chest – it was growing tight, heavy, hard to breathe. What’s going on?

  “I’m dying!” he whined.

  “No no, dear boy,” Rufus soothed, casting his eyes over the wounded wolf. “You’ll be all right. Just keep calm.”