by Adam Browne
Pulling up a stool, Gunnar sat against the wall nearby and watched the door whilst Ivan took to a window.
Time passed.
“I missed,” the Greystone sniffed at last, “I’m sorry.”
Expecting the usual acerbic comment from Ivan, Gunnar was pleasantly surprised by the great wolf’s magnanimous reply. “It wasn’t your fault. Vito moved. Besides, I couldn’t have done any better. In all probability I’d have taken Linus’s head off instead, though that would’ve been just as well.”
“Yeah, who was that cub anyway?”
Ivan waited a moment, then explained simply, “Uther’s partner.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“Ulf knows what he was doing there, but Vito has a penchant for handsome young wolves… or had. You don’t turn down the advances of a Den Father, not if you value your career, and your life. Vito was a rapacious old drooler quite capable abusing anyone, as Uther well-knows.”
“Whatcha mean?”
Ivan looked back at Gunnar, then returned his icy gaze to the chilly night. “I did this for Rufus, fool that I am. Uther on the other paw had... better reasons.”
“Like what?”
“You’re singularly dense aren’t you, Greystone? Let’s just say it was personal, all right?”
Gunnar nodded, though he appeared baffled. Whether he grasped Ivan’s nuanced meaning or not he couldn’t press the matter without appearing both obtuse and nosy, so to save face on all fronts he let it go, just as Ivan hoped.
“You hungry?” the Greystone asked, eyeing up the fireplace and table. “I could whip up some grub.”
Ivan sighed sarcastically, “Yes, light a fire. That’ll attract attention to this supposedly derelict farm. Go wave a lantern out the window while you’re at it.”
Gunnar cocked his head to one side. “Mate, I’ve got a disposable yellow-imperium roaster in my satchel. No smoke and hardly any light, but it’ll warm a tin of beans nicely. Whaddaya say?”
Ivan marvelled, “You carry a lot of toys don’t you?”
“It’s the Greystone way.”
Gunnar dived through his backpack and turned out a metal canister about the diameter of a saucer, but much thicker. There was a ring-pull, which Gunnar used to tear off the foil lid and reveal a shallow bed of yellow-imperium nuggets.
Usually, when exposed to air, raw yellow-imperium would explode in seconds of course, but the secretive Greystone imperiologists had found ways and means of slowing the reaction down to nil and every degree above that. The nuggets in Gunnar’s tin were of the gently smouldering variety, and warmed his and Ivan’s faces like a charcoal grill, only without any smoke or noticeable fumes. Someone might smell the bubbling pan of baked beans Gunnar was soon stirring over the heat, but any search party would have to be so close as to be minded to scour the farm anyway, so that was a risk even Ivan was willing to take.
“Uther’s gonna miss out,” Gunnar cooed, spooning steaming beans into two new-materials bowls. “Maybe he got lost?” he said, passing one to Ivan.
“We went over everything a hundred times. Even Wild-heart can memorise a simple map.”
“But this is the wilds, mate, not Lupa.”
Ivan couldn’t accept it. “It’s probably a touch of rot slowing him up,” he said, blowing on his beans. “His pins are bad sometimes, far worse than mine.”
“Legs going already? I thought he was only twenny-odd.”
Ivan huffed, “Uther’s a fine wolf, but he pushes himself too hard. He’s wearing his body out. He smoulders fifty a day and drinks heavily, amongst other pursuits. He invites the rot at every turn that one. I’d be surprised if he survives to thirty-five.”
Gunnar stirred his beans thoughtfully, adopting that look Howlers had when confronted with the reality of their condition – Ivan saw it in their eyes all the time, and the mirror.
“Still,” Ivan said, nibbling some beans, “there’s life in Wild-heart yet. He’ll make it.”
*
The night wind buffeted Uther’s coarse fur and tore at his heavy cloak, as if trying to righteously rip the stolen ALPHA mantle from his sinewy shoulders. Clouds of ash billowed along the carriage roof and slammed into his face, but the black ALPHA helmet he’d also ‘borrowed’ for the sake of the Republic did its work and protected his eyes and nose from the imperium engine’s poisonous fumes.
Janoah what’ve you talked me into now?
Suddenly the engine’s lights dashed upon a hill and then vanished.
A tunnel!
Diving onto the carriage roof, Uther spread his arms and turned his head, embracing cold metal as the train plunged into the erde with a terrible scream. Bricks and mortar blurred past mere inches away, illuminated by the warm cabin lights below.
Uther tried not to think how any loose brick or projection in the tunnel’s lining might smash his head open or scrape him off into oblivion in a heartbeat.
Beneath, Howlers and Elders dined unawares of the wind-blown stowaway, Amael Balbus among them, surrounded by a swarm of Den Guards and impossible to get to. He would not make the same mistake as the complacent old Vito and leave himself vulnerable. Oh no. Nor was he a mad, rot-ridden maggot of a wolf squirming uselessly, but a fit, powerful, centipede of a beast.
“He’d kill you himself if you crossed swords and where would that get anyone?” Janoah had said, cupping a paw to Uther’s white face. “Leave Amael to me; you’ve a greater task, Wild-heart. You might just save the whole Republic.”
*
With a final metallic pop, the collar snapped open and slid down Madou’s massive, spot-flecked, hyena neck.
“There, lad,” Casimir said, pulling the thin iridescent band away and discarding it on the naked pebbly floor of the tent with a wobbly metallic clamour. “Who’s next?” the rabbit gruffed, snipping the air with his cutters.
Noss gestured graciously at Tomek, “After you.”
“No, after you,” Tomek replied, adding chirpily. “Is fake anyway.”
“And yet as fetching as the real deal.”
With a wide-eyed chuckle, Noss sat on the tiny stool in the midst of the tent, elbows on thighs, and let Casimir do his work. The rabbit was a dab-paw at removing collars, one of many things he had learnt in the resistance.
“Just a little off the top,” Noss joked, brushing his mane. “I don’t want to look like Madou!” he laughed further, referring to Madou’s pathetic little tuft of a mane which was woeful by hyena standards.
“You sound like Zozizou, my Prince,” Madou replied, rubbing his freed neck. “He was always teasing me about my mane.”
A moment’s silence for the fallen Zozizou.
“Now there was a hyena with a magnificent do,” Noss praised, grimacing as Casimir slipped his cutters up under the prince’s collar and applied the first loud snip. “He’s in a better place than we are, Madou, and no doubt impressing the ancestors with his mane as we speak.”
Madou humoured Noss with a nod, then slipped through the tent flaps into the earliest feeble rays of clean dawn sunlight. Nobody had slept a wink, for they had been travelling all night to get to THORN’s secret camp, which was a hive of activity. Hyenas were hurriedly packing up tents and piling goods onto trucks – they couldn’t stay here with Gelb in such disarray not so very far away. With the Warden killed and many a hog missing, Howlers would be sent for, the mountains searched, security doubled. Madou felt bad for the prisoners who remained behind, but change was coming.
The day to strike was almost upon THORN, at last!
Even so, Madou had no idea what Nurka had in mind, where they were even headed. To the Summit, surely, Madou supposed, to do what had to be done; eliminate the Wolfen oligarchy with black-imperium bombs. We may all die in the assault, Nurka, Themba, me, but the tribes will go on.
I’m ready. I’ll be with you soon, cousin. We can watch our people thrive together.
Crossing the camp with purposeful strides, Madou marched towards Nurka’s flapping off-white t
ent with a mind to at last learn the details of Nurka’s final plan. We’re at the last hurdle. He has to confide in me now. I’ll demand it.
“Chief?” Madou said, ducking into the tent.
To his surprise he found Nurka asleep with Themba awake beside him. Hyena beds were always untidy affairs consisting of a thick rug strewn with square pillows and sheets to nestle amongst, but even so it looked as though Nurka had collapsed atop it all from exhaustion, fully clothed – even his skull helmet remained strapped firmly about his chin!
“Shh,” Themba hushed, standing up. “Give him five minutes, Madou.”
The stocky Madou allowed himself to be ushered from the tent by the towering Themba.
“I’m exhausted myself,” Madou admitted, “and starving.”
“We can rest properly tonight,” Themba replied, squinting in the sun. “We will need it.” He plucked at Madou’s revolting Gelb shirt. “Come on, you should get out of those rags and into something befitting a warrior, you and our Prince both.”
“Gladly. What’ve you got?”
With a grunt and a flick of the head, Themba led Madou to another tent that was about to be taken down. Telling his hyena comrades to hold off, Themba ducked inside with Madou and rifled through a big trunk, turning out several neatly folded black and white cloaks. Some were zigzagged like Nurka’s, some labyrinthine like Themba’s own, some swirling, like the cloak Madou had lost when the Bloodfangs had seized him, others were different still. The specific meaning of any one pattern was lost on most wolves, but not a single hyena.
“May the Wind protect you,” Themba said, reverently passing Madou the folded swirling-patterned cloak.
“And the Erde you,” Madou replied.
Spare eisenglanz armour was trickier to come by than imperium-weave mantles. Madou had to settle for some generic plain grey gear instead of the fine matching leg armour and skull helmet of the Jua-mata warrior Nurka and Themba had. Still, it was better than meeting your ancestors in a smelly prison uniform.
“Any kristahl axes around here?” Madou hoped against hope, pinning his cloak about his powerful frame. “A spear will do. If it’s good enough for Prince Noss, it’s good enough for me-”
“We don’t need weapons,” Themba interrupted – somewhat bitterly, Madou felt.
“Come on, Themba. We have to get inside first. You’ll have your chance of glory when we fight our way past the Den Guard.”
“We won’t have to. Nurka says he has another way.”
Silence.
“What do you mean?”
Themba took out another cloak. “We will not be fighting anyone,” he said, moving to the tent flaps. “Disappointed? I wanted to go down smashing wolfen skulls as well, but I believe in Nurka more than my own vain glory. I always have.”
“He’s told you then? What we’re going to do exactly?”
“No,” Themba replied, leaving Madou to finish dressing, “but I still believe in him.”
Across camp Casimir cut Tomek’s collar off. “You’d never know it was fake,” he whistled, admiring the craft. “Is there no imperium in it at all?”
“No idea,” Noss dismissed, sounding preoccupied. Peeping outside for a moment, he returned to grab Casimir’s arm and pull him close. “Listen, rabbit, are you with us or are you against us?” he growled.
“What?”
“Rufus said you were one of us. Is that right?”
Casimir looked to Tomek for help. The young wolf appeared in no way willing, even less surprised by Noss’s sudden aggressive turn.
“I’m on whatever side Rufus is on,” the rabbit claimed, with a firm sniff. “He promised to see Bruno safe and that’s all that matters to me now.”
Noss’s brow twisted, “Who’s Bruno?”
“My son. The Howlers took him from me and made him into one their own. I want him back!”
“What would the Howlers want with a lowly rabbit?”
Casimir tutted, “Bruno’s a wolf, genius; I adopted him!” Slowly his long ears wilted from shame. “I thought he was dead, see. That’s what they had me believe. It were in the papers ‘en all. I… I had nothing to live for. Nothing! So I paid a visit to the Politzi who arrested him. I was gonna kill him, I swore I was gonna shoot that treacherous, fat hog. But… but he said he was in THORN; said he could get me in too, so we could take Howlers to task together, like in the good old days.” Casimir gnarled his fingers, “One thing led to another and before I knew it I was helping Nurka lift black-imperium. I thought I wanted to help, I thought I wanted this, but now… now I know Bruno’s alive I just want him back and I don’t care what else happens.” Whipping his arm free of Noss, he said pugnaciously, “And if that’s not good enough then you’d better just kill me hadn’t yer?”
Noss cackled, “You have guts, for a rabbit.” He looked to his partner, “Still, best you go with Tomek. You should be able to slip away at some point.”
“Slip away?”
“To Hummelton; you have to find my contact and tell him what’s been achieved… and what hasn’t.”
“Hummelton?” Casimir yelped. “You mean walk there?”
“Or better yet run!” Noss woofed, eyes wide for a mad second. “Hummelton isn’t that far and Tomek knows the way. He’s a Watcher like me, you know.”
“Aye? And I’ve a bad leg you know!”
“So? I’m mad; never stopped me limping along,” Noss growled through his teeth. “If you want to save your ‘son’, little beast, you’d better make an effort.”
“Well… well what about you?” Casimir shot back. “What’re you gonna do that’s so important, eh?”
“Red-mist and I shall remain here and try to stop this madness from within. If we fail, you will at least have warned Vladimir what he can expect from us this end.” Noss waited for a moment, then asked, “Has Nurka told you what he’s planning to do precisely?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. Does anyone in THORN know?”
“He’s kept it a secret from everyone, even Themba,” Casimir despaired. “All I know is it involves black-imperium.”
Noss pondered matters. “Vladimir already knows that,” he grumbled. “Very well… I’ll try to get something out of Nurka before you two leave. I mean, if a hyena can’t confide in his Prince who can he confide in, eh? Hahahaaaaha!”
“Someone’s coming!” Tomek hissed.
As Noss’s laughter faded the tent flaps spat Themba inside, fully dressed in his labyrinthine cloak and armour.
“My Prince, is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, Themba.”
Nodding and kneeling, Themba offering up a folded cloak. “This is for you.”
Noss graciously received the heavy cloak and let it unfurl, revealing it to be exactly half black, half white. “Thank you, Themba. It’s beautiful. Very fine work.”
Themba was pleased to be of service. “There’s armour as well if you want to have a look,” he said standing up, tail flicking, “and some water to wash with.”
“I will, I will,” Noss insisted, turning the cloak over in his paws. “What about Tomek?”
“Tomek?”
“Yes, Tomek. Where’s his cloak?”
Themba looked to the wolf, still wearing only his stripy yellow trousers and cap.
“He’s a wolf, my Prince-”
“By the Wind, Themba!” Noss bellowed. “Tomek fought beside me and found the very waterfall that saved all our lives and this is how you treat him? Where is your honour?”
Themba instantly prostrated himself before his prince, all four paws on the ground. “Forgive me, my Prince, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Never was your strong point!” Noss snorted. “How’s Red-mist faring? I hope he’s being cared for better than poor Tomek here.”
“Nurka saw to it personally.”
Noss growled something unintelligible, but nodded. “Oh get up, get up,” he gestured furiously. “Where is Nurka, I need to speak to him at once.”
>
“He’s asleep.”
“Asleep? We’ve work to do!”
“He’s exhausted, my Prince. We all are. We’ll soon be on the road to Hummelton, though.”
Noss grunted. “All right, but tell Nurka I want to go over his plans sooner rather than later. I might be the most handsome hyena in the tribes, but I didn’t break out of Gelb just to stand around looking pretty. Hahahahaaa!”
*
Ivan snorted into wakefulness and quickly came to realise he had dozed off on the farmhouse windowsill. That could’ve been a deadly mistake.
“Gunnar?”
“Good morning,” the Greystone acknowledged; he was still sitting on his stool, watching dawn’s light advance across the decaying farmyard. “Sleep well?”
Embarrassed, Ivan cleared his throat and quickly diverted attention. “Where’s Uther?”
Gunnar grimaced and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Ivan exhaled a quick sigh of exasperation and searched out the window lest Uther should appear at that very moment.
“It can’t be!” Blade-dancer growled. “Nobody catches him in a straight line, nobody!”
Gunnar waited a moment. “What now? We can’t stick around here forever.”
Ivan paced the alleys of his mind for answers, but found dead ends at every turn. To search was hopeless; if Uther was lying wounded or otherwise incapable he could be anywhere, and if he had been captured he was as good as dead; Amael would see to it, or Janoah, whoever got to him first, Ivan had no doubt.
“Let’s go,” he said, patting the windowsill a few times and donning his helmet.
Gunnar found his feet and his condolences, “I’m sorry. I know he’s your friend-”
“Save it. He knew what he was getting into. We all did.”
“Yeah. Still, he’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.”
The chipper Gunnar gathered his things, though not his rifle, for that had never once left his ready paws.
Ivan went to step out into the sunshine.
“Oi, we should leave a note,” Gunnar said, clicking his fingers.
Ivan turned to him, “Note?”
“Well, in case Uther’s just late. Best tell him we’ve gone on ahead and not to wait for us.”