by Adam Browne
Nodding, Ivan grunted, “Got a pen and paper in that bottomless satchel of yours?”
“Nah.”
Huffing, the Blade-dancer came back inside and searched around the kitchen. As luck would have it he turned up some old paper but no pens or pencils.
“Use the roaster,” Gunnar suggested, watching Ivan fruitlessly open cupboards and drawers. “The imperium’ll be cold by now; grab a spent nugget and write with it. I do it all the time. Bit of an artist I am, even if I say so myself.”
“You draw with ash?”
“Yeah, it’s better than charcoal.”
‘Humphing’, Ivan silently took the roaster and upturned the ashes on the kitchen table. They were still hot, but some nuggets were cool enough. Ivan sorted one from the smouldering heaps and with it scrawled the beginnings of a message.
“Don’t worry, mate,” Gunnar said, stepping out with a fresh ember to his lips. “I’m sure Uther’ll be along any-gagh-ugh!”
Ivan whirled round just as Gunnar fell back into the farmhouse clutching at his stomach.
“Gunnar!”
The Greystone was immediately stepped over by two hefty-looking Howlers in black.
“Don’t move!” one of the strangers snarled, his pistol aimed at Ivan.
Ivan froze, assessing the situation. The Howlers were unmarked and anonymous, not members of Bloodfang or Hummel search parties, nor ALPHA by the looks. Whilst one dispassionately wiped his bloody rapier on Gunnar’s yellow cloak and kicked the groaning wolf over to take his weapons, the other goon kept Ivan in his pistol sights.
“Where’s the other one?” he demanded.
Ivan said nothing.
“Amael said there’d be a third one. We waited all night for him. I don’t appreciate having to wait, Howler.”
Still nothing, only Gunnar’s grunts of pain
“We can make it quick and easy, or long and painful, it’s up to you,” the assassin said. “I’ll shoot your knees out and work my way up – you’ll talk before you die.”
Ivan raised his chin a little and obviously looked past the strangers. “Now Uther!” he said to nobody.
The two assassins looked. It was a split second, a tiny mistake, but a lifetime for Blade-dancer. Snatching a paw of burning ash from the tabletop he cast it at the Howlers.
“Gaagh!”
Two imperious flashes from Ivan’s kristahl sword later, he remained standing whilst the strangers fell about, their fur dashed with ash and blood. One of the two assassins stumbled out the door and into the farmyard in a bid to escape Blade-dancer’s wrath.
Ivan went to the door and drew his pistol. There was nothing to say, not even halt.
Crack!
The assassin fell in the dust with a last spasm, his back punched through. The other crawled across the farmhouse a few feet before expiring from his wound – the Blade-dancer’s lethality written in a trail of blood.
Satisfied nobody was going to run off and tell Amael he was still alive, Ivan attended to Gunnar, gently rolling the youngster over.
“Where’d they get you?”
“Gfffgh! They stuck me.” Gunnar whined, lifting a bloody paw from his stomach. “I think it’s bad. Agh!”
“You’ll live.”
Ivan searched the bodies of the lowly assassins; lowly assassins just like him. It was nothing personal; they had lost that’s all, and there could be no quarter in this game.
Amael they’d said.
Amael!
Ivan’s searching paws turned up some silver monobike keys, rolls of cash, and a sheet of crumpled paper. He unfurled the already familiar paper to reveal the exact same map of the imperium springs and surrounding countryside that Amael had supplied him. The ruined farmstead was circled.
Ivan stood up, his paws slowly, unconsciously, crushing the map into a ball.
To be captured and executed by the Bloodfangs was one thing; that was beyond Amael’s control. To be marked for death from the outset was just plain rude.
A search along the road turned up two unmarked Springtail monobikes – the assassins’. Gunnar was in no fit state to ride by himself, so Ivan brought just one mono back to the farm, looking always over his shoulder. After injecting Gunnar with a field ration of painkilling taubfene, then disinfecting and sewing up his wound with the Greystone’s own med kit, Ivan helped him limp from farmhouse to Springtail.
With revs and pops of engine, the chirpy mono and its two riders swerved out the farm and down the road.
“Lupa’s… the other… way!” Gunnar shouted.
“We’re not going to Lupa!” Ivan replied. “We’re going to Hummelton!”
Part V: BLACK RAIN
Codex: The Jua-mata
The Jua-mata are the strongest of the many hyena tribes that once roamed free across the Lupan Continent. Though the tribes warred amongst themselves, they kept away from wolfen territory and concerns as they travelled place to place, following the seasons and migrating bugs, living in harmony with nature. Wolfkind was happy to tolerate the nomadic hyenas, even trade with them, provided they did not disturb wolfen territory or their little beasts. For centuries there was peace between tribe and pack.
Then came the second, or new ‘black rain’, as some hyenas call it, the Ashfall, spreading out from Lupa year by year, decade by decade, poisoning the land between the Sunrise and Sunset mountains little by little, until crops would not grow and most useful bugs died out. Wolves and little beasts not only headed to Lupa to earn a living, but also spread outwards, searching for clean land that was not already jealously guarded by Hummel. Soon strangers encroached on hyena migration routes; interests and swords clashed.
The guerrilla conflict with wolfkind, led by the Jua-mata, continued for decades, peaking at the end of the last Howler War when the hyenas sought to capitalise on the weakened and divided wolves. Ultimately, however, the lack of a structured, imperium-wielding force like the Howlers doomed the hyenas to failure. The Chakaa, those hyenas afflicted with the rot, are invariably powerful, but rare and largely untrained. They are frowned upon, even outcast by the tribes, who believe the plunder of Mother Erde for ‘imperium’, as wolves call it, a great sin.
Though afflicted hyenas are becoming ever more common as generations are exposed to the Ashfall, a Chakaa army is impossible to create and maintain whilst the tribes remain under close wolfen control on the Reservations. Wolfkind has attempted to co-opt the hyenas this way for over a decade, educating their cubs and even trying to assimilate some Chakaa into Howler Academies, a unique honour not afforded any other conquered race. These programmes have thus far failed and it seems some amongst wolfkind may have lost patience, for there are disturbing rumours that rather more than re-education goes on in the hyena Reservations.
Chapter 46
Cora Hummel slipped her sinewy black arms, those of a powerful afflicted wolfess, into the white and gold dressing gown held aloft by her Wolves of the Bedchamber. Rising from her bed she crossed to the sun-bathed half-hexagonal balcony, the railing being festooned with blooming wisteria.
The Den courtyard below was a bustle of activity as Hummel Howlers marched in neat formations, getting in some last-minute practice before the opening ceremony.
“Ateeeenchun!” a Grand Howler barked at his uniformed troopers. “Preseeent arms!”
The tidy block of wolfen warriors in green cloaks and white armour drew their swords and saluted to their mistress above.
“Long live Den Mother Cora!”
Den Mother Cora saluted calmly back. “You look very smart, mah handsome Howlers!” she called. “You make us proud tae lead Hummel!”
The Howlers saluted once more and continued their parade practice, whilst Cora cast her golden honey-like eyes across her domain, over the glistening tiled roofs and smoking chimneys, down the white marbled plaza and colourful awnings strewn with welcoming bunting, to Hummelton Station, columns standing tall, bee-adorned gold and green banners fluttering.
The first of the E
lder Trains had arrived, judging by the ash clouds issuing from the station.
Cora turned slightly to her cloaked aids, female Howlers both; she needn’t say a word before one of them volunteered the information she sought.
“The Bloodfangs, lady,” the Howler said.
“Send them our felicitations.”
“Eldress Brynn is at the station already, lady.”
Cora nodded a little. “Any news of Vito’s killers?” she asked at length.
“Not since the last telegram, lady.”
Another nod, tinged with a disapproving huff, “Vito’s nae even cold and they’ve already elected his successor.”
“They cannae afford tae dally with the Summit approaching, lady.”
“Aye,” Cora agreed. “Ah’d best make ready tae receive this Amael. Fetch my things-”
Suddenly the bedchamber’s double doors burst open and over half a dozen female cubs scurried inside. They filed up in a row from smallest tot, no older than three, to a fourteen-year-old lass, all in nightgowns.
“Good morning, mother,” they sung in near-unison.
“Och! Mah babies!” Cora cooed, spreading her arms and beckoning them into an embrace. “Good morning, good morning tae ye all. Are ye excited for the goings-on?”
“Aye!” one of the smallest cubs squealed.
“Ahaahaha, well now, ye all must be on your best behaviour. Wear ye finest clothes and be very polite tae any of the Howlers from the other packs.”
“Will Sara be coming, mummy?” a mid-sized cub asked.
Den Mother Cora’s eyes flitted a little, “No dear, she’s busy in Lupa.”
“Ohhww.”
“Nae pouting! She’ll visit soon, Ah’m sure.”
A big, middle-aged black wolf with silver hairs flecking his chin entered the chamber. He was wearing a smart green blazer with a white cravat and a pair of fine bone-white breeches.
“Good morning, wife,” he beamed cordially, performing a noble bow.
“Good morning, husband,” Cora replied, standing tall and formal again – as Den Mother of Hummel she needn’t bow to anyone, but her Howler aids respectfully dipped their heads in the presence of her spouse.
“Ah tried tae stop this wee army here,” he said, referring to his daughters, “but they evaded mah defences.”
“We’re ever glad tae receive our daughters,” Cora replied, ruffling the perky ears of two of her many cubs.
Chuckling, Cora’s husband wandered to the window. “Oh aye,” he said, spying the heightened activity at the distant station, “looks like a more terrible invasion is well underway.”
“And we’re ever glad tae receive our brother and sister Howlers too,” Cora replied, like the politician she was.
“Even mah no-good brother?”
The Den Mother huffed, “Duncan’s a fine Prefect.”
Scoffing, her husband leant on the window, “Who’d have thought jolly old Duncan would be snared by ALPHA’s miserable web of dour killjoys, eh? He’s got a tongue of silver that Adal. Ah’m telling ye, Cora, he’ll nae stop undermining the power of the Den Fathers unless you all strip him of his office and disband his corrupt organisation altogether-”
“Angus!” Cora seethed. “Nae in front of the cubs!”
Angus Hummel stood silenced.
Her mate chastised, Cora looked down at her gathered daughters, “Pay your foolish father nae mind. You’ll treat all our guests with honour, be they Bloodfang, Eisbrand, Greystone or ALPHA. Even the smallest pack from the Bloc that you’ve never before heard of is due our utmost regard, and you’ll say nae a bad word against anyone, nae even in private. Is that clear?”
The girls all nodded and mumbled their agreement.
“Pardon? Ah cannae hear ye.”
“Yes, mama!” they sang dutifully.
“And that goes double for you, Angus Hummel,” Cora told her husband. “Leave the politics tae me.”
Angus grunted.
In the following frosty silence Cora shooed her children and husband away. “Och! Now away with ye, all of you; Ah must dress tae receive our noble guests.”
Retreating from the window, Angus walked over to Cora and took charge of their cubs, planting a quick assuaging kiss on his wife’s cheek as he did so.
“You’ll knock ‘em dead.”
*
Ash swirled across the platform, the red carpet unfurled and Amael – Den Father Amael – stepped into the clean Hummelton sun resplendent in his ‘new’ red cloak and black armour. The ancient Bloodfang mantle had passed to him in the most literal sense, had been repurposed, the imperium-weave being too valuable to be interred with that old drooler Vito, or any Den Father before him stretching back centuries. The armour didn’t fit Amael quite right; the helmet proved especially awkward and had been hastily re-padded to match his skull, but any formal adjustment would have to wait.
As Amael and his red-cloaked entourage disembarked the Elder Train, Hummel representatives approached through the last swirls of ash; a single Elder flanked by Howlers, all looking splendid in their green and gold cloaks and unusual white armour. Before Amael could so much as salute them, young wolfesses in white dresses emerged from behind the Hummel reception party, their ears draped with flower garlands and each carrying a wicker basket. Gently casting crocus petals in their wake they transformed a section of the white marbled station into a riot of spring colour, then formed up a line either side of the petal pathway and curtsied synchronously.
Amael nodded and chuckled at them. To his surprise the waiting Hummel Elder ahead bowed a little, whilst the Howlers got down on their knees.
Of course, Amael reminded himself, I’m a Den Father now; I bow to none and few equal me.
Soon no one will.
Chin high and entourage at his back, Amael stepped forth into his new role. As his pitted black boots kicked up the lush crocus petals, one of the adorable wolfesses lining the floral footpath caught his eye. She smiled bashfully and offered a whole crocus to Amael. He took it graciously.
In that moment an awful thought drilled its way into the Den Father’s head, the thought that this modest flower maiden might choke along with her corrupt Elders, her youthful, innocent flesh rotting as the black-imperium cloud unpicked the very fabric of her being.
With a shiver, Amael turned his gaze and walked swiftly on, crocus twiddling in paw a moment before he let it slip discreetly to the ground.
The Hummel Elder stepped forward from the rest of her staff and saluted. “You and your Bloodfangs are welcome tae Hummelton, Den Father Amael,” she greeted in a soft, feminine Hummel accent – judging by the curving contours of her body-hugging mantle she was indeed a wolfess and therefore an ‘Eldress’ in the strictest parlance. “Den Mother Cora extends both her solemn condolences over the loss of Den Father Vito,” she went on, “and her joyous felicitations tae his successor.”
“Thank you, Eldress,” Amael replied, wondering what kind of wolfess was hiding beneath that pure white helmet – no Janoah, of that he was sure, probably more country bumpkin, but perhaps a pretty one. “I bear Vito’s mantle with sadness and pride,” Amael ad-libbed, “he was our pack’s light in these dark times.”
Nodding regardless of what she thought of Vito, which likely wasn’t much for the decades of rumours, the Eldress spread a black paw. “Den Mother Cora will receive you at Hummel Den. Please allow me to escort your party through town. I have cars waiting.”
Amael rolled a paw, “I would be honoured, Eldress….”
“Brynn, Eldress Brynn.”
A nod, then Amael walked with Eldress Brynn. The Den Guard of each party formed up on their respective leader’s side, exclusively male Bloodfangs for Amael and largely female Hummels for Brynn.
For reasons science couldn’t yet explain, Hummel was the near-reverse of most packs; their ranks teemed with female Howlers whilst afflicted males were infrequent. Something in the pack’s blood, or perhaps the comparatively pure environment, had turned the usu
al order of the wolfen world on its head. Yet not quite, for Hummel had somehow maintained the cult of respect for Howlers that had all but died in Lupa. Here they were not seen as diseased parasites preying off the labours of the little beasts, but kind benefactors and protectors, as it was in the old times, as it should be.
As it will be again, Amael promised himself.
He and Brynn passed through the grand station foyer and under reams of bunting stretched between the columns, coming to a waiting motorcade of open-topped Hummel cars flanked by Howlers riding green and white monobikes marked with a golden bee symbol. Green, gold and white banners depicting the same stylised bee fluttered from the tall town houses that lined the clean cobbled street. The condition of Hummelton was astonishing. There was hardly a streak of ash and not so much as a newspaper flapping in a gutter. Was Hummelton always so spotless, or had they tidied up because half of Lupa’s finest were coming to stay?
Linus wondered such things as he tagged along with Vladimir, trying, failing, to remain inconspicuous. Amael’s sudden rise had propelled his Howlers to the forefront of Bloodfang, whilst Vito’s loyal staff had instantly faded to obscurity. Indeed, Riddle District would now be at the front of the queue for everything. Amael’s rundown backwater, the slums of Bloodfang Territory, could even become the capital district if he decided not to move shop.
A moot thought, Linus knew, for Amael had bigger ambitions than that. What if he manages to pull off the unthinkable and rule as a Wolf King? What if he asks me to serve him? Can I refuse? Dare I?
“Linus,” Vladimir said, beckoning his adjutant from his daydreams and into the chugging motorcar with Den Father Amael and Eldress Brynn.
Linus glanced round at the worthier Bloodfang Elders climbing into the second and third Hummel-branded cars. Linus, lowly Trooper Linus, was upstaging them all by riding with Amael. Unable to refuse, he climbed aboard the wonderful car and settled uneasily on the smooth green seat beside Vladimir. There was room enough for eight modest-sized beasts, Amael and Brynn sat opposite one another with some Den Guards each. They made polite conversation, Amael commenting on how beautiful Hummelton was and Brynn graciously asking what Riddle was like, for she had never been to Lupa.