The Progeny of Able (The Burrow of London Series Book 1)

by Peter S. Case

  “We'll see about that, little one.”

  The large fox dove at him again and Roe dodged out of the way. This little dance went on for several minutes supported by the laughter and jeers of the group until the large fox could barely breath.

  “You are quick. I'll give you that.” Taking a stick out of the mud, the larger fox threw it at Roe with a vain heave, missing him by several tail-lengths and sending it into the bank above.

  “You are a better fighter, too, I should say, but you've lost this time, little pup.”

  Roe laughed, then said, “How have I lost?”

  Grinning, the large fox indicated with his head above Roe, giving the smaller fox just enough time to see the entire bank come loose before being buried under its weight.

  He felt the breath explode out of him as the mass crushed his limbs. Darkness and silence and a paralysing fear enveloped him. Just as he realized this was how he was going to die the earth began to shift around his face. The scraping sound of a paw in the muck followed by a claw scraping across his cheek finally meant his head was released from the bank allowing a small amount of air to fill his burning lungs.

  From his position Roe could see down the river with the large fox just in his field of view. Although completely vulnerable, he was surprised to find himself admiring the scene and stunned that he should not have noticed it before. A great smoke gave way to towering pillars of glass and light. A pile of shining jewels pulsated with life amongst the skyline. He had never seen buildings so bright, so tall and so beautiful.

  “Now look young pup. You have talent but you don't have cunning and you're going to need cunning. You can learn that from me.”

  Roe smiled and whispered through clenched teeth, “Yeah, I've heard that before.”

  “You see that city over there?” The great bulk grumbled.

  Roe gave a restricted nod.

  “Everything is mine, whether it is above or below, whether foxes know it or not, and you are going to be a part of it.”

  Digging into the earth and pulling Roe free he said, “My name's Daegal. I am the head of the Inari, and you belong to me now.”

  Chapter Five

  The Present...

  Looking like stallions from the diminished perspective of a fox, two beefy canines grunted under the weight of a large carriage as they pulled it through the arches outside the Palace of Collaring. A hammered black patchwork of metal and oil, the carriage had been repaired countless times and the resplendent gold leaf of its original facade could still be seen whispering through the cracks and crevices.

  Gremian sat with his head out the window giving sidelong glances towards the multitude of foxes crouching to the ground in suppliance with his passing. Since his little coup ten years earlier, the bulk of the population had proven easy to control if kept sufficiently hungry and frightened. Nothing was more reliable for leverage than the panic caused by the ever-fading Light. He looked at them with disdain.

  Alodia sat beside him. The delicate features of her head lowered as she plucked a slow melody out of the swarp resting at her paws. Marriage was one of the compromises he had been required to make upon taking the chair. As a result he found himself father to many useless pups. Still, he thought, I'd rather mould the face of the future myself than give over to someone else.

  The carriage bumped up its pace as the hounds entered the smoother surface of Paw Maul and Alodia played a little louder as a result.

  “Could you play something with more of a tempo, vixen? You are going to put me to sleep.”

  “Yes of course. I'm sorry.”

  He knew she hated to go to the pits and watch the games, which was precisely why he forced her to go. Her family had been only too eager to send her off in marriage and as they had some influence among the guilds, the view was taken that she was an advantageous match for the Supreme Councillor. Of course there was a large dowry demanded for the great honour bestowed upon her family.

  She had begun to strum a lively military march and Gremian grunted with approval.

  “Sir? May I speak?” She asked without looking up from her instrument.

  “Yes, you may.”

  “Normally I am not eager for the games but I must confess that today I am slightly excited to go,” she said as she played, hoping her comments might foster a smile from her husband.

  “Really?” he smirked. “Why would that be then?”

  “Haven't you heard?” she blurted out, allowing her enthusiasm to overtake her. “This challenger they call the Sky Fighter has gotten the whole burrow talking. They say he can't be beaten in any arena and are calling him the greatest pit fighter there ever was. Next to yourself, of course.”

  “Of course I have heard,” Gremian snapped. “You think anything happens in my burrow without me finding out about it?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “The truth is, I am going to see this Sky Fighter to judge how much is skill and how much is gossip. If he is as talented as his reputation, then he is far better serving me than risking his neck in the pits. Even I knew when to quit and to press my abilities for a better cause. Whether you enjoy the fights or not makes no difference to me, by the way. We must be seen together and that is all that matters.”

  Her head drooped a bit further as her paw came to a defeated standstill.

  “Keep playing, would you? Given that you lack the ability to think before you speak, I will enjoy at least the one thing you are good at. Just keep it lively.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  They remained silent as the carriage took a sharp left leaving the Paw Maul for one of the many side tunnels that gave access to the thousands of trots that made up the Greater Burrow of London. Carved into a stone lintel over the entrance and written in an ancient script were the words, 'Burrow of Challengers.'

  The walls of the entire tunnel were lined in thick granite slabs with a broken cobblestone and clay road running between them. Lost in the darkness above, the ceiling was to high to be seen, but just below it, visible in the shadows, a series of crumbling wooden walkways had been constructed and the shapes of Shadow Foxes could be seen moving along them. On the ground level, countless openings led off to a variety of other tunnels: some for training grounds, some for accommodation and some for the condemned prisoners whose remaining lives would serve as entertainment for the crowd. For a society in the grip of despair, nothing was more popular than watching the suffering of others.

  Rather than heads on spikes or intertwined in roots, Gremian had found a much better use for rebels and renegades. Beheading was far too easy and often made a martyr of the condemned, but fighting skilled warriors in the pits forced these criminals to show their cowardice and as a result their influence died as they did.

  This Sky Fighter was unique, however. He had proved to be the greatest unofficial executioner the burrow had ever known. He had started fighting in the professional pits several years earlier. These were where none lost their lives and were a sport for the ruling and the serving classes alike. They started out as fights with Shadow Foxes, then groups of Shadow Foxes, then unarmed combat between Foxes, then armed fights with wooden swords and finally armed and armoured with steel. The professional fights ended with a knockout or first blood. The fights in the prisoner pits continued until death. This Sky Fighter had voluntarily crossed over to the prisoner pits and it had proven a profitable albeit risky decision, making him one of the most popular fighters in two decades. Since himself in fact, thought Gremian, with a slight twinge of jealousy.

  The deeper they travelled the more they were slowed by the gathering crowd. Merchants were scattered along the path displaying wares on carts and blankets. Catching a familiar whiff Gremian pulled the ball end of a chord, ringing a bell and signalling the driver to bring them to a stop.

  “Sir?” a neatly cropped head said, as it popped through the window.

  “Isen, see that fat old vixen selling rats?” he said indicating with his snout.

  “Yes, Si
r.”

  “Get me a few for the match,” he ordered.

  “Um, Yes. Sir. Of course you will still have the finest waiting for you in your personal box.”

  “The finest? You call those tasteless flakes of flesh the finest? I've been coming down this tunnel for forty years and that vixen has always made the best rat and squirrel. Probably because she lets them get a little dirty. Now get me a few of both!”

  “Sir,” he burped promptly, jumping down from his seat.

  “The 'finest'. You can have as many of those as you wish,” he said to his wife, who nodded and continued to strum and focus on her tune.

  “Here you are, sir, five of each. She is honoured that the Supreme Chairman would choose her rodents and her familiy's original recipe.”

  “Did she give them to you for free?”

  “At half price, Sir,” he responded hesitantly.

  “Half price?” he repeated, shaking his head. “What is her name?”

  “I believe she is called Erlene, Sir.”

  “Put Erlene here in irons,” he yelled towards the head of his guard and the dozen other soldiers who followed close behind. “Extract the recipe from her and give it to my cook, then be done with her. I honour her and she gives me half price! Now let's get moving!”

  As they rumbled off he watched the brief dance between vixen and guard. She tried to make a run for it only to be tripped and bound with rope before she could dive down a hole. The crowd watched briefly but did nothing and moments later the space where the vixen had been selling her meals for forty years was taken by another merchant and the crowd washed away all evidence of her.

  “These are the best,” he sighed, gnawing on the desiccated face of a squirrel.

  They passed over a long bridge which had been hastily built when the road had given in to the relentless rising damp. Below them was an immense smelly bog, full of muddy foxes trying to catch a variety of crustaceans with nets and lines in the hopes of supplementing their already meagre diets.

  He covered his nose with his paw as they passed while his wife held her breath still managing to continue her melody.

  The tunnel split. One way lead up and off in a clean direction to the professional pits while the other plunged deeper into the mud. Most of the crowd was heading down with only a few finely dressed Foxes heading to the much less entertaining professional matches. Gremian never went there. He ruled these foxes from below, he thought.

  A chain gang of prisoners marched alongside them for a moment before the armoured prison guard forced them to the ground and gave the councillor a nervous bow and eager smile. The Supreme Chairman hazarded a wave of thanks from his window. It was good to encourage this type of behaviour on occasion he thought, and tossed one of his squirrels at the guard's paws. He saw him grab it in his jaws and tuck it under his armour before quickly getting the prisoners up and away.

  Once the Judge's Pit came into view Gremian began to feel that familiar flicker of excitement at the coming violence. It wasn't as powerful as in the old days when he was the fighter, but it was worth the journey nonetheless.

  It was partly due to his successes in the pits as a younger fox that he was given a place in the government and partly to do with his marginally aristocratic family. No one thought he was going to amount to much as an under assistant to a councillor. It's true the job required a strong paw and more brawn than brains but he calculated and waited and when he successfully eradicated that young false prophet pup and his family, losing an eye to Samson in the process, he used the popularity and sympathy he had earned to grab that councillor's seat after her untimely but convenient death. From there becoming the Chairman's right paw was the smallest of hops and making himself Chairman took only the quickest of cuts as did the creation of his new position as Supreme Councillor for life, yet again thanks to the diminishing Light.

  While the professional pits rose above the ground, the judge's pits were dug into it. Seating wound its way in a spiral into the earth eventually leading to a tall brick wall ringing the fighting floor. A number of dark passages were built into this wall, corridors containing the prisoners, the Shadow Foxes and the other animals for the fights. The packed earth was stained a deep black from decades of saturation by the blood of the condemned. Blood that was spilt in the pits was never cleaned and painted a history in red. In the centre of the pit was a large dark hole covered by a grate. Descending far into the earth the hole lead to a mass grave where the convicted were left to rot. In this way the prisoners who died in the Judge's Pit never left.

  It was halfway through the day and the fighting had been scheduled since dawn. Those who had fought and lost in the morning had none to watch their passing. The spectators had gradually increased as did the quality of the fighters.

  He took his seat located in a box situated near the centre of the stadium spire and looked at the crammed crowd below. The air was thick with excitement. Bookies mingled around the crowd taking bets and making marks in their ledgers. Gremian hoped that their transactions were being sufficiently taxed. He used to enjoy placing bets on the matches until he realized every match he was betting on was being thrown in his favour. A few foxes lost their lives that day but he never got the same thrill from betting again and gave it up.

  Seated beside him, his wife placed her swarp on the tiles at her paws and focused her attention on the dark arched entrance from which the Sky Fighter was likely to emerge.

  Gremian sucked on a rat tail and passed the dried rodents which had been waiting for him to his wife.

  A high pitched whistle blew and suddenly four foxes shot out onto the field. They haphazardly gathered together in the centre, their tattered garments stained with blood, some of it their own and some of it not. One looked to have an injured paw while another was dripping red from his snout. Gremian had condemned them last week as murderers. Normally he wouldn't get himself involved with real criminals but they had broken into the home of a retired councillor and chopped off his head. He was secretly pleased, as he had ordered them to do that very thing. Foolishly they had gotten trapped by the old fox's wife. It was an error they would have to pay for with their lives.

  Back to back they stood ready for whatever the Games Master was going to set loose on them. Clearly they had already survived several challenges and Gremian was pleased that this was going to be good entertainment at the very least.

  A series of short barks came from below as four large German Shepherds casually emerged. One for each of them. These hounds were battle-scarred and tested and covered in a metal armour of sharp iron spikes.

  Taken aback, the prisoners stumbled into each other when the canines charged. Gremian was pleased to see their defence dissolve into shrieks of terror. The fight was short lived and the grate in the centre of the pit was swung open while the remains of the foxes were pushed into the void below. One of the canines had received a mortal wound from a lucky bite and was already being packaged for the kitchens.

  Several more fights passed below before the Games Master finally took the podium on the opposite side of the stadium from Gremian and his wife. Sticking under a flat metal headpiece and a few other bits of ceremonial armour was a thick oily fur that Gremian thought he could smell even from across the pit. Daegal, the head of the Inari gang, had entered at the same time and sat next to him.

  Of course,thought Gremian. If anyone was going to represent the best fighter in the past twenty years, it was bound to be Daegal. Now he knew who he needed to converse with following the match.

  The voice of the Games Master was lean but loud as he addressed the crowd. “Today we've had an incredible mix of valiant fighting and victorious dying. We've seen the highest brought low and the lowest elevated to champion another day. We've seen great skill, determination and some cunning cowardice alongside foolish bravery. But we haven't seen a true fighter. Not yet. Not since our illustrious Supreme Councillor, our benevolent brother, has there been a fighter so ferocious and feared. What kind of animal i
s a free fox who voluntarily fights in the Judge's Pits? A suicidal one? Or one who fights for absolute and immortal glory? We will let you answer that for yourself and keep you waiting no longer. So get your bets ready for the storm...the wind...the sun...the Sky Fighter!

  The crowd roared in anticipation. Bits of food and paper flew into the air as the spectators discarded what they were doing to focus their attention on the field. The bookies struggled to keep a steady paw as they dipped a claw into their ink pots and scrawled the bets onto small scraps of paper. When the Sky Fighter entered a great hush settled over the stadium and all new bets were brought to a halt. Alodia had hopped onto all fours and was leaning over the railing.

  He was an average looking fox in size and weight wearing no more than a rough leather armour and mask. An unusual iron sword protruded from his jaws. Black and long it appeared to be of an even lower quality than the weapons given to the prisoners.

  The Sky Fighter came to a standstill just inside the arena and appeared a solitary and insignificant figure within it. He presented his sword to the crowd in salute then performed a swooping slash and bowed towards the Supreme Councillor. Gremian gave him a slight nod and smiled to himself thinking, he does know how to woo the mob.

  Then he bolted. A streak of red that whipped around the outer edge, he ran up the pit wall leaping at the top (scaring a few pups with a feigned slash) and back-flipped across the entire field to the opposite wall before sliding down and rolling centre stage. The crowd stood incredulous and it was Alodia with an uncontrollable chirp that started another cascade of cheers. As a final exclamation, the Sky Fighter threw his sword into the air and remained completely still as it returned, brushed his side and skewered the ground next to him.

  “He is indeed a showman Alodia, but I can't see through you, so either sit back or I'm returning you to the carriage to wait.”

  That brief feeling of freedom quickly retreated into her constantly guarded shell as she said, “I'm so sorry sir. I let myself get carried away.”