by Adam Browne
Monty took that one, “Invited, doncha know.”
“When? You did nae tell me!”
“We wanted to surprise you,” Penny explained. “Monty’s giving a talk on his dirigibles, aren’t you dear?”
“Indeed. Forgot me notes, but I’ll improvise.”
Sara laughed, “Ah can’t wait.”
Monty peered over Sara to the rows of coats and cloaks arranged behind, “You are going to be at the dinner, then?”
She waved a paw, “Of course! Ah’m just helping out here until everyone arrives.”
“Ah. That’s our little trooper, eh Penny?”
“We should’ve known you’d be about something,” Penny tutted fondly. “Sara’s such a dear,” she told Tristan. “She helped us last summer, back when we were just getting settled in at Rumney Farm. Feeding the silkworms and milking the aphids, oh she was in her element.”
Tristan looked sideways at Sara, “I thought you were visiting your family in Hummelton.”
“I did… fer a week,” Sara explained. “It was during summer break; six weeks stuck with Mum was a wee bit much.”
“For her or you?”
Sara surreptitiously poked her tongue out at Tristan, then said to the cats, “Well, let me take your coats and everything.”
The Buttles shed their outermost garments as if they were pupae skins, emerging transformed, like butterflies; Monty in a green suit complete with cravat and gold lace, and Penny in a wonderful white gown with a silver lily brooch.
Once Sara had told Penny how lovely she looked, she directed her and Monty across the foyer to the open double doors guarded by two more Howlers. Beyond was the Great Hall, with a grand table festooned with silver cutlery, winter foliage and ice sculptures, all lit by marvellous imperium chandeliers glowing steady overhead like weird spaceships. The air was thick with vapours and chitchat as beasts mingled before the main event.
Sara spied Professor Heath talking with several of his academic friends, but as the Buttles entered the hall, the big bear excused himself and greeted them, shaking paws and making introductions. He glanced across at Sara and waved.
“You do get around, don’t you?” Tristan hummed.
Sara glanced at him. “You still here?” she clucked, labelling the Buttles’ coats and hanging them up
“Where’s Olivia? I thought she was helping.”
“She had tae stay home.”
“I see. How is she?”
Sara shrugged and continued her task.
After a long silence, Tristan sighed, “Heath can’t keep this up forever. Someone’s going to notice the white-imperium missing from the Ark’s inventory and when they do-”
“Not now, Tristan.”
Tristan emitted a gruff sigh.
At length, Sara heard the crumple of paper, which drew her curiosity back to Tristan, then down at a strange leaflet he had spread over the desk.
“What’s that?” Sara asked him.
“Take a look.”
Wearing a curious frown, Sara came over and inspected the paper. Tristan kept watch, glancing all about.
“Ulf’s fangs!” Sara gasped, paw to mouth, as if she were there amidst the ash and death of the burning village.
“Couple of dissidents were giving them out at the gates,” Tristan explained, seemingly unaffected. “Evidence from the Reservations.”
“Och, that’s terrible. Is it real?”
The Howler dipped his chin, “It could be an old photo from the war. I hope so, but... my sources point to serious abuses in the Reservations.”
“Abuses? Tristan, there’s dead cubs and everything!”
“I know, I know. Look, don’t show that to anybody, I wouldn’t want them to think you were giving them out-”
“Donskoy!” someone barked.
Sara hid the leaflet under the desk whilst Tristan whipped round to face a passing superior, an Eisbrand Grand Howler in a suitably grand white surcoat, her armour marked with runes and snowflakes.
“Marm?” Tristan replied.
“Stop flirting with the faculty and get outside,” was the order. “Thorvald’s due any second. Help him in, wolf, he’s doubtless expecting you.”
“Yes, marm!”
With a helpless shrug at Sara, Tristan hurried to the main doors. Not knowing what else to do, Sara tucked the leaflet in her blazer and joined the crowds of beasts pouring out the hall to catch a glimpse of the arriving host. She was curious herself, having never before seen the Eisbrand’s Den Father in the flesh.
Sara weaved her way through the throngs of ‘respectable’ beasts; cats, hogs, bears and fellow wolves of course, even a rabbit or two – their kind had always straddled the divide between big and little, strong and meek. The Eisbrands were notoriously liberal and tolerated the odd little beast climbing above their station, especially under old Thorvald Strom. According to Tristan, Thorvald had been a Watcher, a Howler of the Lupan Wall and the Ashfall beyond. He had travelled far in his time, seen many things, lost many friends, and learnt the Lupan way was not the only way.
Emerging onto the university steps and the bitter cold of a winter’s night, Sara and the others spread out, making an informal funnel of beasts ready to greet Den Father Thorvald, patron of the prestigious Ark. He was the wolf to whom many, Sara included, owed their education. Others owed him their jobs, like old Professor Heath, who came alongside Sara, a giant in comparison, pipe smouldering in jaw as ever.
The Arkady University gates swung open and the churning of imperium engines filled the bitter evening air. A motorcade of eight monobikes and two impressive, gleaming white motor carriages lit up the courtyard with their blinding headlamps. Stopping at the stairs, the Howlers disembarked their monos and smartly formed up around the leading car, ready to protect it from any would-be assassin or terrorist.
Leaving his comrades at the entrance, Tristan calmly descended the stairs and opened the lead car’s passenger door, which was marked with the Eisbrand snowflake. He got down on one knee and dipped his head respectfully.
“Den Father Thorvald,” he said.
An armoured leg extended from the car, gold, with silver runes written into the seams. Snowflakes dotted every available space like stars in the firmament. An arm extended from the cabin, equally exquisite, the grey paw at the end grasping Tristan’s sturdy shoulder
“Help me rise, Howler,” rasped Thorvald Strom, Eisbrand Den Father. “The rot is bad with me today.”
“Sir.”
Keeping his chin dipped, Tristan slowly stood up. With some difficulty, Thorvald used the virile young Howler to lever himself out and stand, resplendent in his magnificent golden armour and ice-blue mantle.
Eisbrands were a heavily armoured lot, but Thorvald’s marvellous gear must weigh more than most, Sara reckoned, watching from the steps. The Den Father’s face and age were masked by his bejewelled helmet, but Sara knew Strom was an ancient wolf, especially so for a beast who’d had the rot all his life. He’d once been a tower of muscles, but even if his physical strength was finally deteriorating, he was, Tristan always claimed, an incredible imperium-wielder.
Satisfied the Den Father was steady, Tristan backed away a few steps, head still dipped. Thorvald raised a paw at all the Howlers, Freiwolves, citizens and others gathered before him in recognition of their attendance. They clapped and cheered. Despite the disturbing leaflet in her pocket, Sara found herself politely clapping too.
Thorvald approached Tristan and cupped a paw to his shoulder, “Help an old wolf up the stairs will you, Captain?”
“It’d be my honour, Den Father.”
Thorvald raised Tristan’s gaze to meet his own with a finger to his chin, “Head up, Donskoy, look smart.”
“Sir.”
Thorvald hung on Tristan’s arm and together they slowly climbed the marble steps of the Arkady. The university faculty lined up at the top to shake paws, Heath included, whilst the Den Guard made a wall around Thorvald, blocking anyone from approaching wit
hout the Den Father’s invitation.
Thorvald worked his way along the line; paws were shaken, polite enquiries made, Tristan occasionally reminding his master who the beasts were. The zoologist and imperiologist Professor Heath, the pilots Montague and Penny Buttle, and many other academics besides.
Before Sara knew what was what, the Den Father was in front of her!
“And who is this enchanting wolfess?” he asked in a pleasantly crackly old voice, like an evening campfire.
Sara curtsied, “Pleased tae meet you, Den Father, sir.”
Tristan formally introduced her, “This is Sara Hummel, sir; Professor Heath’s graduate-”
“Ah yes, of course it is!” Thorvald woofed. “I’ve heard all about your progress from young Tristan here.”
“Oh aye?” Sara said, glancing at Tristan, who looked down and cleared his throat.
Thorvald went on, “Forgive me, I forget; you’re Den Mother Cora’s eldest?”
“Aye, eldest of eight daughters, sir,” Sara confirmed chirpily.
“Hahaha! Eight now?” Thorvald chuckled. He leant forward a little and said with a twinkle in his eyes, “There must be something in Everdor’s water.”
“It’s just the ash, sir, or lack of it,” Sara replied.
“Ash?”
“Aye. When Ah first came tae Lupa, mah eyes watered for weeks and weeks, and Ah’m nae even allergic! Mah mother has the rot like any Howler, of course, but she’s at least had clean air and food when pregnant; that’s why she’s carried so many cubs through. It’s nae mystery tae me.”
Tristan subtly made a throat-cutting motion with his paw to ward Sara off the touchy subject.
However, Thorvald was amenable. “Yes. What damage we and our ancestors have done to our poor, wounded country, young Sara,” he sighed wistfully. “Perhaps one day we’ll wean ourselves off the two-faced mineral that has given us civilisation at the price of our freedom and our health. Alas, I will be long gone.” He looked to Tristan and back, “The future is in your paws, you youngsters. It is for you, sick Howler and healthy citizen alike, to plot the next course and find a solution.”
Sara and Tristan exchanged glances, then looked down and away from one another.
Tristan and his master moved on, heading inside the warmth and light of the university, followed by Professor Heath, Sara, and the crowd of guests, all swilling in the wake of Thorvald and his fierce-looking bodyguards.
“Where’s Rufus?” Thorvald discreetly asked his escort.
“I don’t know, Den Father,” Tristan snorted. “Running fashionably late, I imagine. He’ll stop at nothing to remain the centre of attention.”
“Mind your tongue, Howler,” Thorvald chided. “He’s a better wolf than you and I.”
They passed into the glorious dining hall with its chandeliers and sculptures, Thorvald waving at his guests even whilst secretly talking to Tristan.
“It’s unfortunate Red-mist lured your cousin away to the Bloodfangs,” he said, walking to the grand chair at head of the table, “but Ivan could do worse. Rufus shares so many Eisbrand sympathies that he’d be one by now were it not for his loyalty. The Bloodfangs took him in, gave him a chance, when all other packs refused… including ours. He would have died of rot as a cub without a Bloodfang Howlership. Rufus, as a wolf of honour, will never forget that.”
Tristan replied steadily, “Yes, Den Father,” like a young wolf listening to his granddad.
He pulled out the marvellous wooden chair at the end of the fabulous spread. Thorvald sat and his long-cloaked Den Guard spread out around the room, some closer than others, but all ready to pounce on any intruder.
Thorvald changed subject. “You still love that girl?” he whispered afresh.
Tristan’s duotone eyes widened alarmingly.
“Who wouldn’t?” Thorvald chuckled at once. “Ah, Sara’s a worthy cause. Ulf knows, you’ve watched over her since her arrival in Lupa with little thanks.”
“It’s reward enough that she’s safe, sir,” Tristan humbly insisted.
“Nonetheless, since we tasked you with this burden, albeit on her noble mother’s behalf, I feel I should have a word with her and explain your honourable intentions-”
“No!” Tristan yelped, adding in a measured tone, “No, thank you, Den Father. I… I wouldn’t want Sara to feel put upon. Whatever she decides must come naturally, not because such a great wolf as you said so.”
Thorvald nodded solemnly. “I was lucky enough to know love. Nothing gave me greater joy than my wife, though nearly all our cubs were stillborn, no doubt because of the poisons in my bones and all around us… as young Sara says. I pray she’s sees past the rot and accepts you in her own time, as a wolf first, not a Howler, just as my wife did me.”
Tristan watched Sara enter the hall with Professor Heath and take her seat for dinner; the places were all labelled. She glanced Tristan’s way, before the raucous Monty Buttle snatched her charming gaze away.
Tristan bowed and excused himself. “Forgive me, Den Father, I must return to my duties.”
“Stay awhile, Donskoy; warm yourself.”
“I wish I could.”
Thorvald nodded and waved him away. Released, Tristan strode from the hall, armour and sword rattling.
Sara watched him pass, before surreptitiously checking his leaflet under the table. As Sara stared at the terrible picture, made somehow more horrific by its grainy texture, the hubbub of dinner faded, the clinking of glass and Monty’s laughter ebbing away like the blood of the hyenas lying slain in the rolling Ashfall mud.
Could it be?
*
Rufus whizzed down the gravel drive on his mono and skidded to a halt by the stairs, kicking up a shower of stones. Linus hopped off the back as quickly as possible, eager to feel terra firma beneath his toes after that hair-raising ride.
Rumour held Rufus was a notorious tearaway on a mono, now Linus could confirm it.
“Here we are,” Red-mist declared, shutting his standard-issue, Bloodfang-emblazoned GVM-12 Springtail down. “You all right?” he asked Linus.
“What? Oh, yes.”
“You look a bit unsteady.”
“Must be the rot, sir,” Linus excused, clearing his throat.
He cast his baby-blue eyes over the magnificent façade of the Arkady University, its cold, indifferent exterior punctured by elegant glazed cavities through which passers by could glimpse the promise of warmth and good company.
Linus’s heart was still racing, and not from the ride. He realised he was excited to be here, albeit nervous.
‘I’m going to muck things up,’ he thought. ‘I’ll do or say something stupid.’
“Come on,” Rufus chirped, leading the way.
“Sir.”
As the Bloodfangs climbed the stairs, the Eisbrands either side of the doors were augmented by another big wolf with a big sword. Linus recognised him as that Tristan character from the refinery, and without even realising it his tail wagged with pleasure at the thought of a friendly face.
“You’re late, Howler Valerio,” Tristan snorted.
“Traffic was murder, Howler Donskoy,” Rufus replied airily, brushing by.
Tristan grabbed Rufus’s upper arm, stopping him. “You can’t leave your little Springtail there.”
Rufus slowly looked to him. “That’s why I left the keys in the ignition, so you could move it.” He twisted his arm free and, with his helmet grill an inch from Tristan, added dangerously, “Touch me again and you’ll be on your tail. Is that clear, Donskoy?”
Tristan said nothing. He just looked straight ahead.
Rufus moved on, “Come along, Linus.”
Baffled by the altercation, Linus hesitated on the stairs whilst Rufus strode fearlessly inside.
“Hello, Tristan,” Linus said, with a slightly nervous chuckle. He raised a paw in a quick ‘hi’ gesture. “Good to see you again, Howler.”
“Your master is waiting,” Tristan scoffed, cupping his paws be
fore him. “Run along now.”
Linus’s heart leapt. He let out a slight gasp, but nothing more came, no words. He climbed the steps, giving Tristan a sideways glance, before slipping past the other two Howlers without looking.
Once he was inside, Linus heard muffled laughter behind him. It was the two Howlers with Tristan.
Why?
“Linus,” Rufus beckoned from hall.
‘By Ulf,’ Linus realised, ‘they think I’m his beta.’
The young wolf followed his ‘master’, the grand interior of the Ark passing by without notice. Linus’s mind had zoned in on that one thought; the thought that others reckoned him a lesser wolf, a follower, the sort to groom your back and be grateful.
Did Uther think it too?
Linus remembered his friend’s reaction in the gym. ‘Oh,’ he’d said, ‘I see.’
Oh dear Ulf, he did think it!
“Are you sure you’re all right, Linus?” Rufus tutted, dashing Linus’s mental meanderings as the youth caught up with him. “You’re walking around like a gazer.”
Linus nodded a little too enthusiastically, “I’m f-fff-fine, sir. Really.”
Rufus waited a moment, then said, “Ignore them.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me,” the Grand Howler sniffed. “They’re jealous, that’s all. You know why?”
Linus couldn’t find his tongue to speak.
“Because they think even though you’re a rotten Howler you get what they all crave; contact with a fellow Howler, against which all other love pales by comparison, especially the counterfeit sort Uther pays for at the local Lupanar!” Rufus snorted. “They hate me all the more because I married me a genuine ‘Howleress’ back before it was forbidden. It’s all jealousy.”
Linus spluttered, “But I’m not-”
“Does it matter?” Rufus interrupted. “To deny it would only make them believe it more. Stay silent and let them stew in their own petty bitterness. What do we care?”
Linus looked at his feet.
Taking a deep breath, Rufus removed his helmet and ran a paw over his ears to tidy his fur. “Well, take your helmet off before we go in!” he chided gently. “There’s a Den Father in there. It’s bad enough we’re late, let’s not compound our disrespect.”
