Imperium Lupi

by Adam Browne

  “And who’re you, little wolf?” Nikita hummed.

  “I’m-”

  “Stay out of this, boy!” Rufus barked. “This is no concern of yours.”

  Thorvald himself looked momentarily unnerved by Nikita’s appearance, but demanded, “The boy is right. What are the charges, Grand Prefect? I will be satisfied before you act. This is Eisbrand territory; I will not have you traipse over it arresting wolves without just cause!”

  Nikita looked to Janoah.

  “Misappropriation of white-imperium, Den Father,” she said flatly, looking down on her mate. “Howler Rufus has not only been taking more than his fair share, but selling excess on the black market.”

  “Have I, by Ulf?” Rufus laughed. “And what of your enormous ‘misappropriation’, wife?”

  “You will accompany us to ALPHA HQ,” Janoah said, hissing quietly, “Get your things husband. Let’s not make a scene.”

  “Ulf forbid.”

  Rufus stood up and assertively tugged at the shoulders of his cloak. He donned his helmet, the cheeks glowed.

  “Linus,” he said loudly.

  “Sir?”

  “Tell Elder Amael I’ll be detained for the night.”

  “Uh… yes sir.”

  With that, Rufus walked in amongst the Prefects, who led him away.

  ~Blick ii~

  “Uff, uff, unff!”

  The hefty punch bag swung and spun wildly on its creaking tether. Upon its return journey it met again with the mighty fists that had first set it upon its pendulous trajectory.

  “Uff, uff, unff!”

  This time arcs of plasma played over the blackened, smouldering bag as its imperium-weave sacking absorbed the boxer’s incredible blows; blows that would surely break the body of any mere wolf and send them tumbling across the floor.

  Prefects looked on in awe from the corners of the ALPHA gymnasium, some in admiration of that matchless strength, others aghast it was even possible in a wolf. Rumour held the newcomer had been specially brought in by Silvermane and that new wolfess, Janoah, to be an Eisenwolf. Some said he had already been suited up a few times and training was underway, albeit in secret. Certainly his tail had already been cut off, replaced with a black ribbon tucked in his breeches, as if in mourning for it.

  Whatever they thought, whatever the facts, none dared approach the intimidating wolf.

  Well, save one.

  “Ungh, ungh, unfghff!”

  As the bag swung away, a grey wolfess in a prim black nurse’s uniform appeared out of left field. “Hello!” she piped quickly.

  The boxer’s gaze settled on her, “Oi… I know you-oof!”

  The punch bag slammed into him, sweeping him off his feet and flat on his back, ribbon trailing.

  “Oh!” the nurse chirped. “Are you all right?”

  The gymnasium broke into raucous laughter at the clumsy boxer’s expense. The little nurse shot eye-daggers at the lot of them, but, shaking his head, the boxer got up and dusted down his breeches. He turned to the mocking Prefects roundabout and beamed amiably, shrugging his massive shoulders and spreading his bandaged paws, dispelling at a stroke any air of spite they had projected against him. He had been a fool and knew it.

  The laughter faded.

  “You’re Meryl Stroud, yeah?” the boxer said to the nurse, steadying the still-swinging bag. “I’m Rafe,” he added, with a roguish smile. “Rafe Stenton.”

  “Yes, I know,” she replied, surprised. “You… you do remember me, then?”

  “Yeah. You looked after me when I was ill.”

  Meryl dipped her tiny chin over that well-starched high collar of hers, almost touching the white cravat. “I suppose you could say that,” she said guardedly. “How are you today?”

  A shrug, a sniff, “Fine, fine. You?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You all right?”

  “I’m very well, thank you,” Meryl replied at length, as if shocked to be asked.

  Rafe nodded, smiled, and hung on the punch bag a moment before giving it a light jab – it still swung appreciably.

  Meryl asked, “Did your father teach you to box?”

  “Father?”

  “He was a rabbit, wasn’t he? They’re often fond of boxing.”

  Rafe’s brow twisted this way and that. He steadied the bag again and stared down at his feet for the longest time. He clapped a paw to his aching head, “Uhm.”

  “Never mind,” Meryl said quickly. “Rafe, I need you to come along to the infirmary.”

  Those big brown ears pricked, “What for? I feel fine.”

  “For a blood test. Quite routine I assure you. Josef says we need to keep an eye on your ash levels.”

  “Oh. Sure. One second, I’d better unwrap.”

  “All right.”

  Rafe hurried over to a bench, silk ribbon flapping in his wake, where he unbound his paws. Spying blood on the discarded bandages, Meryl clomped over in her practical, hard-wearing boots.

  “Your paws are red-raw!” she tutted, grasping them and checking the blistered pads.

  Rafe shrugged his mighty frame, his enormous muscles rippling beneath his rich brown fur. “That’s what happens, ‘en it?”

  “Happens?”

  “To Howlers. I-I mean Prefects. When we use our corona. It burns, dun it?”

  “No, not whilst training it shouldn’t!” Meryl scolded, amazed Rafe appeared to feel nothing.

  “Oh.”

  “Didn’t Silvermane and Jano…” Meryl cut off, looked around, and continued quieter, “Prefect Janoah should have told you that you only use imperium when you absolutely must. If you go on damaging your body like this you won’t last five minutes, even if you are an…” Meryl finished in a hushed voice, “an Eisenwolf.”

  Rafe mischievously leant down and whispered in kind, “I didn’t know. Sorry.”

  Meryl shook her head. Leading Rafe from the gymnasium, she said, “You must learn to control your corona properly. No more training for you, not until someone’s taught you a thing or two about self-restraint, young wolf. I’m going to have a word with Janoah and Silvermane at once-”

  “Can’t you teach me?” Rafe interjected.

  “Me?” Meryl said with surprise, stopping in the gym’s adjoining hall. “Not really. I’m not even afflicted.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No. Why, do I look ill?” Meryl rubbed a grey cheek, worried at Rafe’s baffled expression. “I know I’m gaunt sometimes. Lack of sleep-”

  “No no, I just wondered,” Rafe professed, adding, “And no, actually, you ain’t ‘gaunt’.”

  Meryl glanced up at the wolfen giant, surprised at his somehow frank, naive gentleness, like that of a cub who meant well but had not the life experience to put his thoughts across. Of course he was no older than sixteen or so; nobody knew for sure, least of all Rafe himself after his frightful induction.

  “Come along,” Meryl said, clearing her throat, “let’s set you right, Rafe.”

  “Oi, Meryl,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “You owe me a penny.”

  Chapter 22

  Elder Amael Bloodfang Balbus stood out front Riddle Den’s inspiring facade, the huge crest depicting the pack’s emblem illuminated from below, the accompanying red banners lit from above. Grand Howler Vladimir stood loftily at Amael’s left, his stocky adjutant Captain Boris at his right, whilst the elegant Captain Ivan lingered behind with some more Redcloaks. Everyone was dressed in their best, helmets and all.

  It was midnight, and as agreed via a week of ludicrous negotiations – Ivan thought them ludicrous at any rate – the gates opened and several Howlers on industrial-looking monobikes were allowed to chug onto Riddle Den’s grounds. Stopping a respectable distance away the Howlers dismounted. Despite the relative gloom one could tell their mantles were a dark yellow, except for the leader, whose cloak was ashen grey. The symbol of a gear was apparent on their brooches from several yards distant, centred as it was wi
th a fluorescent crystal of yellow-imperium. If that didn’t give their identity away, their ugly monos did. Not for these wolves the beautiful Giacomo Valerio bikes, but hefty, own-brand models replete with twisting, exposed pipes and valves.

  The proud and arrogant Greystones and no mistake, Ivan sighed inwardly.

  Their leader, a very tall and powerfully built brown wolf, separated from his followers and strode towards the shorter, pure grey Amael, who did the same. They met halfway and embraced.

  “Amael,” said the guest.

  “Flaid,” said the host.

  After much arm-patting and pleasantries they separated and got down to business.

  Flaid raised a paw. One of his yellow cloaks came forward and placed a metal trunk on the ground.

  Amael raised his paw. One of his Redcloaks came forth and took it, checked its weight with his paw. The Howler put it down again and opened the case, revealing shining, translucent ingots of stabilised yellow-imperium crystal.

  “What’re you doing?” Amael barked at his subordinate.

  “Checking it, sir,” replied the baffled youth.

  “You insult our honoured guest. I would trust Elder Flaid with my life. Shut it immediately!”

  “Yes, Elder.”

  The Bloodfang closed the case and backed off.

  At the rear of proceedings, Ivan rolled his eyes at Amael’s painfully transparent acting. He had doubtless specifically instructed that Howler to check the case, which is why the poor chap was confused at being pulled up on it.

  One of the Greystones, a short burly fellow, stepped forward and snarled, “All right, now where’s me brother?”

  “Bodvar!” Flaid snapped.

  “If you’ve hurt a hair on his head-”

  “Bodvar, enough!” Flaid bellowed. “Do not disgrace us further, or I will disgrace you!”

  The wolf called Bodvar backed off, chin dipped.

  Despite the insult to his honour, Amael remained outwardly unmoved. “Boris,” he instructed simply.

  “Sir.”

  Boris turned and gestured at the Den’s grand entrance. The doors opened and two Bloodfang Howlers escorted a young brown wolf on crutches down the stairs, his tattered yellow cloak hanging limply around his shoulders and bandaged midriff showing. It was the border guard who had valiantly fought the giant centipede in the tunnel.

  “Gunnar!” Howler Bodvar yelped, waving.

  “Bodvar!” Howler Gunnar replied, hurrying along as best a broken leg allowed.

  As he passed Vladimir, the bruised Gunnar stopped and nodded, “Thanks for being so kind to me, Grand Howler, you n’ Rufus both.”

  Vladimir nodded graciously back, “Take care of yourself, Howler. Mind those sewer centipedes in future.”

  Smiling, Gunnar limped on, rejoining his pack whereupon Howler Bodvar hugged his brother close.

  “Stupid idiot,” he growled, “I thought we’d lost yer.”

  “Don’t fuss!” Gunnar whined.

  “Did they hurt yer?” his brother growled.

  “No. They were really good to me. Saved me life. It was that Rufus, he’s a right good ‘un.”

  Whilst his lesser Howlers let the mask of dignity slip, the mighty Flaid remained utterly composed. “I apologise that you had to squander precious venom on one of ours, Amael,” he sniffed. “I hope this meagre offering of yellow-imperium will cover the cost.”

  Amael cocked his head to one side, “Admirably, Flaid. If any of mine are ever wounded in your district, you’ll pay them the same courtesy, I’m sure.”

  Flaid nodded, “Of course.”

  “I think we’re done here, agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  They shook paws and patted each other’s backs as if they were the best of friends. They were not enemies, it was true, but the Greystones and Bloodfangs had fought before and would fight again if this shortage continued, of that Ivan was sure, as he watched in silence.

  “Give my regards to Grand Howler Rufus,” Flaid said, not seeing him amongst the gathering. “Wherever he is.”

  Amael managed a strained chuckle only.

  With that, Flaid and the Greystones parted company with their Bloodfang rivals and mounted their still-churning monobikes. No sooner had Gunnar sat on the back of his brother’s chunky mono than he was whisked away, out the gates and into the night, destined for the safety of Greystone territory.

  “That worthless Rufus,” Amael complained, turning and passing through his Howlers, heading up the stairs, “He’s embarrassed us yet again. He should’ve been back from wherever in Ulf’s name he is.”

  “The Arkady Symposium, sir?” Boris reminded his leader, following him.

  “Whatever! He said he would be here in time for this exchange, but as usual I am made to look a fool. He’s probably lying drunk in a ditch somewhere, the disrespectful dog. I’ll have him flogged this time, I swear it.”

  “Shall I send someone to find him, sir?”

  “What’s the point?”

  As the group entered the Den’s reception, with its Bloodfang emblem and polished marbled foyer, Vladimir came up on Elder Amael’s left. “One does not excuse oneself from the presence of a Den Father lightly, sir,” he said. “Perhaps Thorvald has kept Rufus longer than expected?”

  Amael gave Vladimir a questioning sideways look, but in the end just grunted noncommittally at him. Perhaps he thought it odd that Vladimir should stick up for Rufus, Ivan certainly did, as he lingered at the back. Twice in as many weeks now Vladimir had been Rufus’s pal. Perhaps he was just repaying a favour, or perhaps he was accruing credit with Rufus to ask a favour later?

  “Vladimir, that hyena you have in custody,” Amael growled, taking Vladimir to one side, though Ivan listened in.

  “Madou, sir?”

  “Whatever he’s called.”

  “He’s proving most stubborn on the rack, but-”

  “Get rid of him,” Amael interrupted.

  Vladimir was baffled, “Elder?”

  “You heard,” Amael snorted impatiently, “I want him tried and out of my fur.”

  “But he may yet reveal THORN’s plans-”

  “He knows nothing! Just like Noss before him, he’s a pathetic pawn. Stop driving up our gas bill frying him on the rack and have him sent down. Is that clear?”

  At length, said, “Yes, sir.”

  Though his interest was piqued by the exchange, Ivan quickly forgot it when a Howler hurried across the foyer and intercepted him.

  “Cap’n!” the youngster panted, saluting.

  “Yes, Howler?” Ivan acknowledged.

  “It’s Grand Howler Rufus, sir.”

  Visions of bombings and lupicide flashed through Ivan’s mind as he imagined Rufus had been assassinated. “What’s happened?” he said, dreading the answer.

  “He’s been… been arrested by ALPHA, sir,” the Howler said, betwixt a gulp.

  Vladimir overheard and approached, “Arrested?”

  The Howler saluted him, “Yes Grand Howler. Trooper Linus just got off the phone to us sir. He says they came storming in and arrested Rufus in the middle of a… a party, or something.”

  “Symposium?” Vladimir suggested.

  “That’s it, sir. Line was pretty bad.”

  Vladimir nodded and turned away, “I see. Very good, Howler, carry on.”

  Ivan also went about his business, apparently relieved.

  The puzzled young Howler followed them, “But… but what about Rufus, sir?”

  “He’ll be back by morning,” Ivan assured the youth.

  Vladimir explained, “Not a year goes by without Rufus being arrested for something; probably got denounced to ALPHA by a jilted beta. At least this gets him off the hook with Amael.”

  *

  Rufus sat in the stark, off-white interrogation room, ember smouldering betwixt his lips, ash tumbling onto the table he was leaning on. He reached inside his cloak – as he did so one of the two ALPHA Prefects standing in the corners of the room went
for their sword.

  “Checking the time, dear boy,” Rufus explained, tentatively producing his pocket watch.

  The Prefect gulped and cleared his throat, before standing normally again. He glanced nervously at his compatriot across the room, but said nothing to him.

  “It’s nearly one,” Rufus snorted, stowing it away. “Are you chaps planning on keeping me here all night?”

  No reply.

  “Any chance of a cup of tea? Maybe a biscuit, if it’s not too much trouble?”

  Nothing, not a peep.

  “You know you’re very rude,” Rufus tutted, blowing a cloud of strawberry ember vapours.

  Some minutes passed. Rufus was just wondering how Linus was faring getting home without a ride, what with the last trains long since gone, when the door opened. The Prefects stood to attention and waved the quick ALPHA salute as two more entered the room, one tall, silvery grey and in all-black gear, the other… well….

  “Ah, the wife!” Rufus greeted, Janoah’s obscuring Howler helmet proving no impediment to recognition. He looked to the wolf accompanying her and had no trouble there either. “And you’ve brought ‘Silvermange’ to see me. How lovely. Do have a seat, you two. Kettle’s on.”

  Grand Prefect Silvermane looked to Janoah and growled under his breath, “You said he was sober.”

  She just shrugged.

  Silvermane cleared his throat and approached the table with a file in his paws.

  “Grand Howler Rufus,” he said, pleasantly enough.

  Barely had he than Rufus asked, “Whatcha got there?” in a patronising tone, like a father to a cub, raising his chin at the file nestled in the Grand Prefect’s silver paws. “Evidence?”

  Silvermane nodded at the two Prefects, “Leave us.”

  “So soon?” Rufus whined. “I was just getting to know the charming fellows.”

  The Prefects waved again and shuffled hastily out the room, eager to be relieved, either because Rufus frightened them, or because he annoyed them. Either way, Janoah closed the door in their wake and stood aloof.

  Satisfied, Silvermane tossed the file in his paws onto the desk. Rufus looked at it, then at him.