Imperium Lupi

by Adam Browne

  Battling to stay upright and not tumble head over tail, Nurka started downhill. Half running, half sliding, he descended the pebbly slope, causing something of a landslide – no doubt the loose piles were leftover from mining operations decades ago.

  “Themba, stop!”

  Down in the stream, Themba heard Nurka well enough, but ignored him. “What shall I do with this worm?” he asked Madou, poking the Warden with the butt of his hammer. The broken wolf lay half submerged in the shallows, spitting water and blood, his legs still within the mangled car from which he had crawled.

  Stepping into the stream, the dishevelled Madou glanced behind at Nurka, then said to Themba, “My cousin’s dead.”

  Themba snorted, “Little Zozizou?”

  A tearful nod.

  Silently, Themba offered Madou his hammer, but Madou shook his head. “I might… miss,” he rasped, feeling his collared throat, which was constricting from sheer rage.

  Themba nodded once and raised his hammer. “In the name of the Jua-mata, I sentence you to death!”

  “No… p-p-p-please!” the Warden spluttered.

  “Themba!” Nurka pealed across the waters.

  No. Not this time. In a trice, Themba of the Jua-mata brought his weapon down with a mighty metallic thump and sickening crack; the Warden’s eisenglanz helmet no protection against the blow of a kristahl hammer. Blood seeped into the fast-flowing water from the deformed helmet’s every orifice, whilst imperious sparks played over its surface.

  “Justice is done,” Themba declared simply.

  Then Nurka arrived, his paws latching onto Themba’s labyrinthine cloak and pulling him all about to the metallic tinkle of belt buckles and body-piercings on both sides.

  “By the Wind, must you smash everything?” he bellowed. “Have you no brains at all in that big empty head?”

  He pushed Themba away, lest he punched him out.

  “He killed Zozizou and all the others!” Themba defended, his chin raised proudly. “What else would you have me do? Spare him? This is no time for mercy!”

  Nurka’s purple eyes narrowed. “He knew where the white-imperium cache was. He’s been siphoning it off Gelb shipments and sending it to Amael all this time, so he must have known where to send it, at least.”

  Themba and Madou stood in silence, perhaps unable to grasp Nurka’s point.

  “We could’ve had it!” the latter seethed, his dark fingers gnarling beneath his chin. “We could’ve stolen the white-imperium from under their noses.”

  “But it’s no use to us, Nurka!” Themba dismissed. “It is sacred-”

  “I’d have returned it to Mother Erde and denied Amael using it to fuel his Howlers against the tribes later, you fool! But you… you just had to go and….”

  Unable to continue for his searing rage the chief turned to the setting sun peeping through the rolling mountains. Its calming disc proved no comfort.

  “Chief, I’m sorry,” Madou grunted guiltily. “I didn’t know.”

  “Exactly!” Themba seconded. “Perhaps you should tell us all these plans you have, Nurka! We are not mind-readers. If I had but known the Warden was so important-”

  “If I had,” Nurka interrupted, “Madou here would have told the wolves everything under duress and all would be lost now! Must I carry the burden of your stupidity always? Can you not stop and think for a moment?”

  Nursing his aching head, Nurka stormed through the water towards the bank.

  Prince Noss was waiting there. Eyeing the Warden’s crumpled remains, he said, “Can you blame them?”

  Nurka exhaled in passing, “No, my Prince,” and dejectedly climbed the pebbly bank, leaving Madou and Themba to wallow in the shame of their chief’s contempt.

  *

  “Marm!”

  Lying on her bed in her full regalia, Janoah lowered the book she was reading by brooch-light to peer at the wide-eyed Prefect panting in the cabin doorway. “What?” she urged him.

  “The assassin, marm. He’s gone!”

  Tossing her book aside, Janoah followed the panicked Prefect through the motionless and increasingly dingy ALPHA carriages, for they had no imperium power to light them without an engine and night was fast drawing in.

  They arrived at the cabin where Uther Bloodfang was being held. Or not, as it turned out. Uther’s cabin was instead home to a pair of writhing Prefects, their paws and feet bound by Howler-wire and muzzles tied shut. One of them had been stripped of his mantle, tunic and helmet, the other his greaves, boots and gaiters. Janoah wasn’t sure which wolf looked more embarrassed.

  “Search the surrounding countryside,” she directed the other Prefects calmly. “Use lethal force if need be.”

  Orders given, Janoah moseyed inside and attended to one of the restrained Prefects, removing his gag. “What happened?” she growled, as if she didn’t know.

  “Uther just… c-c-came at us, marm, like lightning!” the young wolf spluttered. “He started groaning so… so I came inside and he’d gone. Then pow! He dropped down from nowhere and blasted me in the chest. The next thing I know we’re both in here. I thought I was a goner!”

  “All right, all right, calm down; nobody’s blaming you,” Janoah soothed. “When did this happen?”

  “Ages ago, marm. It… it was when the Bloodfangs ditched us here, not long after you questioned him again. He’ll be long gone by now.”

  “He can’t get far; he’s wounded.”

  “That’s what I don’t get!” the Prefect whined. “I thought he was messed up bad. How could he jump us like that? Where’d he get the energy? It’s like someone slipped him a sting.”

  “It’s my fault,” Janoah said, as if about to confess, but of course doing no such thing. “I underestimated him,” she sighed. “Horst was right. I should’ve left him bound up like a bug in a meat market. Instead I pitied an old comrade like the soft, foolish wolfess I am. Don’t worry, boys, I’ll take the heat for this.”

  *

  Luckily Grand Prefect Horst was attending to the small matter of flagging down the Eisbrand Elder Train and missed the bad news. Janoah felt she could stand the Alpha’s fury without Horst there to fan the flames, provided Duncan was on paw to dampen them, which he was.

  “By the stars, Janoah!” the Alpha shouted from behind his desk. “Uther was the reason Amael abandoned us here and now we don’t even have him to show for it!”

  “Yes, my Alpha,” Janoah said. “Though… Amael would have seized upon any excuse to get rid of us-”

  “That’s not the point, is it?”

  “No, my Alpha.”

  “He was our star witness against Amael. Now he’s gone!”

  Silence.

  “This is ridiculous,” the Alpha grumbled. “This entire excursion has been one disaster after another!” he went on, his voice rising with every word. “Why do I even bother? Why didn’t I just stay a corrupt, money-grabbing, indolent Howler like everybody else instead of sticking my neck above the parapet and trying to change what Ulf clearly thinks is best for his people; a city of squalor and crime lorded over by droolers like Vito!”

  Slamming his pen down the Alpha buried his white face in his brown paws.

  By Ulf, it’s like watching Amael throw one of his tantrums, Janoah thought; two wolves trying to achieve peace and harmony in Lupa yet somehow worlds apart. Ulf mocks me. If Duncan wasn’t here I could explain my actions, that I set Uther free to chase down my hunch, but Duncan could be a traitor.

  It could be anyone, except the Alpha.

  Traitor or not, Janoah was hoping the amiable Duncan might step in and calm the Alpha down like he always did. However, the intense lights of a huge train beamed through the windows and slewed across the dark carriage, rousing everyone’s attention.

  “That’s them,” Duncan said, recognising the great snowflake crest of the Eisbrands adorning the train’s circular face. And what a train! Painted pale blue and clean as a whistle, the great wheels plated with gold – it put the Bloodf
ang’s grubby engine to shame.

  For a horrifying moment Thorvald’s fabulous engine appeared to pass by, as if somehow shunning the Alpha on principle – seeing that cretin Horst waving from the trackside would be impetus enough, Janoah supposed. But no, brakes screamed, carriages slowed and bright interiors came into sharp focus as the Eisbrand’s home away from home eased into dock amidst swathes of vented ash.

  “It’s up to Horst to bluster his way through now,” the Alpha said.

  “Aye, he’s the master,” Duncan chuckled, moving to the window to watch. “There he goes. Look at him.”

  Curious, Janoah joined Duncan by the windows and watched Horst stride across the opposite side of the station with several Prefects in tow, helmet on, medals jingling at his chest, venting officiousness. He reached the leading carriage and rapped on the door.

  “Open up! Open up in the name of the Republic! This is an emergency!”

  The door opened up all right, and out tumbled several Eisbrand Den Guards, surrounding Horst and the drab black Prefects in a ring of long, blue surcoats and glittering gold and silver armour. Horst raised his paw to keep his wolves from drawing their swords or anything so foolish.

  A final and most imposing Eisbrand Howler appeared in the door; Horst could sense his powerful corona. “What’s the meaning of this Prefect?” the Howler growled, the word Prefect dripping through his silvery helmet grille with contempt.

  “Grand Prefect, if you will,” Horst corrected.

  “Queen of Butterflies for all I care, now say your piece.”

  Containing his rage, the Prefect raised his chin, “I must speak to Den Father Thorvald.”

  “The Den Father is indisposed and cannot be disturbed. Speak to me or else.”

  Horst raised his ALPHA-marked envelope, as if it were a hall pass. “I carry a letter from the Alpha himself for Thorvald alone. This is a matter of national security. It would not be wise to obstruct me, Howler.”

  The affronted Eisbrand snorted, but said nothing. He secretly looked past Horst to the station, searching for clues as to the nature of this emergency. The ALPHA carriages, being without power and shunted into the siding opposite, were dark and obscure, looking like abandoned carriages amongst the rest of the run-down station’s detritus. It looked for all the world as if Horst had appeared from thin air.

  “I heard a rumour,” the Eisbrand said loftily, “that the Alpha was too poor to run his own engine and had hitched a ride with mad old Vito and his backward Bloodfangs. Is that true, Grand Prefect?”

  Horst lowered the letter. “Den Father Vito is dead, I’ll have you know! Furthermore if we at ALPHA are too poor it’s because the packs, in their infinite wisdom, do not fund us adequately. Ulf knows we do not squander our budget on pretty uniforms and vast banquets like some!”

  The Eisbrand raised a silencing paw. “Vito’s dead?”

  Horst explained, “Assassinated, mere hours ago. Now… are you going to let me through, or do I go back to the Alpha and explain I was unable to convey his correspondence to Thorvald Strom at this most perilous hour because of the petty officiousness of his bureaucrats?”

  Back in the Alpha’s dark carriage, Duncan clapped his paws once. “Och! He’s in.”

  “Naturally,” Adal said.

  Why it was the Alpha couldn’t just go across and solicit Thorvald himself was at once ridiculous and yet completely necessary. It was a matter of front. No Den Father would go begging for an audience; they sent lesser beasts. To be taken seriously the Alpha had to play the same game as the big boys, anything less would reduce him to a laughing stock. Only inside ALPHA’s unassuming halls were such protocols considered outdated.

  This Janoah knew, so it surprised her somewhat when, after a good five minutes, Horst emerged from the Eisbrand carriages with Thorvald Strom himself. The Den Father looked magnificent in his full glittering knight’s panoply, flanked by a shield of ferocious Den Guards.

  They crossed the dark, deserted station platform, Horst chatting and gesturing all the way; Thorvald nothing much.

  “He’s coming over!” Duncan woofed in horror, turning to the Alpha, who remained at his desk.

  “Horst?” Adal asked.

  “Aye, and Thorvald!”

  “What? But Strom can’t see us like this!”

  “Well he’s coming, Adal!”

  “For the love of Ulf, Horst, what’ve you done?” the Alpha complained rhetorically, donning his helmet and tidying his cloak. “This is absurd. Get some lanterns in here. Quickly!”

  Janoah was on it, rushing across into Josef’s carriage and returning with some imperium lanterns from the cat’s ample supplies, she hung them about the Alpha’s mobile office so that Thorvald could at least see where he was going without resorting to his brooch.

  Just in time. The door at the far end opened and Horst clambered inside, followed by Thorvald.

  “Stay here,” the Den Father was heard to tell his guards, refusing them entry. They protested, but Thorvald cut them down without delay. “This is a private matter! You will not insult Den Prefect Adal by questioning my safety in his presence. Stay here!”

  Slamming the door on his contrite followers, Thorvald bade Horst to lead him down the corridor and into the Alpha’s office. As they entered Adal stood up from his desk, whilst Duncan and Janoah looked on from a respectful distance, paws behind their backs. Everyone exchanged nods and salutes, Thorvald fist to chest and out, albeit casually, everyone else the even more casual ALPHA salute.

  Casting those Eisbrand-blue eyes about the lantern-lit carriage in obvious curiosity, Thorvald said nothing disparaging about ALPHA’s predicament whatever his private thoughts – wolves had long said of Strom that he was a class act.

  “Den Father Thorvald,” came the stocky Alpha, walking round his desk to greet the much taller Eisbrand.

  “Den Prefect Adal,” Thorvald replied, clearing his throat and looking back at the others.

  Understanding at once, Adal nodded at Horst.

  Horst leant forward as if hard of hearing, “Yes, my Alpha?”

  “Leave us,” Adal seethed, flicking a paw.

  “Oh!”

  Horst, Duncan and Janoah took their leave. This really was a private matter, distilled right down to the highest office in Lupa. Den Prefect and Den Father were going to hash out a deal without any prying ears – an illegal deal, and everyone knew it.

  The lustre of ALPHA’s self-professed purity was scuffed just a little that night.

  Codex: ALPHA

  Every pack has Provosts, Howlers that investigate and prosecute their own for crimes such as imperium skimming, murder and general abuse of their rights, but these pack-based internal investigators are open to bribes and bias, and even straight ones are often unable to bring charges against powerful Elders without putting their careers, even their lives, in danger.

  The last Howler war, simply called ‘The War’ by this generation, came about because of the overreaching of the Howlers. Their cruelty towards little beasts in the form of heavy taxation, even downright theft and casual murder, led eventually to an explosion of violence – a rebellion. This rebellion, which began in the once contested Common Ground of Lupa and spread outwards, sparked an inter-pack war which lasted a decade. Lupa’s heart was levelled in the conflict.

  Once peace was restored, the Den Fathers met and agreed to form a multilateral regulatory body overseen and funded by all the packs. Thus ALPHA was born, the Agency for Lupan Peace and Howler Accountability.

  ALPHA’s independent ‘Prefects’ were granted the power to investigate errant Howlers, even Elders, across all packs equally and bring charges against them to a special court comprised of representatives from every pack. To this day ALPHA cannot punish, but they can bring a Howler’s crimes to undoubted light.

  By eliminating self-interested and corrupt courts, it was hoped, and still is by ALPHA’s advocates, that no one Elder will again be allowed to overreach himself, that no Howler shall go unpunished,
that no little beast feel wronged without recourse, thus dampening the same simmering resentment that led to the last war.

  As for the devastated Common Ground, or Common, it was given to ALPHA to rebuild and maintain, since no other pack had any undoubted claim to it. Always a lawless place, the Common has since become a truly neutral territory where Howlers of every pack meet and mingle with impunity, leaving their troubles, but not their wallets, at the checkpoints. ALPHA makes little money from the Common, and the grants they rely upon dwindle with each passing Summit as the Den Fathers, under pressure from disgruntled Howlers tired of being investigated, pull ever tighter on the purse strings.

  Unless ALPHA can prove itself, its current administrator, the popular impartialist and renowned recipient of the Imperium Heart, Adal Weiss, may well be the organisation’s first and last Den Prefect to dare self-style himself as ‘The Alpha’.

  Chapter 45

  Grand Prefect Silvermane wandered around the stark interrogation room, flipping through the pages of a file.

  “Tristan Eisbrand Donskoy,” he said, “Born at 422 Radoslav Avenue. Twenty-one years old. Parents deceased. No close family. Ah… but of course there’s your good cousin Ivan, the so-called ‘Blade-dancer’.” Closing the file, Silvermane stood at the head of the rack and looked down on the restrained Tristan. “What epithet do you deserve, ‘Imperium-peddler’, ‘Hyena-lover’, ‘Destroyer of Lupa?’”

  “The Alpha is the one who’ll destroy Lupa,” Tristan seethed from the rack, twisting his bound paws. “Don’t… think wolves can’t see his transparent ambition.”

  “The Alpha’s ambition, traitor, is to root out the likes of you before you plunge our fair city into the chaos of war as we suffered not so very long ago! Your parents died in that war, as did mine and countless other beasts of every race, sex and creed, afflicted or not! Yet you wish to repeat the mistakes of the past and tear things down with violence. I admit Lupa must change, we at ALPHA believe in equality for all, even the belligerent hyenas must eventually be accepted-”