(USFB): Sixteen: Old Home, Old Faces

Duty was not something Razien feared. Whether it be to exhume a blood-tainted body from a burial ground or stand toe to toe with a Wretched call upon by the Spiritcatcher. However, his new task was something beyond his confidence. Riding to Roya through the night after an already exhausting day was a paltry request, but his purpose was another thing. He would need to consult the Wyse’s closest advisor, which would have been nothing if it were not his own father. Moreover, Jaium insisted that someone, not his father, should deliver the news to the young princess. To complete the trials, extracting himself in equally short measure as he had arrived would be another nightmare entirely.

The Baylen had insisted that it be a company of only wolves if it could be helped, but as he made up his mind, searching about the camp, he shifted this notion to only involve nearkin. The two men accompanying Razien were a fox and a coyote. He could only assume that in choosing Rin, the fox, and Ceren, that Jaium had chosen the least of his men. If they were lost, the Baylen cut two of the worst of his fighters from the herd. However, as they took flight into the night on their myters, Razien found the two were, if nothing else, tremendous riders. He wished only that his companions could have been furnished with equally well-seasoned mounts.

Despite their disagreement about the Yerra, Orathone had offered up his bird, Sha-Sha, to Razien directly. It wasn’t as though there were no other myters he might have pulled from the flock, but the offer was a personal one. The mahogany-eyed buck allowed animosity to slide away and took in the wolf with such a gaze as to ensure him there was no ill will despite his mentor’s vitriol for the elk’s treatment. It wasn’t a concession to take the bird as a favor but to allow his own irritation with the self-righteous elk to subside for the time being. There was no telling what had happened, but Jaium did not seem capable of shifting his fury away from Imfay. Still, all that was behind them, as the moon crept further from its zenith and began the long trek down into the Lifeless Grounds.

They would be meeting Sirian’s Blessing as they met the craggy slope that served as entrance into the mountain fortress of the wolves. In times past, it served as the rock that invading forces, some mortal others not, broke themselves upon in an attempt at siege. Those great jagged shards of stone were, to his father’s testimony, the womb from which the goddess had been born. He claimed that she descended like so much early morning light from the heights and graced the earth, nude but for what her flowing tails might cover. Razien couldn’t help but think his father embellished the details, not so much of her arrival but her own state. Derius was a man of hypocrisy if ever the young wolf knew one.

Just like the coming dawn, Razien would have to meet his father in time that felt all too short. They couldn’t afford to waste time on their travel, but he wanted nothing more than to avoid being face-to-face with him again. There was no great hatred between the two but an animosity that would hardly be dissuaded from on the news of the Wyse’s death. He could hear his father now, lecturing, scolding, refusing to budge on his biases. With the radiance that rose from the glistening heights of the mountains, refracting so much of its amethyst hue it would make a jem seem dull, Razien could almost hear Derius’ voice in truth.

The myters came to a well-sought-after trot as they neared the organic monoliths that beset the ramp into the city on either side. Despite how long and urgently they rode, Razien was surprised to find that Sha-Sha seemed hardly half as worn down as the other two. He couldn’t begin to guess, but his first thought of Orathone’s mount was that it simply had been bred differently than those in the east. Like so many shren, the birds could be bred against their specific sub-groups to produce a hybrid for better qualities. Whatever they had in the west was better suited to lengthy and quick jaunts across the countryside, whereas those accompanying him stood taller and with more muscular legs that could plod through knee-deep snow.

They proceeded to the gate with the myters in tow, giving the birds a much-needed rest from their burdens. Before the wolf could even knock, a panel high above the ground slid open, and a gray muzzle poked out, “State your business.”

“Urgent, it regards Wyse Atlai. I must speak with Consul Moqura at once.”

“Moqura,” the guard trailed, then a smile danced across her muzzle, “Why, I thought I was looking at Consul Moqura.”

A scattered hail of salt grains fell from on high and doused the three men and their mounts. With no reaction, the imposing, solid iron gate, rust red as Razien’s fur, parted. They were ushered in immediately thereafter and had their myters taken to be tended to. For the first time, Ceren and Rin set eyes on the legendary stronghold that had permitted the wolves to govern the land about them with ease.

The first chamber beyond the gate was sparse in design, bolstering only the various slots and framework for those great defensive weapons that had turned back warring tribes, blood-cursed monstrosities, rabid plague carriers, and so much more. Still, it was obvious that all that had been carved and cut of stone that could have belonged to a quarry and not the mountain was done by paws not belonging to any living wolf or a forebearer of such people. The tremendous space emptied into an antechamber which parted into three courses. The left and right led deeper into the mountain pass, while the third served as little more than an attractive marvel set amid so much dull stone.

The Garden of Kadethia was a significant corridor of green. Within were many flowers and fruits that were nearly impossible to come upon in the wild. Some attested that the ancient queen, bride of a Wyse who had faded from memory, had planted each square by paw. It was near impossible for it to be true in fact, or at least no longer correct, as more recent monarchs had received the seeds of foreign life that now nestled between so many equally exotic delights. Rin came to the nearest window that looked onto the sunken garden and was transfixed. After a moment, Razien reminded the fox that there would be no entrance, neither for their purpose nor in leisure. Few were permitted to step within the private garden, though, through all the windows that spotted the halls that nestled it in place, all could see the outermost shell of foliage.

After a time, Razien tore Rin away from his infatuation, and they were at the far end of the right-hand corridor. Another set of doors, these far less warn and radiating with a calming blue hue, served as gateway between this segment, like a colossal antechamber to the full extent of the village. As the way was parted, the lookout from the threshold was of the hidden world of the wolves. The mountains stretched in a grand arc around a rolling, verdant valley pocked with cottages and meandering brick paths. At its center was the market and curving structures set into the rocky perimeter that served as further housing for the citizens. Far from the entry, nearly against the climbing peaks of purple stone, were the open towers wherein stood all that was precious to the wolves.

These wonders of the old world, marked and made by paws that could hardly be akin to those of the wolves, stretched into the mist that hung around the grandest peaks of the range. Their tops were uncovered, noticeable even from afar. Across their lengths seemed to have been impressed a tableau of what only could be guessed to be their makers. Like spotted lizards and the ravenous scaled beasts that lurked in swamps and rivers further south, the creatures were a far cry from the expected hosts.

They proceeded into the valley, and within seconds, the mark that indicated their allegiance brought scowls and stares of undesirability. Razien had known these people at a time, but now it was as looking on the Western refugees. So many looked almost like a known ally or acquaintance, but not a single one held that warmth of kindness and familiarity. He felt as he thought he should, a stranger to this land and these people he once called his own. The disgusted expression did not fade as Razien and his companions crossed through the markets and districts of artisans. All was well if the upturned muzzles and hateful gazes could be ignored until they reached the Fountain of Silver Waters.

Beside the pale marble statues of two interwined carp was a muzzle Razien would have done nearly anything to never know again. Byshael Demaren had been a contender for Razien’s position in the guard when he still strove to be their captain. The markings on the single caramel sleeve of shren hide, as well as the pilfered plumage that hung from its shoulder, displayed a rank above that once-honored spot. The muddled-fur male had superseded the position of captain and now stood as the highest of military men. And with such a title, he quickly found a way to throw his weight around.

“Halt!”

“Byshael, a pleasure to see you. Would you, by chance, have an idea where my father might be found?”

“I hardly would think your cycles beyond these walls have permitted you to forget proper decorum, Moqura,” the wolf’s glare was two great green stars bursting through a stormy night sky.

Razien pressed back, irritation and anxiety, forcing forward calm, “Pardon, Arms Master Byshael, we’re looking for my father, Derius Moqura. Would you know where to find him?”

“The Consul isn’t in the habit, nor of the authority, to undo your mistake in following that turncoat. Seeking him, father or not, will do you no favors. Wyse Atlai won’t favor you for his sake. You’d best be on your way.”

“We have news for the Consul,” Ceren interjected, “Vital news that can’t wait. Every moment you delay is irretrievable. Stop the foolishness and tell us where to find him.”

The Arms Master straightened against the high rim of the fountain, his muzzle pulling back into a tight sneer. He began forward, not with any haste, but the look of being near to bursting into a sprint. Ceren was undeterred, and even the scrawny fox stood ready for whatever would come next. Razien stepped between his companions and Byshael, facing down his old rival. Against his better judgment, Razien gave the desired answer, “You couldn’t beat me as a cub nor a pup, not even before I gave up any desire to be captain of the guard. What makes you think rank will help you any?”

The Arms Master’s pride was undamaged by the jab, not allowing the inaccuracy of the record to mar his fury. As he reached Razien, the two were already moving to counter one another’s first strike. A jab was reversed into a grapple, that grapple broken and twisted into isolating a limb, isolation turned to strikes, the strikes undone by feigns, the feign overcome as Byshael was thrown off though still afoot. The scrape was frantic and short-lived, but even the brief interaction brought a swarm of onlookers who quickly encircled the fountain.

As he scanned the crowd, Razien hoped he might set sights on his father or one of the few allies he might still have in the city. Instead, as he met every watching gaze, he found only the disgust so many of these people had saved for Jaium when he last stood in Roya. It was plain to him then he was the same as the Baylen now, a man without a home outside of the Cubs. Byshael was not as daunted by the onlookers and charged in once again. Yet, before knuckles could scrape face or an elbow dug deep into a chest, a call came from the sidelines.

Both men’s eyes trailed to the edge of the crowd, where a charcoal-furred woman stepped through. Her gaze weighed them both, just as her father had so many cycles before. Still, as she studied them, it was apparent Tirasha had a side. She came to Byshael and rested her paw in his, “Razien, what do we owe the pleasure of your presence? I was certain you might never visit home until it was time for your father to follow the ancestors into the eternal night.”

“A message for my father. That is all,” he held for a moment as he noticed the distinct bulge in her abdomen that pressed aside the various adornments of her station, “Once we have given word to the Consul, we will be gone. We have no desire to cause conflict among your people, Shah Tirasha.”

“Byshael?” the princess fixed the Arms Master with a look any husband would only need to see a second of to know where he stood.

Byshael stiffened, straightened, and finally bowed reluctantly, “I will bring our guests to Consul Moqura. My apologies, Shah.”

“Perhaps, Razien,” she offered a faint but playful grin, “Your visit should be a bit longer. My Arms Master could use a few pointers in proper decorum if you can imagine it.”

Words populated Razien’s throat only to be vanquished by a nervous cough, “Another time, I’m afraid. There is precious little I have free as of now.”

The Shah’s look was of disappointment, but her muzzle had always held a painful yet sanguine look. She nodded before pressing her muzzle to the Arms Master’s uncovered shoulder. Byshael rested his paw on her rounded stomach before sharing a look with the cold pools of mountain water that nearly could have matched Greshalin. Finally, the less-than-amused wolf broke the contact and began away with his charges in tow. Razien held a moment before following, again meeting those eyes that were so reminiscent of his lynx. Her gaze held him for an eternity in that second before she was on her way, dispersing with the crowd.