“To the runner,

With bloody feet,

At ease.

Mind us, lad.

We’re right sorry,

We didn’t get y’ name.

But please ya t’ know,

His Lordship rests,

Down the river.

Thereabouts.

Pardon us, Majesty,

To spare his name,

This chisel.

Ain’t fit.

In memorial,

Of one fine man.

We’re much obliged.”

Inscription at thatch fords.

~ Ryan ~

Ryan crouched in his sister's bedroom, peering between the largest gap in the floorboards into his dad’s study. In the form of a fox, his black nose pressed into the wood. Ears up. Motionless.

His father, General Boyd Whitetip, was a gruff man. A fine man, of mettle and mirth, lithely muscled yet scarless. That is to say, physically.

Ryan suppressed a snuffle at the dry wood itching his nose. He pulled back a little, licked it, and pressed again to the notch. A pang of sorrow struck. Mum told him not to, many times.

He shut his eyes and inhaled, the smell of pine comforting.

The study was a modest size with a bookcase, two chairs, grandfather's carved wooden desk, and one cabinet. Ryan couldn't see it, but he knew a map filled the wall opposite the door.

In front of the table stood an officer. A human. Ryan could see two small pins on his left shoulder. A lieutenant. He whiffed of woodsmoke and cleaning oil.

If it wasn't for the urge to see the stranger, he wouldn't have left his bedroom. He could hear just fine from there. But where's the fun in that? So here he was, having snuck past his sister Mia without waking her. She was splayed atop her blankets, across the room. Ryan listened to her breathing, and pressed his fangs lightly into his lower lip. Careless.

This time, dad, for sure.

“Sir,” the officer said, handing over a parcel with the thick wax seal of the royal house.

“Thank you, you may go,” Boyd said.

The officer saluted, turned and reached for the doorknob as Boyd slit the package open. Of course that’s all. Well, maybe there’s something for sis.

“Wait,” Boyd said, “What's up with you?”

The officer stopped. “Sir... it’s. Me and the boys from the third comp’ny got together with Gatrie. You won't be needing to get Ryan swords,” he said.

What?

Ryan dug his claws into the floorboards.

The saboteurs...

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“That old codger? He wouldn't agree to anything! And he's a runesmith, not a blacksmith,” Boyd said.

Ryan kept silent. His tail didn’t, a touch too close to the wall.

Thump-thump-thump.

Ryan skittered away. Damn. He peeked back through.

“Gatrie is both,” the lieutenant paused, “And it’s only right.” Then he gazed upwards.

“Alright Ryan, since you're up, come down here. It’s time we spoke about your training,” Boyd said, looking straight at Ryan. His voice kept soft.

Ryan transformed into human form, such as it was called. It was nothing so ugly as that, of course. His ears were as they should be. Not like those squash in, pasty skin flaps. For that matter, so were his tail, claws and teeth. Poor blighters don’t even have tails. Wonder if sis’ll believe me if I tell her they cut them off.

Ryan looked at her. She still slept.

He tugged at the cross straps holding his swords, ensuring they were just so. His dad expected them to be armed at all times, except when sleeping. Even then they must be close at hand. Ryan smiled. Mia had her whip coiled around her left wrist. He didn’t mean it that way.

He slipped from the room, taking care to lift the door on its hinges. It wisped shut.

As he descended the stairs, his father spoke, “You're sure he didn't skin your purse?”

“We all chipped in,” the man said.

Ryan entered the study.

“Ryan, this is Lieutenant Harris,” Boyd said.

He was a man with hard eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. Plain and sharp. He'd look gentlemanly, Ryan supposed, but for the jagged scar along his right arm. It ran from a little below the elbow to the back of his hand, all the way to the gap between his pinky and his ring finger.

“Ryan. It’s rude to stare,” Boyd said.

Ryan blinked, looked away, and resisted the urge to sniff. Humans don’t like that, too.

The lieutenant chuckled. “Have a good look, lad. If you're not careful, you'll get one of these,” he said.

Ryan looked him in the eyes. “Good to meet you,” he said.

Boyd smiled. “In three months you'll begin training with the military, under the same tutors as the prince.” He paused, surely to let it sink in. “In all likelihood you'll get to spar with him. Don't throttle him too badly.”

At last.

Since Ryan’s dad had returned from the war, he’d set to teaching Ryan with a passion. Those days had been painful, but they didn’t compare to the sadness he saw, often, in his father’s eyes.

“Also,” Boyd said, “Since I will be returning to active duty, Mia will be going with you. You’ll be living there, in the palace.”

They had been to the palace once, last year, when their father had finally allowed them to come. It was a week-long celebration, and they made the best of every hour. Mia had got on well with Princess Abigail, exchanging a couple of letters since then.

“Really?” a small voice spoke from on high. Mia had woken.

“Yes,” Boyd said, his smile gone, his brow a little drawn. “Your uncle John will be around.”

“Now then.”, he said, smiling once again, “Since you failed to escape Harris's notice, you won't learn any more about those swords.”

Naturally.

“And Harris,” his gaze set on the officer.

“Yes, sir?” Harris said.

“You know how good my hearing is,” Boyd said, then waved him off.

“Yes, sir.” he said, then sighed and left.

~ Boyd ~

Boyd thumbed through the parcel’s contents. Recruitment reports, and a letter. He unsealed the letter.

  Sir Boyd Whitetip,

  His majesty requires your assistance in investigating a matter of urgency. It is imperative

  that this matter be concluded prior to the merchant's council, not two weeks hence.

  As you may have gathered, The Silver Fleet merchants wish to review existing trade

  agreements concerning iron and lumber. They must not be allowed any additional leeway

  in these negotiations, as I am sure you well understand.

  With respect,

  Minister Firson

        Misers

    (\ /)

     - -

He coughed to suppress his laughter. Oh, Abigail. None but the princess would dare append to His Majesty’s missive. She’s not half wrong, though.

“What?” Ryan said.

His son was the perfect image of a fox-kin, his fur a stunning shade of red-orange. Ears and tail tipped in white, like his own. Even his claws were pure black, tapering with a gentle curve. Ryan’s twitched his right ear, reminding him of Mayla.

“Nothing,” Boyd said, dropping the letter to the desk, “I'm needed at the capital. It'll just be you and Mia here for a couple of days, ‘till John’s here. If anything happens go to the village, but be mindful.” He shoved the reports into his belt. “Take care, and burn that.”

With that he shifted down and took off at a four pawed jog.

Revision 3.0