Chapter 1: Names and Faces

His name was Runt and he lived in the kennels.

He knew they were kennels because that’s where the dogs lived. Runt wasn’t a dog but he lived there, anyway.

He knew his name was Runt because that’s what the boss called him. Well, Tyron called him a lot of names, but the rest were mean, nasty things. Runt was not a nice name either. The others were much worse. And, besides, it was accurate. Runt was a runt. Even now, at thirteen years old, most of the dogs were taller than him.

Runt knew he was thirteen because Tyron reminded him.

“Thirteen years I’ve put up with your rubbish!” He would yell at Runt. “Thirteen long years of getting food in your belly, clothes on your back, and a roof over your head. And if that weren’t enough, I have to sit here and listen to your drivel! It’s no wonder I drink too much.”

Runt used to think he would grow as he got older. A loose plank made a gap between the kennels and the muck-yard out back. Runt could walk through this gap without ducking his head. Chucking dog poo out in the muck-yard was one of many jobs he did for the boss. “One day,” he used to say to himself, “one day, when I grow, I’ll need to duck under this gap.” But he never did.

Oh, and Runt was ugly. He knew because the boss said so. Everyone said so. Like the time the stablemaster came around and saw it for himself.

Tyron and Gunther had a few things in common. For starters, they both looked after animals for the Captain. Tyron managed the dog kennels. Gunther managed the horse stables. The dogs protected the farmlands from the wolves that lived out in the Wilds Beyond. At night the wolves raided the farmlands for sheep and even, they said, the occasional small person. It was these wolves, and all the other horrible creatures that lived in the Wilds Beyond, that gave this island its fearsome name: Demon’s Land. The Captain needed horses for, well, just about everything. Horses pulled carts to and from the farmland, the dockyard, and between all the businesses in the central city of Demonia.

The Captain and his guards also rode horses on the wolf hunts, where the bravest men took dogs and rode into the Wilds Beyond. When a trooper killed a wolf they would bring it home and skin it and make a cloak out of the stripy fur. Only the most fearsome troopers had a wolf-skin cloak. Of course, the Captain had a lot of these striped cloaks, as a ruler should.

Tyron and Gunther had other things in common, too. They both enjoyed swearing, and fighting, and drinking grog. They swore at each other, they swore at people passing by and, most of all, they swore at Runt. The grog was a secret. Tyron kept several bottles of the stuff hidden in a locked box in “the office”, a messy shack leaning against the kennels. Gunther turned up regularly to help him drink the grog. It wasn’t allowed, by orders of the Captain, but they drank it anyway. And when they drank, they swore louder, and fought more viciously.

There were some differences between the two men, though. For starters, Tyron was a giant bear of a man.

“Seven feet tall, I stand” Tyron boasted, although he mostly slouched. Even when slouching, he towered over most men of the city. He was also extremely hairy, and strong, and very fat. A giant bear of a man. When he yelled his bulging lips pulled back to show a graveyard of teeth: brown, crooked, missing and broken. When he glared his dark eyes seemed to sink even deeper into his skull. And when he growled, he growled with his whole body, a noise so deep that windows rattled in their frames and water splashed out of cups. A giant bear of a man.

Gunther was more like a weasel. He was much shorter, and thinner, and crafty. His pale watery eyes constantly shifted this way and that and squinted when he had to concentrate. His hands never stopped fidgeting, sometimes fiddling with his thin, ginger moustache, other times picking his nose or itching a scab. While Tyron was hairy almost from head to toe, Gunther’s skin was pale and freckled. Even though he was short, he was fast. Even though he was thin, he was surprisingly strong. And he was crafty. Which meant he was smart in a nasty way.

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If there was no one else to fight, the two men often fought each other and, when they did, they were evenly matched. Tyron was big but slow. A bloated, heaving mass of tree-trunk limbs coated in stubbly brown hair. His basic strategy in a fight was to get hit a lot without falling over until his opponent ran out of puff. Tyron’s ears were mashed, shrivelled, and scarred because of this. He often boasted about them to anyone that would listen, and to Runt, if no one else would.

“Trimmed ‘em up, I did.” He used to boast, pointing to his mangled ears. “You got no idea how bad it hurts to get boxed on the ears. I trimmed ‘em up so there’s less ear to box.”

Unfortunately, Tyron was lying. Runt knew exactly what it felt like to be boxed on the ears.

Gunther was small but fast. In a fight he became a pale blur ducking and darting out of reach. The one advantage in favour of the stable master was his crafty brain. Tyron was as dumb as half a brick and would often lose due to Gunther’s trickery.

Runt knew to keep out of their way when they were drinking. It couldn’t always be helped, though. That’s how it was the day Gunther saw Runt’s ugliness with his own eyes.

“Bottles empty,” Gunther complained, squinting through the upturned bottle as if it were a telescope, “chuck us another.”

“We’re out” Tyron growled, “that was the last one.”

“S’more at my place. But I can’t be bothered moving just presently. Legs feel a bit rubbery.”

“Well, I’m not going.” Tyron crossed his arms.

“Send the brat, then. Not like he does anything useful round here.”

“Can’t. He’s not to leave the kennels.”

“Guess we go thirsty, then.”

They sat there for a minute, in silence, stubbornly glaring at one another.

“Runt! Get in here!” Tyron yelled without moving from his seat, which was, in fact, his bed, which was, in fact, a giant nest of rags, rugs, and straw heaped on the ground. “Runt! Where the bloody hell are ya?”

The small boy crept timidly into the room.

“Yes boss?”, he whispered, aware of Gunther squinting fiercely at him.

Gunther saw a boy, barely three feet tall, with a mop of dark curly hair extending down to his shoulders and over his face. Runt’s eyes could barely be seen through the narrow part in his hair. The rest of his features were hidden by the thick shock of curls. His clothes were not much better than rags, his skin was brown with a layer of grime, and he wore no shoes.

“See?” Tyron grunted, “Can’t send him. They’ll lock him up for hair like that.”

It was true. By order of the Captain, no boys, neither children nor adults, were permitted to have long hair. In the lands of Demonia the only male permitted to have long hair was the Captain himself.

“He could pass as a girl, though,” Gunther cackled, then paused, “but he’d have to tie it back, wouldn’t he? Can’t leave it loose.”

This was also a rule. Girls tied their hair back or put it in plaits. The Captain’s troopers took the law seriously. Anyone who broke the law was given the option of fixing their hair or spending a night in prison.

“Go on then,” Gunther urged, “all you need is a bit of string. We’ll have him looking like a sheila in a pinch.”

“Nah. Can’t. He’s too ugly. Watch.”

In a flash Tyron leaned over, grabbed the boy by his ankle, and hoisted him into the air. Runt’s vision swam as he tumbled upside-down and, when it came into focus, he was face to face with Gunther.

The stablemaster’s expression changed from a fierce squint to wide-eyed shock, followed by a look of disgust. Gunther leaned back as if to distance himself. His nose wrinkled like a person scraping dog muck off their shoe. Runt watched the man’s expression change and felt his insides turn cold. This was the day he learned, for sure, that he was ugly. It wasn’t just Tyron being cruel, after all.

“Christ, put it down.” Gunther croaked hoarsely. Tyron dropped the boy who sprawled awkwardly onto the dirt floor.

“Told ya. Too ugly.” Tyron settled back into his nest of rags and straw, and stared at the boy sullenly. Runt gathered himself together, brushed the hair back over his hideous face, and sat up.

Gunther muttered to himself as his pale bony fingers first twizzled his weaselly moustache, then absently scratched at a scab on his cheek. His eyes darted around the room before settling on an object upon the shelf. “You know,” he said, picking his nose thoughtfully, “I might have a plan…”