Springing the trap

“Time for them to spot a wolf, hey boy?” Runt said, whispering into Stripes’ ear. One of the biggest weaknesses of his plan (there were several, to be frank) involved an actual wolf heading out into the clearing. That would ruin everything. They needed to get moving before it had a chance of happening. Runt leaned back and tucked his legs firmly into the dog’s flanks and thought invisible thoughts. Stripes wandered out towards the chickens, trotting forwards, pausing, sniffing, trotting forwards. To Runt, his pup looked nothing like a wolf. Besides the stripes, of course. But to a young man from the city…

A yell broke the stillness of the night.

“Wolf! Wolf! Oh, bugger. Too loud? That was too loud. Wait, it’s ok, it’s still there!”

Runt forced himself to stay calm, to stay still, to wait. Sure enough, one of the guards sprinted over to the dogs chained at the stake and, within moments, the three hounds were barking and bolting towards them.

“Stripes, go!” Runt whispered urgently and was nearly flung off the pup’s back in his haste. Meanwhile, a commotion erupted by the cart. Had he been there to watch, Runt would have seen the troopers, one by one, fling themselves onto the horses, only to come unstuck. Some fell backwards, with the saddle clutched in their hands. Others made it onto the top only to roll off the other side. Only one man, after several stumbling attempts, made it up and onto the back of a horse.

Runt pulled Stripes to a halt about ten yards into the scrub. He spun around. As the dogs approached he called them out, one by one.

“Bruiser! Gash! Shank! SIT!”

The three dogs’ instincts were so sharp that each of them tumbled and rolled in their sudden attempts to stop. They sat with ears pricked.

“BAD DOG! GO HOME!”

They tucked their tails, turned, and fled. Runt paused for one more second, looked over to the camp, and smiled grimly. The plan was working. He waited a moment longer for the lone rider, bobbing awkwardly on his saddle, to break past the outer edge of the scrub and made sure Stripes was spotted.

“There he is, gentleman!” The captain shouted. “Onwards, charge!”

Runt urged Stripes into a sprint and headed deeper into the bush. They rehearsed this part of the plan several times that afternoon. Still, it was another big risk. In the dark, the low-hanging branch was harder to spot and Runt only saw it at the last moment.

“Go Stripes, go!” He urged, as he caught the branch and swung up and onto it. Runt crouched now, invisible, waiting to pounce. His heart pounded and blood roared in his ears but then, as he watched the captain bounce onwards, he felt a strange sense of calm fall over him. He remembered suddenly, the morning he saw his first drop-bear, as Jethro stood vainly attempting to remove the head of the gorgon statue. That creature sat much like he did: silent, still, and dreaming of murder. He knew now, how it felt, watching the prey approach. He felt the thrill of hope tangled up with the fear of failure and then both of these emotions were drowned out by a coldness in his mind. There was only the prey, and the predator, and a single intention.

Runt leapt. He crashed down onto the Captain and dragged him off his horse. The man wheezed as he hit the ground, winded. Runt sprang to his feet and ran while the horse, spooked, bolted away into the dark. He whistled to Stripes and hoped for the best. The next big weakness in his plan was about to be tested. Runt scrabbled under the bush to his right and found the lantern. He pulled open the hood and cheered silently. It was still lit. The light beamed out and, had the Captain turned around, he would have seen the silhouette of a wolf, standing on two legs, raise the lantern above its head and smash it onto a nearby rock.

They had collected many lanterns the previous night. Runt only hoped it was enough.

The oil, earlier poured from lantern after lantern in a meticulous line, burst into flame. The fire tracked off in both directions and began curving around them slowly. Within moments they were surrounded by an oily blaze. The fire smoked and crackled harshly.

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Stripes appeared, wagging his tail. Runt trembled as he climbed onto the dog’s back. This final part was impossible to plan for. He approached the Captain.

The man was on his hands and knees, now, still gasping for air. His helmet lay a little way off and his hair lay with it. Runt saw, with some amazement, that the man was mostly bald save for some grey stubble around the edge of his head.

“Nice hair.” Runt said, unsure of how to begin. It had the desired effect, though. The captain felt his head, made a strange high-pitched garble, then scrabbled for the wig in the dirt. He jammed it roughly back on his head and looked up through the tangled mess of curls, leaves and twigs. His eyes widened as he stared, face to face, into the dark eyes of the wolf-pup and crab-walked back a few steps. The Captain’s eyes darted back and forth. In the shadows here, far from the edge of the flaming circle, Runt was invisible.

“Where are you? Who are you? What do you want?” the Captain croaked.

“I have some questions. Answer them well and I’ll leave you in peace.” Runt replied. The Captain sat back and threw his hands up to cover his face.

“I didn’t know you things could talk,” he gasped, wincing as he stared at Stripes, “please don’t kill me. I’ll tell you what you want.”

Runt took a deep breath, and wondered, what would the teacher say in his place? What would the Wolf-ghost say? He breathed out slowly.

“I would like to kill you, I really would, but it would only cause more pain. For every dog killed by us you slay a dozen or more of our wolves. Imagine, then, the price we would pay for the life of a demon! No, I will not kill you, not unless you make me.”

The Captain slowly dropped his hands.

“I know what you’re doing with the gorgons,” Runt said, slowly, “I’ve been watching.” The Captain’s eyes widened, and he sat up. Runt continued. “They don’t think for themselves. But they’ll do anything for booze. Anything. And what you are doing with them is evil. And sneaky. It’s happening out in the Wilds where no one sees. But I see. And I don’t like it.” Runt noticed sweat bead across the man’s forehead. “What I want to know is, why? Why are you making the gorgons cut down the fey-trees? Why have you asked them to exterminate the harpies?”

The Captain’s mouth dropped open. He tilted his head back and laughed out loud.

“That’s what you want to know?” He laughed again. “Oh, my! Well, why not ask the gorgons yourself? Or, better yet, ask the blasted harpies! The lot of them have been against each other since time began. They’ve always hated each other and they always will. Haven’t you seen those statues out by the fey-trees? They’re there to scare away the harpies. My father told me they both want the same food. Or nesting place. Or something. Dashed if I know. But that fight has nothing to do with us.” The captain shook his head.

“Anyway, we’re not telling them to take those trees. Nothing to do with us. But if the harpies die, good riddance to them, I say. I’ll thank the gorgons myself. A bunch of troublemakers from the start, they were. We’re better off without that lot, trust me.”

“Liar! You hateful, spiteful liar!” Runt yelled, but the Captain had answered so jovially, and so easily, he couldn’t help but think that the man, at least, believed his own words. The fires around them began to grow brighter as the oil heated up. Soon the blaze would eat itself to starvation.

“You can’t say that to me!” The Captain yelled, leaping to his feet. “Nobody speaks to me like that!”

“That’s the thing, demon. I am a nobody.” Runt felt the coolness evaporate as he became visible. Either the flames grew bright enough to reveal him, or he just stopped caring. The Captain lurched back, gasped, and pointed a trembling hand.

“You,” he choked, “you’re one of them. One of those things.”

The Captain grimaced, his eyes narrowed, and Runt heard a metallic click from the pointing hand. He felt a sharp thud and a sting in his arm. A horse burst through the ring of fire. It was Thomas, riding bareback and wielding a spear. Stripes, feeling Runt flinch at the sudden pain, turned, and bolted. They burst through the flames and raced off into the Deeps.

“Captain, are you alright? Are you injured?” Thomas said, dismounting in a smooth leap.

“No, thank you, trooper. Where did you learn to ride bareback?”

“Sir, my uncle is a farrier, sir. I used to help out with the horses a fair bit, as a lad. Should we go after the wolf, sir? Would you like my horse?”

The Captain shook his head and looked off into the Deeps with a troubled expression.

“Sir? If you don’t mind me asking, what on earth happened out here?”

The Captain sighed.

“I’m not sure, trooper. But that’s the last we’ll see of it,” he said, looking down at his wrist and the dart launcher attached to it, “whatever it was.”