Another Friday
It was on another secret Friday, months later, that Runt’s world finally tipped upside down for good. The first hint of trouble came a week earlier. Tyron returned to the kennels just before dawn but this time something was different. Of the six dogs which left that night only five had returned. The dogs following behind him weren’t just exhausted, they were torn and bleeding. Two of them limped. One was missing part of its ear. The shock of seeing such carnage made Runt forget himself.
“Where’s Fang?” he blurted.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Tyron roared, thrusting a sausage sized finger in Runt’s face.
The small boy shrank into the corner of the room. Tyron slung the backpack down with a rattling slosh. Whatever happened out there, it hadn’t interfered with the grog. Tyron turned and saw Runt eying the backpack.
“Mind your own blasted business you wretched runt! Go and boil some bloody water and start cleaning up these useless mutts!” he yelled, and slammed the front door so hard that dust fell from the ceiling.
They spent hours working together in complete silence. Runt washed the wounds with hot water while Tyron stitched up the worst of the gashes. Something had clearly bested the dogs in a fight. Something from the Wilds Beyond. Questions bubbled up in his throat but Runt swallowed them down. He knew the only answer he would get from the boss was a flogging.
It was only later that afternoon, when Gunther came banging on the front door, that the puzzle pieces began to fall into place. The two men began arguing almost immediately.
“What the bloody hell happened out there? You said those mutts of yours could handle a few wolves! One of them nearly got me!” Gunther screeched.
“Don’t pin this on me, you mongrel! What about your so-called ‘brave lads’ that come along with us? A useless bunch in a tight spot, they were! A pack of cowards!” Tyron spat.
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“They’re only there to lug crates of booze and you know it! Hired muscle. You’re the bodyguard. You and your mutts. Fat lot of good you were.”
“Oh, nice, real nice. I’ve been stitching ‘em back together all morning and that’s the thanks I get. The hounds gave as good as they got. If it weren’t for us, you’d be dead, all of you, and it’d be your body drug off into the scrub, not my poor hound, Fang. Raised that one from a pup, I did. Just to see him dead and drug off into the scrub by a pack of blasted wolves.”
They both paused to regain their breath. When Tyron started again, he spoke in a low voice, quiet enough that Runt’s ears strained to make out the words.
“Somethin’ ain’t right about it, Gunther. That ain’t how wolves hunt. Wolves don’t move in packs like that. Wolves are loners. We was set up.”
“Set up?” Gunther hissed. “Set up! Are you drunk? Who the bloody hell sets up an ambush with a pack of wolves? Who could even do that?”
Tyron said nothing. Runt heard the giant man crossing his arms and he could picture the stubborn frown. Silent defiance screamed through the wall.
“Huh. So it’s like that then?” Gunther growled. “Well, there better not be any more bloody surprises next week. You’ll run out of dogs.”
Gunther was correct. They were running out of dogs. The week flew past and, in a blink, it was Friday again. Runt watched as Tyron peered into each and every kennel. He grunted and swore at the sight of each injured wolfhound. Their wounds, though healing, were still red and oozing, and the dogs with limps could barely walk. Tyron paused for an awfully long time as he stared into Stripes’ kennel. Paused, and stared, and muttered. He was still a pup, but Stripes had grown rapidly and was easily as big and strong as any of the hounds. Runt said nothing, but cold worms of fear began oozing through his insides. Friday was no longer his favourite day.
Tyron took Stripes with him that night.
The kennel master left with Stripes and five other wolfhounds. The boy said nothing and had said nothing all week. The slightest noise caused Tyron to lash out. Fear, confusion, and anger still smouldered in his eyes. The boy said nothing as the kennel master wrapped the leashes around his ham sized fist. The boy said nothing as the kennel master slung the backpack over his shoulder and grabbed a lantern. The boy said nothing as the kennel master jerked fiercely on the leads, causing the dogs to yelp and follow meekly out the door. The boy said nothing. He had already made up his mind to follow.