13: Kallinger Colours

Justin ran into the night air, eyes peeled for his friend. His mother was howling for he and his sister to get into their beds, but the eleven-year-old hadn't seen his pet feral all evening. Brakka was known to catch a scent and run off chasing it, and while his parents promised him Brakka would be back soon, Justin knew he wouldn't sleep a wink until the faithful hound was curled at the foot of his bed.

“BRA-KKA!" He cried, cupping his tiny lion paws around his mouth. He wasn't old enough to have a mane yet, but his voice was getting bigger and louder every day. The family cabin was to his back, the only source of light or civilisation for miles. Before him stretched the forest, the curtain of shadows dark and intimidating. It was scary, but Brakka was out there somewhere – if Justin had to brave that, so be it.

“JUSTIN ROMAN!" His mother hollered from the cabin's doorway, trying and failing to hide the tinge of amusement in her voice. “YOU GET BACK HERE NOW BOY!" Justin shook his head, calling again for his dog. His parents loved the isolation the Quindon Province allowed them, and they made their modest, quiet living by harvesting lumber and making things to sell in Trident during their trimonthly visits. The family solitude was by design, with the nearest neighbour over a quarter-day's travel away. Justin admitted it was nice to have all that space to themselves, but he loved being able to tag along when his father journeyed into the city for trade. The hustle-and-bustle of Trident was so encapsulating, even if it was a piss-poor city (as his father would say when his mother wasn't about), there was always something new to see there. Being able to have more friends besides Brakka and his sister would be nice too, but he supposed they were happy enough in their little mountain retreat.

But where in the poisoned earth was his dog?

“Stupid dog." The young lion muttered, not really meaning it. He loved Brakka and Brakka loved him – he was easily the feral's favourite, and he spent every night on the boy's bed. Far behind him now Justin's mother was still hollering, insisting she was about to make his father come out and fetch him and then he'd really be in for it. Justin felt that was silly, by it all, he was eleven now! Not a baby, he could go a little into the woods - it was only darkness, and he knew this area like the fur on his tail.

Even as he thought it though, he wished his sister or his father were helping him. Quindon was cold, and the shadows and chill nipped at him, even despite his thick fur.

“BRA-KKA!" He cried, even louder than before, his lungs straining. In the distance he heard his father cussing, grabbing at a lamp and heading out to fetch him. He knew he had to hurry, or he'd just get dragged back to bed, with a smack for company if the older lion was in a foul mood.

But he couldn't leave his friend alone in the cold and the dark, he had to come home. Justin was starting to worry in earnest now; Brakka liked to sniff but he never went that far.

He cried again, but this time his call was answered with a short yelp. Justin's tiny heart seized as he heard pain in the noise. He started running, imagining what would happen if Brakka had broken a leg, or fallen into a hole, or been bitten by something nasty. The little lion weaved between the trees, following the short barks, his father hurrying along behind him, getting closer every moment. It took him a little while, but he eventually came to find a small furry mound puddled in a heap of pine needles, the barks responding in turn to Justin's cries.

“Brakka!" The lion cub cried, dropping to his knees and wrapping his paws around the dog's head and neck. He felt Brakka wiggle happily, but he still laid flat on his side, whimpering softly. “What happened to you boy?" Justin asked, running a paw along his body. He stopped, going cold as his fur dipped something warm and sticky, the dog yelping again as he brushed what felt like a stick pointing straight up from Brakka's chest.

A stick? He thought, frowning.

“Brakka, Brakka what happened to you?" He asked, leaning down and putting his head against the dog's. The dog let out a soft whine, as Justin's father, wheezing from the cold air, finally caught up.

“Boy…" An admonishment began in his throat, but paused as the light fell across the dog. “Brakka, what in the gods…" He muttered, stepping closer.

Panic began to rise in Justin's stomach, bubbling up through his chest and throat. “What's wrong with him Daddy!?" He cried, tears welling in his eyes. In the lamplight, it was clear what was stuck through Brakka's side. A short bolt, like one used in an old-fashioned crossbow. But who would want to shoot Brakka? He was so sweet and gentle, and there was no one else even out here.

Justin looked up, and in the shadows saw a figure. His mind assumed it was a ghost, a phantom of the woods he was imagining in the shadow; but as it came closer he realised the figure was very real. The figure wore a tight leather coat, with what looked like dark bones strapped to it. The wolfish figure's face was hidden beneath a large skull, pieces of femur and ribcage tied to his chest and arms. In one paw he held a small crossbow – a new bolt knocked.

“Dad!" Justin muttered, wetting himself. His father looked up sharply, a growl rising in his throat.

“Did you do this you sick fuck?!" He snapped, paws going into fists. He stood, but paused as four similarly-dressed figures emerged from the darkness, flanking the leader. “What is this?"

“Deliverance." The lead one said. Justin's father grabbed him roughly around the collar, shoving the boy behind his legs. Justin's eye's didn't leave Brakka, his stomach turning over as he began to sob.

“We don't want no trouble now y'hear? Why don't you just head on off'a my land now?" He insisted, a wrinkle of fear creeping over his words. Justin was crying, Brakka was bleeding, still whimpering at the pain from his wound.

“Then come quietly." The leader said, as his followers flocked around Justin and his father.

“We ain't goin' anywhere." The lion replied, and lashed forward. Before he got within striking distance of the leader, one of the others cracked a wooden stave across the back of his skull, eliciting a short cracking sound and dropping him next to the dog.

“No Daddy!" Justin cried, running to his rag-dolled father. He screamed as thick paws took hold of him under the arms, two of the bone-men breaking off towards the cabin. Justin felt himself lifted off the ground, a rag being pushed into his face.

“No, no!" Justin cried, sobbing, confused, scared for Brakka and his family.

“Relax and be calm, child." The leader of the ghosts said. “This has already happened before."

Before he slipped unconscious, Justin's final thought was of his dog.

Thume kept his hood up as he walked down the Bantam streets, hands shoved deep into his pockets, trying as best he could to look inconspicuous. Goats were not as rare as some species in these parts, but he would always stand out from the myriad of canines and equines this far south. He'd heard the north had a more varied palate, but he'd never travelled far enough to see for himself. Most people were busy keeping to themselves today though, since the good Baron Aleksandre Vellem had apparently decided to increase his security tenfold. The law was on every corner, usually brutish wolf-types with over-under shotguns slung across their back. They were grizzled and pissed off men, and a notable chunk of them wore Kallinger colours. Vellem province uniforms were a blueish grey, sometimes with black accenting, very dull, much like the province's landscape itself. Further south, Kallinger's militia wore grey and yellow, and Thume counted every third or so lawmen decked in such.

What happened here? He wondered. The provinces typically didn't play nice with one another, poking and prodding as much as they could without upsetting Gaerus. Gaerus Province was built on Dead World ruins, and the leader of it – Hamish Maro – had fashioned himself an Archduke, using his jury-rigged Dead World weapons and wealth to try and shape the South into something resembling a cohesive whole. The city was built in the only pass in Firespine Ridge, becoming a necessary gateway linking the East and West sides of the region. Controlling that thoroughfare had made the Archduke one of the wealthiest and most influential leaders in the South, and when combined with his Dead World junk, he was much too powerful for any Baron to stand against alone. Thume had heard talk of provinces working together to try and take Gaerus, to be rid of Maro's taxes, treaties, and other futile attempts at clawing back to civilisation, but Thume knew it would never happen. Barons were inherently gluttonous, self-centred, and possessive. If they ever did manage to kill the Archduke and take his precious city, all that would change is the name.

Thume passed by a shopfront where two guards were barking orders at some wrung-out father, desperately trying to keep his two pups in line and answer their questions. He was shaking, and Thume's heart went out to him.

Bantam was always such a friendly place. It was known for its laxness. He shook his head, fingering the revolver tucked away at his waist, hidden beneath his oilskin coat. It wouldn't do much good, but it made him feel better. He could feel the guard's anger, a collective pool of rage and seditiousness bubbling up in the city's emotional aether. What would it take, he wondered, to knock that horizontal from stagnation into action? People were inherently reactionary, they liked to maintain the status quo until such was not possible. Revolutions didn't happen over minor inconveniences, but in turn a government established by revolt would never last.

He shook his head, fighting against the tendrils of the past, getting away from himself. His brain was a nest of vipers, and it would pull him under so much as look at him if he wasn't cautious. It was a strange thing – to be in constant conflict with his own self, to view the entity Thume as his current perception, but also as another. That second, that person he had become, or been made into, was utterly insane. But who was he behind it? At the end of the wick, was Thume the half-brained idiot that had been given to the casket, or was he the broken-yet-whole thing that emerged? He closed his eyes, stumbling slightly and pushing a hand to his forehead. Images of people fluttered into his head, people that were lost – no, no, people that had never been.

They were just trying to help you; they could never have known. He told himself, swaying in place. He felt stupid for tricking himself into an episode. Bring them back. Another part of him screamed, bells ringing in his ears. A dozen years were shoved through his mind, memory upon memory interlacing with itself as they assaulted him in an incomprehensible tangle. He hated his brain.

“You doin' a'right there pal?" A distant voice said. Thume cracked his eyes, wincing as the sun stained his retina, light-leaks bleeding across his vision.

“Huh?" He asked hazily.

“S'three in the afternoon, bit late to be drunk off yer ass." The one talking was a lanky coyote in Kallinger colours. He and his two comrades stood in a triangle formation, shotguns held loosely in paw, their grey-and-yellow dusters stained with mud and shit at the hem. They looked unamused at best.

“M'not drunk." Thume slurred, keeping his hands where they could see. “I just… need a minute."

“Riiight." The coyote said, chewing on a thick wad of tobacco. “Maybe y'should just take yerself home, huh? Y'know, 'fore someone gets hurt."

“I'm not gonna hurt you son." Thume whispered, and the guards laughed. “I just, ugh." He shook his head. He could hear bells, the magnetism of the earth tugging at him. Real or imagined, it hurt.

“You got a wife't needs seein' to? Maye go'n scuttle off to 'er, goat." The coyote sneered, peering closer.

“My wife is gone." Thume muttered. The guard stepped even closer, enough that Thume could smell the stench of tobacco from his breath with no great effort. Thume couldn't stop himself. “They just… do y'know what the word parallax means, boy? You know about their fuckin' machine?" The guard narrowed his eyes.

“Now listen I ain't no Quindon scholar here buddy, but I don't appreciate bein' con-descended to anymore'n the next guy. So why don't you move the fuck along, 'fore you get hurt?" He bared his teeth. Thume nodded, stumbling away. As the guards laughed, he paused, glancing back.

“Why are you even here?" He asked, slowly regaining autonomy of himself. “What happened?"

“Fuck off." The guard replied. Thume shook his head and left. Head clearing, he searched for the telegram office he'd originally come for. Working his way inside, he palmed over a few copper coins to the clerk and took one of the newspapers. He'd been cut out of Fulbright politics for long enough now he had no idea what was going on in the greater world. For all he knew Neremiah Ablish could be dead, and Firebrand Ridge may have exploded again.

Unlikely. It's been dead for centuries. He thought, imagining the long dormant volcanic spine suddenly erupting. Melt us all down, or at least enough to force a restart. Maybe we need it. Maybe we need another hard reset.

Flicking through the newspaper though, he found nothing of note. There was an article about a new trade agreement between Baroness Kallinger and Baron Vellem, unusual but it helped explain the Kallinger guard presence. The story didn't fully satisfy his curiosity though; a trade agreement was commonplace, even for Barons who hated one another. He had to know what was really going on – Fletcher could be in danger.

The goat wormed his way through the city side streets, searching the surprisingly-clean alleys until he found what he was looking for. “Hey partner." He said gently, dropping to a crouch next to the beggar. The reptile was buried beneath a heap of stained blankets, shovelled away into a corner; out of sight, out of mind.

“This is city property, I'm not doin' nothin' wrong sir!" The reptile gasped, grasping at his blankets and pulling them close. With a pang of sadness Thume noticed his once-sharp talons had been filed down to stubs, making them blunt sausages at best. It was a sad fate, one that usually accompanied some sort of crime.

“No, it's all good." Thume cooed, dropping to a crouch. “I jus' wanna chat s'all."

“You wanna chat?" The beggar was sceptical.

“Yeah. That a crime either?" When the reptile gave no reply, he went on. “There's a lotta guards round these parts. Not all of em wearin' the Baron's standard. You got any idea what's goin' on friend?" The beggar paused, glancing around and licking at his lips. His pale grey eyes blinked one and then the other, and he nodded.

“There was some big shootout at the border." He explained. “Buncha Vellem sticklers got stuck, best I heard, two big gangs goin' at it, then the law got involved. Was big enough we saw th'smoke from 'ere."

“Oh?" Thume asked, the image of a broken Lyric swimming to mind. But surely the jackal couldn't be involved in something that was obviously this huge? “Which gangs? Sleep dealers?" A pang of anxiety rose in him, old memories. He glanced down and saw a small ring of spent inhalers surrounding the beggar, and shuddered.

“Nah, nah don't reckon so." The reptile said. “I'unno, I only hear rumours. Either way, Baron Vellem wanted a lockdown, wanted to know everything that's goin' on, bookie on every corner. Problem, enough of 'em died in that there shootout he cain't staff it. Cut to a new deal for Baroness Kallinger or somethin', and suddenly we got backup." He spat, the saliva tinged a sickly brown. “Cunts." Thume nodded.

“Alright, alright." He mumbled. “Thank-ya boy." He passed over three silver chips, dropping them into the reptile's lap. “Keep away from Sleep if y'can, it's… it's bad shit. You ain't got no idea."

Parallax. Bring them back. He closed his eyes, and tried to focus on the memory of locking the doors. It's gone. No coming back, even if you wanted to. Rebirth. Circulation. Telos. He slapped himself.

“I gotta go buddy. Pleasant travels." He said, standing abruptly. The beggar nodded, and Thume was off.

When he returned to camp, the sun was getting low. Clouds were starting to gather, and it looked as if it might rain before dark. He found Fletcher at their little gathering spot, sat solemnly before smouldering embers. The young coyote didn't look up as he passed, dropping the mostly useless newspaper near his tent.

“Evenin' boy." He said gruffly, sitting down right next to him.

“Hey." Fletcher said distantly. Thume paused, breath catching in his throat, wondering if he should bring it up. The boy is hurtin'. If not you, you old goat, then who?

“So… didn't go well huh?" He asked. Fletcher looked up sharply, biting his lip. He didn't bother to ask how the goat knew.

“Ah. He go t'you or you t'him?" He asked, awkwardness threatening to strangle the words – he wasn't good with intimacy, with real emotions. The abstract was his domain, and he felt exposed, talking this honestly to the young coyote. Thume had already seen the tailless asshole hobbling out to where Fletcher and Narem had been training, but he figured this was a gentler way to bring it up.

“He came out to meet us, so we could talk." Fletcher said, his tone sober. “He already kinda knew but, I guess."

“Ah, I figured."

“Narem got angry, and stormed off. So he's not talking to me now either. Then Lyric and I sat down and…" He glanced away. Thume's heart ached for the boy. He just wanted to be happy and loved, and after growing up with a father like Mason Fulbright, there wasn't much of that to go around. “S'weird. He said he had feelings for me too, or something like that. That he felt we were… close, that there's a pull. That's the word he used, said there was a pull between us. That he'd naturally wanted to be near me since we first met." Thume frowned.

“Wait, we talkin' 'bout the same thing? That ass… that jackal boy you been pining after?" The coyote nodded. “So he does like ya back?"

“Sort of, I s'pose." Fletcher said.

“But if you like me too…" Fletcher had said to Lyric, ears splayed back, face red. “Shouldn't…"

“Kid, look." Lyric said softly. “I do like you. You're a cute boy, an' you're sweet. But take a step back. We don't hardly know each other, and everything you do know about me is tainted. I saved yer life, and that colours perspective."

“I'm not confused!" Fletcher had said indignantly, instantly falling back on himself, burning with shame. “I just… I really… feel…" It was hard to get out.

“I know." Lyric said softly, putting a paw on his leg. “But you're young, these things come and go like wind." He leaned in. “Have you even… er, been with another guy before Fletch?" The coyote's blush went deeper.

“I, er… not-not exactly." He mumbled. “But I… I want to. With you."

“I'm sure y'do. But this," Lyric gestured between them. “It ain't enough to sustain somethin' like that. And if it went wrong, then we'd both be stuck seein' one another day in day out, yeah?"

“I s'pose."

“You've lived yer whole life so far under the heel of your father. He hated buggers like us, and now – you gotta chance to be that. I don't wanna diminish yer feelings here, but you're latching onto the first compatible thing to come along." Fletcher couldn't disagree, and he just stared at his paws, too embarrassed to look at the jackal. He felt so stupid, so useless, and childish. Why would someone like Lyric even want someone like him anyway?

“I… I dunno. I just thought…" He trailed off, not even sure what he was going to say.

“Look, name three things you like about me that ain't about killin' folk." Lyric said. His tone was gentle, and Fletcher appreciated the soft letdown, but he wished the conversation would just end already. “I'm a thing'a violence Fletch; you don't even know the halfa it."

“You're a good jester." He muttered.

“You attracted to clowns' boy?" Lyric chuckled. “That was mean, I'm sorry."

“You're nice."

“Lotsa people are nice. Narem is nice." The jackal sighed. “I'm sorry, I know feelings catch without much control, and I ain't sayin' that a few months from now… if things are the same… but right this second? It just ain't a good idea." Fletcher said nothing, staring at the ground, trying not to let tears drop from his eyes.

“I was so worried when you were away." Fletcher said. “I wanted to help you so bad." His paws balled into fists.

“And you did." Lyric replied, still using that gentle tone. “You did for sure, y'made sure I woke to a friendly face. Yer an attractive mutt Fletcher, and I do like you a lot. I'm glad to have ya in my life, and around me. But trust me, as someone who has lived a mite longer'n you; this ain't somethin' to build a coupling off. We'd have fun prolly, share a bed, that'd be nice fer a bit… but in the end, you'd learn more and more what kinda dog I am exactly. And if you don't like that, well it'll get messy."

“Oh you're worried I'll be too messy for you?" Fletcher snapped, aware it didn't even make sense.

“It ain't like that and you know it."

“My feelings won't change Lyric; I like you a lot. I-I think about you all the time." He didn't even know if he believed the words he was saying. Just a few nights ago he'd been reconsidering his crush, thinking almost the same rhetoric. He just didn't want it to close off, he desperately wanted Lyric to say he liked him too, and then they'd kiss or something.

It was stupid.

“I'm sorry Fletcher."

“But, in time, if you?" Fletcher paused, and the jackal sighed.

“Look, I can't say nothin' for certain. But I don't want ya holdin' on to this, waiting an' hopin' I'm gonna come around or somethin'. All I know is this; there's definitely somethin' between us, like I said – a pull - but it ain't strong enough for us to be together. Not yet."

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Fletcher mumbled, wiping at his eyes. He'd never felt so stupid or embarrassed in his life. He hadn't expected it, but Lyric's niceness was somehow worse than when his father had purposefully shamed him – at least that had been done to him; there was someone to be angry at. This time, he had no one to blame but his stupid self, Lyric had said nothing that wasn't really true, and had been nothing but considerate and sweet.

Fuck.

“Don't be sorry boy, never for feelings." Lyric said heavily, standing awkwardly, angling himself on the crutches. “You're sweet, and I like ya. There ain't nothin' wrong with that. But you… shouldn't get mixed up with folk like me. You're not a bloody soul, it jus' ain't yer nature."

“Thank you." He didn't know what else to say. He was grateful the jackal had been so kind, but it still hurt. Part of him wished Lyric had just said a flat no back in his sick tent, at least then Fletcher wouldn't have held hope, however slim it was.

“I see." Thume said, once Fletcher was done with his cut-down version of the story. The young coyote squeezed his eyes shut, holding a paw to them.

“I just feel so dumb." The boy whimpered. Thume raised a hand, hovering it over Fletcher's shoulder, wanting to put it down and comfort him, to help in some way. Instead, he retracted it, drawing a cigarette and lighting it. He inhaled deeply, blowing smoke out into the quickly cooling night air.

“Don't." He said slowly. “Ya put yourself out there Fletch. That's more'n most'll ever do. Now, I don't much like Mister Tellurian, but that was a gentlemanly way of him to act. I think y'should be glad to call him a friend."

“Ahh." Fletcher exhaled, wiping at his face and sniffing. “But I don't want a friend Thume." The old goat nodded, suddenly tired, his own baggage struggling making room for the boy's.

“I know son, I know."