#4 Of Duty and Loyalty

Aldrich

I run through the forest as fast as I can, my powerful legs eating up the floor. The forest serves as a boundary between the city with its civilized, refined residents, and us beasts. Until a month previously, we too lived in the city, albeit on the very fringes, in cheap housing complexes constructed for our ‘benefit’ by the ‘benevolent’ rulers. If only Connor hadn’t…

I force the thought to the back of my mind. What’s the use thinking about it now? It’s in the past. All we can now do is make the most of the situation. Not everybody agrees with my views though. Not everyone in my pack wants to make the best of a bad situation. My folks are extremely angry at the injustice of it all. Yes, the Council was within its rights to mete out this harsh punishment, yes the terms of the treaty were violated, but not everything is black and white. The ruling elite often choose to ignore the various shades of gray. 

I cut through the thinning woods on the edges of the forest and emerge into a large clearing. The ground here is rocky, hard, infertile. A gurgling stream flows through the middle of this nearly perfectly circular piece of land devoid of any trees.  On either side of the stream, several temporary structures made of wood, mud, and dried branches lay scattered. Our houses in the city were cheaply built, but provided adequate shelter. The same can’t be said for the hovels. We find that we are forced to spend more and more time in our beast form in order to survive in our wild surroundings. 

Maybe that’s what they want of us–that we devolve completely into beasts. 

What is it about us Werewolves that the higher classes find so repugnant? Don’t we guard their homes? Till their fields? Build their properties? Don’t we risk our lives as spies, as enforcers, as the first line of defense in their army? Don’t we do all the dirty, demeaning jobs that the higher classes are too squeamish to perform?

Despite the punishment, they still expect us to perform our duties without complaining. Do they realize that their society would collapse if we decided to migrate en masse? All we want is a modicum of respect in return. 

A stab of anger pierces my heart. Why am I helping Princess Avalea? She is the ruler. She is responsible for the plight of my pack, if not directly, then certainly indirectly. If I were in her home, would she extend the same courtesy to me? Maybe I should tell the clan elders about her and let them decide what to do with her. 

But I remember the look of terror and naked vulnerability in her eyes. 

I’m lost in thought when I reach my hovel, the one I share with my brother, Roark, and I’m relieved to find it empty. He has obviously not returned from his night shift at the palace. I change back into my human form, retrieve a hunk of bread and cheese from the pantry shelf and throw it in a basket, then throw in a tunic, a pair of breeches, and a pair of boots (which I know will obviously be too large for her small feet, but that’s the best I can do), and an animal-skin rug into a burlap sack. Almost as an afterthought, I rummage through my trunk and throw in the healing potion, the one Connor had pilfered from somewhere. After that, I clothe myself, resigning myself to the fact that I simply cannot carry everything in my wolf form on the journey back into the forest.

Just as I'm about to head out of the door, Roark comes in. He looks beat. There’s soot on his guards’ uniform consisting of a doublet and breeches, and there’s a distinct smell of smoke clinging to his clothes.

I jump back with a start as I realize the same smell was clinging onto Princess Avalea’s clothes as well. 

“Aldrich. I didn’t expect to find you home,” he says in the way of greeting before collapsing on his rickety bed pushed against one wall of the room that makes up our home. 

There isn’t much here. My bed is pushed up against the opposite wall. An earthen jar of water stands in one corner. Next to it stands the wooden pantry shelf with emergency dry rations and other essentials. There are several pegs on the walls for hanging up our clothes. We have a trunk each, propped up at the foot of our respective beds. Our meals are prepared in the communal kitchen tent where the whole clan gathers. We, as a clan, pool our resources and make ends meet. If it weren’t for this practice, the less fortunate amongst us and those unable or too old to work would have certainly perished. 

“The meeting lasted nearly all night. The alpha did his best to quell any talks of rebellion. But there’s a faction that’s hell bent on it,” I tell him, suddenly feeling a weariness creep over me. The meeting was the reason I was seeking solitude in my secret place. However, I can mull over all that happened during the pack meeting later. Right now, I need to know why Roark looks so beat, and why he smells of smoke.

“Rough night?” I ask.

“Worst ever. There was a fire at the palace. Started from the Royal Family’s sleeping chambers.”

He sits up, and I feel the restlessness and unease emanating from him in waves.

“King Zareth has been assassinated. And the princesses are missing.”

I can only gape at him, but I know this isn’t what is truly bothering him. 

“They think the assassins were Werewolves. I know they’re right. I saw them by the rear wall of the palace. And I thought I recognized one of them.”

It takes every ounce of my strength to remain standing as I understand the meaning behind his words.

“Connor…” I whisper. “But… surely he will not harm…”

Roark’s mouth twists into a bitter smile. 

“After what they did to him, what they did to our pack, there’s no telling what he can and cannot do. Can’t say I blame him,” he adds the last bit under his breath.

“We have to find him. Before they do.”

Roark nods, but looks glum. “Easier said than done.” 

He stares off into the distance, as do I. 

“Oh, and the Council is offering a reward for any information on either of the princesses. A hundred thousand gold coins. Unconditional. If anybody actually finds either of the princesses and brings them back safely, it’s a million gold coins.”

My mouth hangs open. A million gold coins? My entire pack  will be able to move out of this dump, leave this city, this kingdom, and start our lives afresh in a place where they’re more accepting of my kind. Altair isn’t the only magical kingdom. There are plenty others. And I’ve heard some of them are kind to Werewolves. 

If we claim the reward, Roark and I can travel like we always wanted to. With a million gold coins, we’ll certainly be able to find Connor before he does something unforgivable, if he hasn’t done it already. We’ll be able to live, instead of merely existing.

All I have to do is take Princess Avalea to the Council. My life is about to change. This is all I have ever wished for.

But why does the thought of trading Princess Avalea for the reward feel as painful as swallowing a mouthful of broken glass?