Quake

CUNNING AND BLUNDER

Tucker falls onto the bed and blacks out. It is his first night on a mattress in just over a year. He sleeps through the day.

Shortly after sunrise, Renani is sent to check his room. She finds him face down on the bed. She sighs heavily and leaves clean clothes on the armchair beside the fireplace. Tucker does not stand a chance in a fight. She wishes he had left, saved them all the trouble of a duel. She reports back to Damascus, and preparations for the night begin immediately.

Tucker wakes at ten PM to Renani shaking him.

He sits up, blearily rubbing his eyes clear.

 “Get ready, you have less than two hours until your trial.”

Tucker is still half asleep, “What trial?”

Renani sighs heavily, “I don’t know what Damascus was thinking. Vaskar has volunteered to duel. He is going to slaughter you. You don’t stand a chance.”

Tucker digests this information, sitting up slowly.

“Vaskar. Is he the big guy with the scar like–?” to illustrate Tucker draws a line down the center of his face with his finger.

“Yes.”

“s**t. He’s huge.”

“And your sister killed his mate five months ago. He feels he has a personal vendetta to settle with you.”

“Oh. That’s no good.”

“No, it’s not. What are you going to do about it?”

Tucker scratches his head, “Go for his ankles, I guess?”

Renani grunts, “You won’t get a hit in on him.”

“Maybe not.”

“Why are you so calm? Are you soft in the head?”

“I’m sorry, huntress. I think I’m hungover.”

Renani shakes her head, “Vaskar is going to kill you.”

“Kill me? Isn’t it just to first blood or something?”

“Technically you need only fight until your opponent can no longer stand. But Vaskar has made it clear he intends to end you.”

“Because of his dead mate?”

“Yes. Because of that.”

Tucker sighs and gets to his feet.

“Is there time for me to bath?”

Renani huffs, “Do what you like. These may well be your last moments alive. There’s clothing beside the fireplace. I’ll be back here at eleven thirty. Be ready.”

“Thank you, huntress. For everything.”

Renani pauses in the doorway and looks back at him, “If I were you, I would run. Right now. There’s a way past the fences if you follow the shore.”

Tucker smiles, “There’s nowhere left for me to run to.”

Renani looks like she wants to say something else, but she turns away and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. Tucker does not hear her lock it this time. He still smells like s*x, skin sticky with sweat, blood and semen. He runs a scalding hot bath. He’s in and out within fifteen minutes. He dries off and gets dressed. This time it’s a pair of worn blue jeans, a grey sweatshirt and plain white sneakers. The clothing is all second hand, still smelling faintly of the previous owner, but it fits well enough. He stands beside the window for the rest of the hour, watching the ocean. It’s rough tonight. The wind howls over the flat expanse of grass between the mansion and the shore. Tucker’s mind is everywhere except in the present. He is reliving the previous night. He can still physically remember the feeling of Damascus inside of him. His body aches, but in a different way to his previous injuries. He wonders what Damascus is playing at. Does he condemn all of his one night stands to death? Tucker supposes he should not be too surprised. Damascus was intrigued by the scent of him, he had his taste. Tucker is about as much use to him now as chewed up gum, no flavour left.

Tucker has nowhere left to go. Tucker has no one to turn to. Tucker has nothing left in him. And yet, Tucker wants to live. He does not want to die snapped in half between Vaskar’s jaw. Tucker stares out at the ocean and does all he knows how to do: Tucker schemes.

He smells Renani approaching before the door opens.

“Let’s go,” she says.

Tucker takes a final look around the room, eyes lingering on the shelf of books he wishes he was able to read. He follows her out.

“You aren’t limping as much,” Renani notes.

“Aren’t I?”

Tucker lays the limp on a little thicker.

“How’s that?”

Renani raises an eyebrow.

“You… do you have a plan?”

“Sort of. Not really.”

He limps along after her through the austere hallways. They don’t exit via the servants’ quarters. This time Renani leads him out through the games room. Packmates loiter around, drinking, smoking, some playing pool at the five available tables, some throwing darts, others dedicated solely to loitering. These wolves have opted not to bother coming to watch the duel, they have already decided the outcome. They sneer and jeer and growl as Tucker passes. He stares straight ahead. Glass doors open off the games room out onto a stone patio. Three steps at the far end take them down to ground level. The barn where he first laid eyes on Damascus lies to Tucker’s left, and the forest up ahead. Tucker sees firelight leaking between the trees.

“Are we going into the woods?” he asks.

“Yes,” Renani replies.

“Could I maybe get that cigarette I declined the other day?”

Renani reaches into the back pocket of her cargo pants. She takes out two cigarettes, lights them both in her mouth at the same time and hands one over to Tucker. They stand still for a moment, staring ahead at the flickering light between the gnarled branches.

“Bet you never thought you’d get stuck babysitting when you let your hunters maul me in the parking lot.”

To Tucker’s surprise, Renani chuckles.

“No. I did not expect this outcome.”

They smoke in silence for a while.

“Why are you so kind to me, huntress?” Tucker asks

She takes the final puff of her cigarette, then drops it to the dirt and kills it under her boot.

“No idea. I think maybe it’s your aura. Smells like toothpaste.”

“Toothpaste?”

Renani shrugs, “I enjoy the taste of toothpaste. Dental hygiene is important to me.”

It’s Tucker’s turn to chuckle. He finishes his smoke and then they resume their pace. Tucker is careful to keep up the limp. In truth, his legs no longer hurt.

He feels eyes on him from the moment they near the tree line. Wolves watch from between the branches. The firelight grows steadily brighter as they draw near. It dances and pulses in excited anticipation of blood. The winding forest path ends in a large clearing. A bonfire burns at the center, encircled by a stone coliseum. Iron torches burn all around the perimeter. Wolves fill the grandstand seating. When they see him enter the ring, they begin to boo and howl and hurl profanities in Fenraal. The horrifying silhouette of Vaskar awaits before the fire, his massive body casts a long shadow ahead, it stretches across the flagstones, grabbing at Tucker..

“Good luck,” Renani says.

And then she leaves his side. She walks across the killing floor, to the low stage on the other side of the ring. Tucker makes out Damascus’s tall, lean frame, sprawled languidly in another one of his silly throne style armchairs. Once Renani is standing by his side, he raises a hand into the air. The crowd falls silent.

“The stray wolf Tucker wishes to join the ancient and sacred ranks of the Quake Clan,” he announces, his voice echoing around the stone theatre.

There’s a unanimous snarl of disapproval from the pack. Damascus continues talking, and they fall silent in respect.

“Our noble hunter, Vaskar, has risen to challenge him.”

There’s a roar of approval from the audience. Vaskar raises his arms, basking in the glow of his presumed victory.

“Fighters, pay respects.”

Vaskar does not move a step closer, so Tucker limps over. Some of the audience laugh at his slow pace. Once in arm’s length from Vaskar, he holds out his fist. The custom is that opponents touch knuckles, as a show of sportsmanship. It is a tradition that even new blood wolves are familiar with. Vaskar does not comply. He spits on Tucker instead. The crowd howls with laughter.

“I will devour you completely, like the pathetic prey that you are,” he says, matter-of-factually, “No amount of tape will be able to put you back together. I’ll keep only your empty head to mount on the wall of my chamber.”

Tucker nods and wipes his face clean. He has nothing to say in return. He limps back across the flagstones to his starting position.

Damascus switches to Fenraal for his final word, it’s one of the few that Tucker knows. Damascus shouts: fight!

Vaskar drops forward. He has judged that with Tucker’s hobbling pace, he should be able to transform completely before his opponent is able to reach him. The crackle and tear of bone and skin echoes around the amphitheater as his body convulses and warps. Tucker does not transform, he grows out only his claws and his fangs. It’s time to give up the act. He ditches the limp and sprints at Vaskar at top speed. Vaskar does not look up in time to see him coming. Tucker slams into him with his shoulder. They topple back, into the bonfire. Vaskar is about seventy percent through his transformation, with most of his clothing gone there is nothing to shield him from the flames. Tucker lands on top of him and uses his body as a launch pad to leap back, out of range of the fire. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are slightly singed, but he is unharmed. The crowd is too shocked to even boo for a moment. Vaskar reels, shocked and burning, but he recovers faster than Tucker anticipated. He gets clear of the bonfire and rolls around on the ground, extinguishing himself. He gets back to his feet, livid. He’s at eighty percent wolf now. He still stands bipedal, towering over Tucker, his body covered by a dark, wiry coat, singed off in places on his broad, muscled back. His claws are out, everything from the shoulders up is full canine and snarling. Strings of saliva drip from his fangs, a maze of ivory daggers. His sharp ears curve up like horns in the firelight. He charges and Tucker only just manages to dive out of the way in time. Vaskar turns back, swiping at Tucker with claws like carving knives. Tucker ducks under his swing and sees it: his window of opportunity, so narrow it’s more of a letter flap. Tucker dives forward, knowing that everything depends on this, that if he f***s up Vaskar will finish his meal this time. He slips between Vaskar’s legs, swinging his claws out on either side of him, aiming for ankles. His claws connect, gliding through arteries and tendons. Two claws from his left hand come clean off, lodged in Vaskar’s flesh. Vaskar roars in shock and outrage, falling to his knees. Tucker comes out the other side and does a one eighty-degree turn. He leaps forward, landing on Vaskar’s back. He latches on with his remaining claws and leans around his front. His fangs find Vaskar’s throat and he clamps down. Vaskar manages to reach back and get a good grip on Tucker’s neck. He hurls him off of his back. Tucker sails through the air like a rag doll. He hits the flagstones with a wet crack, bones shattering on impact. Totally winded, head spinning, he tries to get up, but the left half of his body doesn’t move at all. He still can’t breathe, a lump in his throat chokes him. He rolls over and coughs until a wet, red clump of meat falls from his mouth. For a moment he thinks he has coughed up his own vocal chords. And then he realises that he is looking at a piece of Vaskar’s esophagus. He looks up, locates his opponent across the arena. Vaskar kneels beside the fire, gasping. He struggles to stand, but Tucker cut clean through his Achilles tendons. Tucker calls on the tiny candle at the center of his being, stokes it into a flame. Using all the strength he can muster, he hauls himself to his feet. He stands, watching his opponent crawl laboriously towards him. The crowd has gone wild. Some cheer, some boo, some shout at Vaskar to get up, some yell at Tucker to get lost, there is manic laughter and howling, stomping and wailing. But Vaskar does not get up. He manages to drag himself across the arena, all the way to Tucker’s ankles before he falls flat. He does not move again.

A hush falls over the crowd. They stare in disbelief down at the broken runt standing bloody-handed over one of their finest hunters. Damascus claps his hands, only once. The sound of it resounds like a gunshot through the silence. Tucker looks to him, finding his eyes despite the distance.

“Victory goes to Tucker! You rise from the gutter into the ranks of Quake! Do you swear to bring honour to the name?”

“I swear!” Tucker shouts, in a voice so raw it shocks even himself.

“Welcome, brother!”

A howl rises from the crowd, and then another, and another, until the entire arena reverberates with the deafening chorus. Tucker feels as though he has been struck by lightning. His mouth tastes of blood. His breath steams in the air around him like smoke off the bonfire. His heart beats like the thudding piston of a huge and terrifying machine.

He is alive.

“Now!” Damascus shouts, barely audible over the cacophony, “We feast!”