There was something long forgotten in the smells and shapes that surrounded Waggie, something from the distant time when she was but a tiny pup. Nothing here felt like her rickety bunk in the rancid corner of the barracks, or the cramped sooty canteen, or the darkness and dampness of the mine. If she was aware of the right words, she could say that she was bewildered, lost, overwhelmed with the experience blending with abandoned memories, but for now the old hound laid perfectly still and took comfort in the familiarity of voices ringing close to her.
“What if we are going the wrong way?” The first one, rather raspy, grumbled and howled with an equal degree of anger and fear. “Where are we at all? Do you have any idea where west is, huh?”
“We are on this hill. Not in a shaft, so I suggest you stop yapping.” The second voice hardly showed any emotion. “It’s getting late and we will not go any further today.”
“I agree.” The last one trembled, desperately trying to imitate a wisened serenity. “Naturally, I could provide some light in the night, but sleep would provide us with much needed strength.”
A pause ensued, but not because anyone expected Waggie to weigh in with her own opinion.
“You know what? Fine. I’m done as well.” The silence cooled both anger and fear to a measured, resigned resentment. “Even if the soft-pawed bastards sent a party after us, I need a rest.”
This name has always been confusing to Waggie. The metal-tipped batons wielded by the camp guards did not seem any lighter than her own pickaxe, and she knew full well how quickly that thing caused calluses. She briefly considered asking about it, but quickly turned the thought down.
“We will need a shelter then.” The monotone started giving out tasks as it had done so many times before. “Al, sniff around and rake us some dry leaves. Try to not drag them from the same place, and definitely don’t take them all from the hilltop. Sandy, get large branches, two dozen at the very least.”
A hoarse grunt and affirmative neigh were quickly followed by the rustling sounds of movement.
“Waggie. You are going with me.” There hardly was a need for the name as the pointedly slow tone was a surefire way to understand that she was the one being addressed.
“Yes, Cap’n.” Standing up, Waggie took a deep breath. The many-layered scent that she caught was fizzy and intense, even to her aged nose. The feeling was not unpleasant in itself, but there was a certain dreamy strangeness to it, as this yellow-tinted, sharp odor made others muted, changed. “On your tail.” Finally opening her only good eye - the left one - she took a quick look around, focusing on simpler details. Two dogs and a unicorn, her three companions, were making their way down the slope they all climbed before, and Waggie joined the murmuring march, hurrying to keep up with the one who called out to her.
Even without hearing the title of “Cap’n”, there was no problem singling him out as the leader of this small pack. Curiously, he was not the largest (Waggie was a few heads taller), not the most vigorous (that would be Al, the younger blond-coated dog who despite the previous claims had enough energy to spitefully kick every stick in front of him), did not have the dubious honor of being obviously different (indeed, equine Sandy stood quite apart from her canine fellows) and was bent by their shared past in the same manner as the other three. Still, underneath the dirty, ragged fur, masked by, or rather drowned in apathy, an unbroken will lived on, more than capable to give direction to those left aimless.
Waggie could feel this pull strongly, and back when the only alternative was the numbing rhythm of ore and blood being drained from the veins of mountains and slaves, she did not think twice about allowing it to carry her forward. Here, however, many questions were bubbling up, and while she managed to put a muzzle on some, one slipped through the loose fangs.
“Why is it just us four, Cap’n? I mean, here?”
The words said aloud brought more particularities into Waggie’s mind. This could not have been the real plan, as the whole camp had been abuzz for a time and hushed whispers had permeated through its populace bearing a rare flavor of hope. Truly, revolt - a thing so scary and so brave that a fearful, battered hound could barely grasp it - had been brewing, inspired by tales of the lucky few who broke their chains and reached the mythical griffon lands. One after the other, the rest of the pieces began to fall in place: the tension, the weird packages she had to cart under mined crystals, the gatherings between Cap’n, well-known for his connections, and other chiefs. Evidently, it all went wrong.
While her wits, hardly the sharpest in general and further sapped by the long march, sluggishly processed the dripping insights, they completed their descent. Cap’n, who did not bark a sound on the way, carefully looked around, searching for something.
“This will do. Help me break it off from the stump and then we will tear off the sticking bits.” The instructions were delivered in the usual flat, direct manner, but then he shifted to an unexpected degree of pensiveness and warmth. “Sorry, old girl, I heard you well. I’ll talk to all of you when we’re done.”
Encouraged and a bit calmed, the hound turned to the matter at paw. The large trunk, bent down with a great force, was clinging to its gnarly foundation by strained lines of wrinkly bark. Pushing together, the two dogs widened the cracks until the tree snapped, crashing down with a terrible rattle. Immediately, a dozen birds disturbed by the commotion took to the air, shrieking. By the time they settled back into the nests, Cap’n and Waggie finished peeling the knobby parts away and stood ready to lift their prize.
“Alright. On three.” The collected, orderly voice returned. “One, two, three, and heave!” Both groaned, but the beam came up and after some positioning it was securely resting between them. Getting it onto the hill was no easy task, and the effort required grounded Waggie for good, providing a merciful respite for her troubled conscience.
“Steady now. Lower it over here. Gently!” With another series of stiff sighs the wooden spine occupied its place over a groove in the ground. Soon, Sandy and Al joined them with the respective hauls, and Cap’n proceeded with more commands, directing the crew to add rib-like supports and the covering sheet to the shaping up refuge.
“Should do. No wind, hard to spot from afar, enough space for us.” Cap’n nodded, and a change of tone akin to the one before shook Waggie out of the lull of labor. “Now get in - I have a thing or two to say.”
Squeezing through the entrance hole, the three creatures wiggled to the far side of the improvised dugout. Their leader followed suit shortly.
“Sandy, some light if you may?” With a slight delay, the pony’s horn started glowing faintly, allowing everyone to see the weary face of a tired spotted dog. “Thanks.” Staring back in silence for a couple of seconds, Cap’n winced. “Alright, no point in dragging this by the tail. You guessed there was an uprising in the making. We ran instead of joining it. Why? Because after the first success, the soft-paws were ready. It was going to be a slaughter.”
“You don’t know that. We could have fought!” Al scowled and struck against the earthy floor. “The guns were smuggled, the bombs were ready!”
“And it would make no difference.” The answer tasted of bitterness and of resoluteness. “Several royal regiments were dispatched to the camp - actual soldiers. I got confirmation at dawn. Told whoever I could, and then gathered you lot.”
“You saved our lives.” As Sandy spoke, the shining wobbled to the cadence of her words and the incoming sobs. “Poor bastards who stayed…”
The feelings which were building up in the younger dog throughout the day exploded in a stream of curses. Nobody interrupted him, and when it dried up, Al simply curled up, shivering.
“We are alive, probably not pursued, and have a destination. Take all in, but do not forget these things.” Somehow, Cap’n looked even more tired than before. “Rest. I will hunt for food before the sun is gone.”
After he crawled out, Waggie moved a bit, allowing her relatively smaller packmates to bury themselves in her relatively fluffy side. There were no right words she could say, regardless of any awareness, the whys and the hows bred from the newfound wake-up call by the hundreds, but for now the old hound laid perfectly still, consoled exactly by the alien aroma - the one of freedom.
