"That was a disaster!" the young patrol member cried.

"A complete disaster!" a second canine added.

The two junior mongrels stood inside a secret lair in the forest as they bemoaned their

unfortunate circumstance: five of their patrol colleagues, including the scout leader, were now dead -- the result of a failed operation on human territory.

The lone survivor of that unsuccessful mission was a bleary-eyed, brown mongrel who now stood with his head low, shoulders sunk and eyes closed. He'd escaped to the forest, but found no solace in its protective obscurity. No amount of stem or leaf could shield him from what lay ahead. He tried to contain a background tremble. Now he was the most senior member of the group; the default leader; the one responsible.

Reconvening with two junior officers, the new scout leader contemplated a decision he did not want to make.

"The King will not be pleased," the new leader said with glazed eyes. From his monitoring spot in the foliage, he watched as three teenage humans in the distance returned to their structure of harbor.

"It wasn't our fault!" the first junior patrol member said from behind.

"You wanted to attack the humans!" the other one added.

"No!" the leader yelled in return.

The younger canines shuddered.

"The humans were out past curfew... " the leader said in a fading tone, almost talking to himself, as if to practice a rhetorical excuse.

Why were the humans out at that time? the leader thought. Twilight was an abnormal time to frolic around. Humans were usually more predictable and easy to repress. Such a soft, conforming species. Anything out of their habitual behavior was considered something of a surprise.

Something else had drawn the canines' attention, too.

"There was also... a scent."

A distinctive smell. Musty. It had given the canines a cold, stale feeling; a strange sensation. It was something their Master -- the Grey Wolf King -- would want to know.

The previous patrol leader had decided to confront the humans, but unfortunately one of them had turned out to be armed -- a Human Protection officer. The end result was a botched opportunity to uncover the source of the rancid smell.

"There's no avoiding the Master," the patrol leader said. "We must report our findings, at once!"

—————

The journey was long and arduous -- unforgiving in some respect -- extending well past the midnight hour and into the next day. Traversing in a single file, the three patrol members trotted through the forest, brushing past thorny leaves and screeching branches; metaphoric warnings of the homeward task ahead. Following one tributary stream to another, the mongrels strode over plant rind and roughage, eventually reaching the distal tree line. From there, it was southwest; following the thin body of water as it widened and began to meander.

By early morning, the trail had broken away from the river and into an adjoining valley of towering cliffs and swerving bluffs. Below a particular overhang, the sounds of a bustling settlement began to emerge -- crackling campfires, steam hissing off a boiling ware, the clanging of random metal instruments. Despite the clatter, bits and pieces of conversation could be heard, stretches of screams and laughter. Similarly, the smell of smoke could be sampled in the air, tainted by the stench of blood and decomposing tissue.

At once, the patrol group came upon a secret world of dogs and wolves.

To one side, there was a group of canines with gorging guts, sitting at an extended table, eating in a slow and glutinous manner. One of the canines reclined and belched in a loud and overt way, while another tossed a half-eaten bone over his shoulder. A third canine gulped a bloody beverage, sloshing it against his drunken face. Meanwhile, smaller mongrels patiently waited at the periphery. They sat and watched as the others were served platters of fresh slaughter. A morsel here, a scrap of meat there -- the runts could only hope and wait for meals of their own.

Another group of canines, elsewhere, played a game of cards and rolling dice. Howls of winning and losing went back and forth as bettors demanded their returns. One player in particular, for whatever reason, was having extraordinary luck with his tosses on this fine day. Everyone else was having a fit. The gambler, who wore an absurd, black-rimmed hat with matching vest, laughed and took his time in between turns to talk and taunt. He smoked a thick, homemade cigar while chuckling, snorting and grabbing at his oversized belly.

At another location, a different kind of activity was occurring; a dark and cruel interest in the shadows. Human prisoners, locked behind a chained link barrier, were being used for sordid entertainment. Canines laughed as they used wooden sticks to poke and prod the humans, provoking them, and at the same time tormenting them. Growling and barking, the canines rattled the cages, slapping and dragging their sticks across the metal fencing. All the while, the dirty and unclothed humans pushed and shoved one another to avoid their captors' reach.

Despite the abject scenery, the returning patrol members plodded along, as if they were mindless equines wearing blinders and ignoring all that was apparent. All they could feel was a numbing sense of dreadfulness. They drudged their way to a cave entrance at the base of the stoney ridge. There, they were met by several guard dogs who led them inside.

Beneath wood beams and flittering lights, the canines traveled through a series of crude and twisting corridors. Crumbles of rock dusted their fur as they squeezed through dug-out pathways. Eventually they came upon a wider, more open area adjoined to a large metal door. The inauspicious entryway was thick in dimension, dark slate in color and ominous in display. Two of the guard dogs disappeared behind the heavy gate only to reappear and bring the group inside.

"We don't have the numbers to expand!" a booming voice said.

"We gain the numbers after we expand!" a different voice countered.

In a darkened room, five mongrel leaders sat around a coarse arbor table. Projected into the open air before them was a bright green hologram displaying a map of the known territories. One of the Canines was standing and pointing a finger as he spoke in rising volumes. Another sat opposite to him with his legs propped up and his arms crossed over. The first mongrel pounded his chest in rapid succession while the second one shook his head at the one-sided discourse. This was a never-ending debate for the dogs; their business of protective care. A service every species needed, they insisted.

The patrol group entered, and a series of sideway glances and hushes ensued. The hologram suddenly disappeared. There was a shuffling and reordering from where the leaders sat, and very quickly, unknown items were cleared off the table and put out of sight.

"Your Majesty," the patrol leader addressed, cowering his head.

Each of the leaders stood and backed away from the table, except for one in particular. Gevaudan the King. A monstrosity of a grey wolf. He sat at the head of the table with his back turned, the width of his shoulders stretched beneath a dark-colored cloak that ran to the floor. At first, the King hardly moved, a shock of grey fur from the back of his head the only evidence of his existence. Eventually he looked over his shoulder, aware of the spectators behind him. The joints in his spine cracked and popped as he pulled himself around in his chair.

"You do not bring good news."

The King's voice was low and deep. Articulate.

"N-no, Master."

The patrol leader held his head to the ground, until he sensed a subtle movement nearby and opened his eyes. He gasped. A gigantic pair of paws stood in leather sandals before him. He followed the muscular limbs upward to a powerful chest and solid face — he quickly returned to his view of dirt on the floor. He scrunched his eyes shut. It was not a good idea to stare at the King.

Gevaudan was a humongous beast with charcoal grey fur and crystal, light green eyes. Larger than any of the other Canines, the Grey Wolf King had exaggerated features; huge paws that supported his thick frame and upright stance, as well as an enormous head. Over his torso, he wore a long, shimmering purple gown with a black cloak draped over his left shoulder. In his right hand, he handled a heavy, golden scepter that was topped with a brilliant, chiseled gemstone.

"Your colleagues are dead," the King said.

"Yes, Master."

Gevaudan looked at the groveling dog as he breathed the air, sniffing about him.

"I can smell their blood, their deaths, on you."

The brown dog began to snivel. "Y-yes, M-m-master. "

"Better if you hadn't come back, too!"

The King of Canines raised his scepter high above.

"No! No! N-n-n-ooooo, Mas-taaahhh-Ccckk!"

The King struck down hard, smashing the smaller dog's head, killing him instantly.