CC Round Three: Kak Leot 3-2

Tezhulya Sud'ba - Hard Lines

Kingston picked up his head, his reddish-brown eyes glinting in the dusky halflight. He could see the other dogs shuffling off somewhere, moving quickly and almost silently. A frown crossed his ruddy-gray face.

"Where d'ye suppose those blokes are goin', Ashy?" the Great Dane asked, speaking to what seemed to be empty air. He looked up to see a tiny beak poking out from above the rim of his hat. A head – bluish gray and feathered, with beady black, gray-rimmed eyes – followed. The little bird let out a quiet tweet that sounded almost complaining. Kingston winced with sympathy.

"Ey, now, Ashy," he said, his voice adopting a comforting tone. "That leg still givin' ya trouble, luv?" The little finch, Ashby, remained mute, as was her norm. As was also the norm, Kingston rambled into her silence.

"You'll be right in a few days, Ash," he continued. "Just so long as you take it easy, 'at is. Best for you to wait there, in me hat. That way you'll stay out of the way of these other nasty customers, eh? Now, we'd better find out where everyone's going!"

With that said, he rose to his feet, making sure to keep his wheels well-balanced as everything was slick with rain. He followed the group as quickly as he could. As he went, his wheels kept on sliding on nearly everything they touched: the wet asphalt roads, the slick mud, the soaked patches of grass that broke the concrete of the streets. He lagged a goodly few meters behind the group, feeling incredibly tired.

"This," he panted, "this is rough going, Ashy. Never was the weather this bad in good old England , not since – whoof!"

His right wheel stuck as he put his weight on it and he lost his balance. His left wheel only spun faster, as if to compensate, and the result was an old Great Dane falling gracelessly on the pavement. He let out a groan, feeling dazed and winded by the fall.

"Ashby?" he called softly to the bird. "You aright?"

There was no audible answer, but to his relief he saw the little bundle of feathers hopping toward him on one leg. She must have fallen with the hat, and the accessory had cushioned her fall.

"I told you the smartest thing would be to stay in the hat, didn't I?" he said proudly. Ashby didn't answer – she simply perched back on his head, tickling his cheek with her feathers. Kingston smiled knowingly and began to try to rise to his paws, but the effort was much harder this time. He was very tired, and the ground was starting to freeze, making his wheels spin and stick alternately. He was almost halfway up when his left wheel spun too fast again, leaving him to fall – not onto the rough pavement, but onto a soft-furred shoulder. The old dog looked up in astonishment to see a big husky looking at him in concern. "You all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Kingston told the helpful dog in a brisk tone. He managed to right himself, careful to keep his weight mostly on his front paws. Still leaning slightly on the husky, Kingston reached down and picked his fallen hat up in his jaws.

"You're a bit old to be out here fighting," the husky muttered, shaking his pale head slightly. "Want me to put that… ah… hat on for you?"

"If you don't mind," Kingston replied, the words slightly garbled by his closed jaws. "But for the sake of God and Her Royal Majesty, be gentle about it! This hat is very fragile."

The husky dipped his muzzle in assent, then gripped the hat gingerly and placed it on Kingston's head. Immediately the Dane began to relax. Everything was right with the world, as long as he had his hat and – "Oh, good, there you are Ashby!" he said, feeling her familiar weight perching on the brim of his hat.

He glanced over to the husky who'd assisted him. The dog was frowning thoughtfully, as if trying to make a decision. "You're too old to be walking alone. You need some help."

"Old!" Kingston was rather indignant. "Now look here, sonny. I may be old but I can still look after myself. Besides, I got Ashy here with me, don't I Ash?"

The husky was less than impressed. "I meant you needed help with walking. I'll get someone…" he trailed off and looked at the disappearing tail end of the mob. The last one of the bunch was a fluffy black-and-white dog, who moved slowly beside a brown corgi with a bird on its back. "Hey you! Border Collie! Max? Markus? Mako? No, Marx! Get over here!"

The dog stopped, and the corgi stopped as well. The fluffy collie bent its head toward the little dog and the bird for a moment before turning around and moving toward Kingston and his husky acquaintance with that same slow gait.

"Listen here," the husky said to the border collie called Marx – or possibly Markus or Max. "I know this is relatively unorthodox, but I need you to do me a little bit of a favor. Kenneth here –"

"Kingston, if you please," Kingston interjected.

"Kingston here is a bit frail and would appreciate some help walking. Do you think you could do that? It's only until we get to… wherever Beyra is going."

The border collie shrugged. "I suppose," he muttered, sounding less than thrilled.

"The offer's mighty nice," Kingston interrupted again, "but you see – I don't need the help. Just had a few hard lines with these wheels, that's all."

Marx's eyes – blue like the storm-clouds above – widened as he looked at the human-made fixtures on Kingston's back feet. His bushy white eyebrows looked like they were making an escape attempt. Kingston shifted his front paws, trying to make the wheels less visible and wishing everyone would stop taking such pity on him. One would think he had three paws in the grave and one wheel on an ice patch - All four of my paws are on an ice patch, thank you very much! he thought.

"Well," Marx quickly fixed his eyes back on Kingston's face. "Um, I'll just walk with you. In case you, you know, end up wanting some help. Or something."

Kingston rolled his eyes but didn't argue. It was very kind of this stranger to offer assistance, and looking discourteous was in the end worse than looking like an old codger, he thought.. He put on a smile and nodded gratefully to the border collie. "All right, then, chap. Much thanks for the offer. Now, then, shall we be off?"

"Right!" said Marx quickly. His eyes kept drifting back to the wheels. "Let's go."

The husky bounded away, leaving Marx to walk beside Kingston as the old dog quickly hobbled to catch up to the group. Marx kept drifting closer, and more than once Kingston felt the weight of his body lessen as Marx took part of it on.

"Marx! What did Georgi want? And – oh! – who's that?"

The corgi Kingston had spotted before had fallen into stride with Marx. She had a rather cute face, Kingston thought: green eyes, with round cheeks and very tall, rounded ears. She kept pacing around Marx and, by extension, Kingston. The bird she carried – some sort of part-albino crow, or perhaps a magpie or something – was beginning to look rather nauseous from all of the corgi's circles.

"Hi!" the corgi didn't wait for her questions to be answered. "I'm Piba! What about you?"

"M'name's Kingston," a smile touched the Great Dane's face. "It's nice to meet you. Now – what d'ye call that bird on your back?"

Much to Kingston's surprise, the bird answered – not in caws or chirps, but flawless dog-speak. "My name is Trinity."

"Well, pleasure to meet you then!" said Kingston, rather startled.

"What's your name?" Piba called, looking up. For a moment, Kingston was confused – was she talking to his hat? Then he remembered that Ashby had settled herself on the brim of his hat again.

Kingston chuckled. "That'd be Ashby, luv. She doesn't speak like your bird – ah, that is, you, Miss Trinity."

They walked in silence for the next few moments, during which Kingston leaned more and more on Marx's shoulder. The border collie gave no sign of minding, until they reached a large building that the other dogs were all filing into. Marx stopped, his muscles stiff against Kingston's flank.

"The gym again?" Piba sounded shocked. The bird Trinity looked similarly startled. Kingston glanced at his border collie escort's face to see that he shared his friends' surprise – as well as a bit of outrage. Then he shook his head.

"Come on," he snarled. "We're wasting time. It's getting cold, and the rain could start up again at any second. The gym may not be ideal, but at least it'll get Trin out of the cold and wet."

As if on cue, a fat raindrop landed on Kingston's nose. He sneezed, feeling more rain starting to fall on him. There was a squawk from above as Ashby's weight suddenly became noticeable – a drop had probably fallen on her and soaked her downy feathers. Marx muttered, "Come on, old dog," and began to walk, still supporting Kingston as he did. The group managed to make it into the gym just in time to avoid the worst of the rain.

Kingston collapsed then, falling on to the tiled floor with a huff. After such a slippery walk, it felt good for him to lie down and rest his old bones. An odd smell was rising from the floor, one that he recognized from Ashby's wounded leg, or the smell of the meat his owner brought home from the butcher's. A cold chill ran through him as he realized what it was.

"Blood," he hissed, feeling himself beginning to shake.

Marx grunted, stepping closer and sniffing a dark crimson patch near Kingston's nose. "Dominic's, by the scent. It's not even that much, really."

"Not that much!" Kingston was incredulous. "It's blood! Was someone killed here?"

Marx seemed to hesitate before answering. "No, not here… Why does that surprise you, old dog? This is Pripyat and the Tournament's in full swing. There's going to be some death." His words were loaded with emotion, as if they meant more to him than was obvious.

Tournament. There was that word again. These dogs seemed rather fond of it. Kingston paused, then asked, "What is this… Tournament? Is that what all these dogs are here for?"

Marx sighed. He opened his mouth, probably to explain, when Piba suddenly yelled, "Speakeasy!" Kingston followed her bright gaze to see a lanky brown female who looked something like a borzoi. Her head was bent toward a scruffy smooth collie with a blue-spotted coat. The two of them were smiling, as though they were having a humorous conversation.

Piba looked back up at Marx. "Can I go talk to her, Marx? Please? I want to make sure that that smelly dog didn't hurt her any."

A frown crossed Marx's face. "Fine, but come find me when you're ready to go to sleep. Stay inside the building – and away from Beyra."

"Okay," Piba agreed readily. She then charged off, the crow on her back - Trinity, that was her name – leaping off to stay with Kingston and Marx.

"So much energy," Trinity chuckled. Then she looked up at Kingston. "You wanted to know about the Tournament, Kingston?"

"No – let me tell him," Marx said. "I've got first-paw knowledge after all. But before that..." the collie flashed a look outside. The rain was really coming down now, and cold air poured in through the window-panes in waves. "Let's go into the pool. It's more sheltered from this wind."

Kingston was happy to oblige – anything to get himself warmer. He didn't say anything, but before he even began to walk Marx was there, providing a shoulder for him to lean on. The two of them, with Trinity walking slowly beside, made their way down the slope and into the pool's bottom, where a mastiff was curled up.

As Kingston and Marx approached, the mastiff looked up at them sharply, a snarl forming on its face. "Oh, great! First you Tourney dogs evict me so you can kill each other in my home. Then you come back here and force me to rest down here to get away from you. Now you're going to invade my last refuge. Is nothing sacred?"

Before either of them could answer the huge dog bounded up the pool, up the ladder, and away into the night, hackles up and ears back – to where was any dog's guess.

"He seemed like a temperamental chap," Kingston observed cheerfully, lying down on the tiles. They were cool, but not chilled by the rain and wind. Much to his surprise, Kingston found that he could smell more blood here, as well as the scents of Marx and his little corgi friend, Piba.

"Have you been 'round here lately?" Kingston asked. "I heard little Piba saying something about the gym 'again'."

"Yep," Marx grunted as he laid down. "This is where I fought my last opponent. That's why there's blood everywhere, and why that mastiff, Alexander, was so upset. He must have been kicked out yesterday so the competitors here could duke it out with as little interference as possible."

"Hm," Kingston murmured. He felt deeply troubled by all of this: fighting, blood everywhere. He laid his head on his front paws, his metallic claws cold on his chin. He wondered what sort of place Pripyat was, where all this fighting and conflict was considered proper fodder for a game. Was that why all of the dogs were so battered and bloodied? Even Marx was cut up, a sign of combats prior, and he had just done Kingston a huge kindness. The old Great Dane closed his eyes, about to go to sleep. However, just before he was about to sink into dreams, he heard a voice:

"You wanted to know about the Tournament?"