The Heartland Wyld

  Patches dashed forward, blade extended. The wind whistled as the sharpened edge cut through the air, giving off a ringing tone that sang of distant lands and unseen wonders. Just as it reached its intended target, there was an explosion of smoke, and the blade found nothing, slicing harmlessly through the smoke. A deep growl rumbled in Patches’ chest. He adjusted his stance, using his tail to balance as he sniffed the air for any sign of his prey.

  “I thought they said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” Patches called, ears flattening against his head as he braced for danger.

  After a long pause, a tired voice answered from behind. 

  “I’m just tryin’ to enjoy my treat.” 

  Patches spun, paws tightening around his sword as he raised it, prepared to defend himself. But there was no attack. Just an old dog, sitting on his haunches, chewing on a rawhide bone. It was laughable, and Patches relaxed, a smile pulling at his snout. 

  “You’re just a mutt,” he said. 

  The old dog looked up at him for a moment. He was missing whiskers, and his right eye had gone glassy. 

  “You expecting something else?” he asked before returning his attention to the rawhide bone. 

  “They tell stories about you. Legends. The great Ruffington Konners, greatest sword-dog who ever lived,” Patches said, the disappointment clear in his tone. “I always thought you’d be a bulldog.” 

  “I just want to be left alone,” Ruffington said. 

  Patches smirked and pointed his sword at the old mutt. 

  “‘Fraid that’s not an option.” 

  Ruffington remained focused on his bone. 

  “Big Fido and I have an understanding,” Ruffington said. “I stay out of the north, and he leaves me alone.” 

  Regret soaked every word, and for a moment, Ruffington stopped chewing on the bone. His eyes grew distant, and his notched, floppy ears filled with the sounds of battle from distant days. Days of purpose and heroism, of love and friendships. 

  Days long past.

  “Haven’t you heard, you pathetic pooch? Big Fido’s dead. That mad pup of his, Scout, took over. Him and his pack. They call themselves the Heartland Wyld, and they don’t just want the north anymore. They’re coming for all of it. Which is why old heroes like you gotta die.”

  For a long time, Ruffington said nothing. But something flashed in his eyes, and he attacked the rawhide bone with ferocious bites, tearing at it, ripping away whole chunks. His gums started to bleed, and finally he paused and met Patches’ gaze.

  “And you’re what, their lap dog?” Ruffington asked. 

  Patches growled and bared his teeth. 

  “I bring them your head, and I’m a sworn member. No more games of fetch for me, I’ve got a seat at the table.” 

  “Yeah? Whereabouts is this table?” Ruffington asked. 

  “Buffalo. Scout set up the Heartland Wyld headquarters in an old dog food factory.” 

  Ruffington scoffed. 

  “Dogs never did understand irony,” he muttered. 

  Patches raised his sword and stepped closer. 

  “Enough yapping. Where’s your blade?”

  Still chewing on the rawhide bone, Ruffington gestured with his head. 

  “I told myself I was done killin’, so I buried it in that field out there. Alongside the body of the last young pup who was fool enough to come lookin’ for me.” 

  The hard expression on Patches’ face faltered for a moment as his eyes glanced to the field. He forced a smile as he focused back on Ruffington. 

  “That’ll make this easier,” he said, tensing. “It’s past time someone put you down, anyway. Any last words before I-” 

  Patches stopped mid-sentence as Ruffington shot toward him. The old dog ran low, on all fours, like dogs of yesteryear, moving so fast that Patches barely had time to react. Then Ruffington was on him, and gripped in one paw was a rawhide bone, chewed down to a sharp point. 

  A shrill yelp slipped from Patches as the bone pierced his chest. His whole body went rigid, and he found himself unable to draw a breath. His sword slipped from his hand, then he collapsed beside it. Ruffington stood over him, frowning.

  “You followed the wrong master,” Ruffington said. “If there is an afterlife for dogs, I pray you make better choices when you get there.” 

  In his last moments, Patches lay on the grass. A long-forgotten memory returned to him. He and his brothers and sisters, only a few weeks old, out in the yard playing. Where were they all now? Why had he ever left them behind? 

  In the distance, Ruffington walked into a field, nose to the ground. Suddenly, he stopped, and after sniffing for a moment, he started digging.