Copyright © 2015 by Timberwoof Lupindo
Not for redistribution.

Tarkel Stronghold

Timber and Timby were tired but excited. They had spent the day peering out the window of their rail-car compartment, pointing at this or that feature in the landscape. Their grandfather smiled and nodded and watched as coniferous forest became deciduous and gave way to meadows, vineyards, and plowed fields. As the train followed contours of the landscape, they could occasionally see in the distance a great city dominated by a stone fortification, and an ocean bay beyond. Farmhouses and villages trundled by more frequently. Then there were no more open fields, just busy roads and many houses. Other tracks joined theirs, and they saw the occasional gate barring the way to waiting beast-drawn wagons and even some shiny, motorized ones. The train slowed down and entered a great hall; they could see half a dozen other tracks out their window, and three more on their other side, some occupied by other trains such as theirs. Many woofs, travelers like themselves, walked on the platforms between the tracks, to or from the trains, some pushing carts laden with baggage.
Their train came to a halt and the doors opened. The three woofs carried their packs down the narrow corridor from their compartment to the door and alighted on the platform. From there they walked to the end of the great hall, built of bricks and cast iron beams.
Grandfather Timberwoof led the two young ones out of the station to a inn nearby. The boys were overwhelmed by the different smells, sounds, and the clothes and colors of fur that people had.
Timby drew his breath sharply and poked Timber in the ribs.
“Timber!” he whispered. “Look there! They don’t have any tails!”
Timby’s tail was quivering, its fur standing straight out and looking very big; Timber looked—and tucked his tail between his legs.
“Grandfather? What happened to them?”
“Shush, pups. That’s the custom with some woofs here. They get their tails bobbed when they become adults.”
“Ulp.” Both young woofs were quivering. They had heard of such a thing, and seen pictures in history books, but never seen it with their own eyes.
“Stand your tail proudly, Timber. No one’s going to cut it off, not a Westerwood tail!”
Timby’s tail-fur relaxed a bit, and Timber’s tail tentatively raised up. They looked around to see if anyone had noticed. No, this is a big city: no one notices you.
The three of them walked to the inn where Grandfather Timberwoof booked a room for himself and his two descendants, both named for him. The inn was cozy and familiar: The half-timbered exterior led to a wood-paneled interior. The room was furnished simply: some chairs and a desk and a single couch for a small pack. There they stored their traveling bags, washed their muzzles, and went downstairs to seek supper.
The inn’s canteen was just what they looking for: simple food, and plenty of it for travel-weary woofs. The barmaid found them a table near a window. Timberwoof noticed her hidden sneer of disdain at these hillwoofs’ tails. He grinned and gave his tail just a bit of a swish. He and Timby sat opposite their grandfather and swished their tails with abandon whenever they saw someone who had had his bobbed, which was all the time. Timberwoof grinned and gave in, swishing his languidly. They dug into the food and gulped the ale.
Sleepy, they climbed the stairs to their room and settled into the couch. A grandcub on either side, Timberwoof dozed off quite contented. Though he was years away from walking deep into a forest by himself, he had lived a good life and was proud of his family.
The morning sun shone in through a gap in the curtains and woke the woofs. Timberwoof looked fondly on his descendants Timber and Timby. Timby’s paw rested on his erect penis; Timberwoof could feel that his own was also standing stiff. They were healthy young woofs; he wondered to what purposes they would put their cocks. Would they use them to build friendships at the space academy? Would they use them to express dominance over others? Would they even use them the way only Alphas do, to sire pups of their own?
Timberwoof gently untangled himself from his two grandpups and padded to the washbasin for his morning regimen. Through the mirror he spied Timber and Timby as they got up. Timby stared at Timber’s morning erection. Timber was gratifyingly embarrassed; he covered himself with a towel as Timby snickered. Timberwoof dried off his fur and pulled on some trousers. Still proud, he smiled at them.
“Come on, woofs. Wash up and get dressed. I’ve got something to show you and then it’s off to the academy.”
The young woofs were all eyes and ears at the other woofs, the beasts of burden, the occasional whirring motorized vehicle, the shops selling wares of all kinds—some recognizable, others not. Occasionally, when looking down a street, they could catch a glimpse of the fortification they had seen the previous day.
Tarkel Stronghold had obviously grown over centuries. Its core was a medieval curtain-wall fortress, around which had been built battlements to protect against cannon and provide covering fire. And on top of that, once even those had become obsolete, an ornate palace with glass windows everywhere, and silly pointy roofs. Any first-year student of architecture would recognize the whole thing as a horrid mish-mash of styles and building philosophies. Any first-year student of politics would recognize it as an expression of power.
The Wester Woofs hiked through the surrounding town and eventually found the main entrance. Between two towers of red stone, the heavy timber gates were open. Woofs on foot and vehicles went in and out freely.
“Whoa!” said Timber and Timby.
“That, my young woofs,” said Timberwoof, “is Tarkel Stronghold. Tarkel was a great warlord who dominated all these lands … except for one important place.”
“What’s that?” asked Timby.
“Don’t you remember your history?”
“Of course,” said Timber. “The Wester Wood! Lord Tarkel never defeated the Wester Wood!”
“That’s right. No Wester Woof ever gave his tail to a Tarkel Lord. Never forget that.”
Though the tailless guards in their booth were mostly ceremonial, Timberwoof caught a hint of a glower from one of them. He just smiled amiably and, as he had the night before, swished his tail.
“Let’s see the Great Hall first,” he said. “Then we’ll split up and meet here again at noon.”
They entered the hall, a granite stone structure with carved timbers holding up the roof. On the far wall they could see banners of various clans and curious long furry … Timber reflexively tucked his between his legs; Timby’s fur stood on end.
“What … are … those?”
“Those are the tails of Lord Tarkel’s vassals,” said their grandfather. “All his knights, all his lords, and even his concubines—their tails are up here on the wall.”
“That’s … barbaric!” Timby’s ears were folded back against his head and he bared his teeth.

Timberwoof bent close to his grandpups. “Yes, now settle down. Woofs are staring. Remember: you’re a Wester Woof. Lord Tarkel never took even one of our tails, and his city never will. Our tails are where they belong. Take a breath; relax. Put your fur down, but keep your tail up. We live in more civilized times now.”
He scratched his grandson gently behind his ears; Timby relaxed.
“If anybody wonders, just look them in the eye, smile, and think to yourself, ‘I’m a Wester Woof.’ They’ll get it. They’ll leave you alone. Now. Let’s explore, then meet up here at noon. We’ll have lunch and then I’ll see you off at the Academy.”
Timby couldn’t take his eyes off the tails mounted on plaques on the wall, each with a brass tag, more or less ornate, giving the name of its former owner. He tried to calm himself, and stood his tail up high. Timber, too, quivered as he stared, and managed to stand his tail erect as well.
They caught the eye of a young woof, about their age, sitting on the throne at the back of the hall, below the tails. He was regally dressed, and lounged on the throne as though bored. He waved his tail languidly in the air and stared at them.
“Who’s that woof?”
“I think that’s the prince. He’s looking at us.”
“Well, let’s go.”
“Yeah.”
They turned their backs on the prince and the wall of amputated tails … and waved their own tails at him.
As they walked out they caught the eye of another young woof about their age. He had a luxurious tail, but was dragging it on the ground. His parents and elder siblings all had no tails. Timby held the woof’s eye and, holding his tail high and proud, offered a subtle but encouraging smile. The young woof’s older brother noticed and yanked him aside, breaking the stare. The father glared at Timber and Timby, and as a pack they turned their attention elsewhere.
“That can’t end well,” said Timby.
“I hope we didn’t get him in trouble,” said Timber.

“He’s in trouble anyway,’ said Timberwoof.
“Yeah. I suppose so. Let’s go … let’s check out the battlements.”
“You go on ahead. I’m going to the library to do some research. I’ll meet you two at the front gate at noon.”
Timber and Timby explored the Tarkel Stronghold. They looked at the brass cannons aimed over the harbor; in the distance they could see the buildings of the Naval Academy and its observatory, and just adjacent the modern buildings of the Space Academy. Beyond them, a great open bay. On the horizon they could make out hills and an opening to the vast ocean beyond.
“We’d better get to the front gate to meet Timberwoof.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry.”
The two woofs made their way down stairs, through armories and barracks, some narrow passages, and emerged at the main gate. They looked through the crowds of other visitors.
Someone blew a fanfare on a brass trumpet and the crowds quieted down. About a dozen guards in medieval armor a couple hundred years out of style marched in step out of a gated opening. From another opening, another dozen guards marched out. Their sergeants met about a dozen yard apart and yelled various calls and responses at one another. One of the sergeants, apparently satisfied, turned back to his unit and ordered them to march back the way they came. The other sergeant orders his unit to follow them. The gate closed.
The gathererd tourists applauded and cheered.
Timby asked, “What the hell was that all about?”
“That was the Changing of the Guard,” someone said. “They’ve been doing it like that for over two hundred years.”
“Huh.”
Timber tried not to giggle.
“Hey, look over there. It’s Timberwoof!”
Timberwoof’s unusual spacer uniform made him obvious. Timber waved.
“Ah, there you are. I have a table reserved for us at the inn.”
“Aroo! I’m hungry!”
“Let’s eat!”
The woofs retraced their steps from the castle to the inn. Again they sat near a window; they watched the people and vehicles moving by in the street. Lunch was simple and tasty; filling for hungry young Wester Woofs and their grandfather. The two talked about the things they had seen in the castle; their grandfather nodded and listened. The three finished their meal, then returned to the room to retrieve their traveling packs. They left the inn and instead of heading up the hill toward the castle, they headed down toward the harbor and the Academy buildings.
The ornate brick and carved wood Naval Academy building contrasted with the glass and concrete Space Academy building across the street. Sailors and spacers in similarly contrasting uniforms could be seen walking about.
“Why is the Space Academy right here, next to the old Maritime Academy?” asked Timber.
“When we founded it, we needed to teach cadets about life on board a ship. We didn’t have much experience with space ships, but Tarkel had an ancient and honorable seafaring history. Who better than sailors to teach about life in a little box?”
“Hm. I guess that makes sense in an odd sort of way.”
Timberwoof said, “Well, there it is. You go on ahead and sign in. I’m going back to the Wester Wood.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
“No. You need to go there on your own strengths, not through my influence.”
Timber and Timby thought about that and realized it was probably for the better. They hugged their grandfather.
“Thanks for coming with us this far, Timberwoof. It was a most excellent journey.”
“Thank you. Now go … and do me proud.”
The two young woofs licked their grandfather’s cheeks and he placed his paws in their chests. They turned and parted. Timber and Timby approached the modern building, all straight lines and parabolas; grey concrete, glass, and steel.