The Stone Dogs

by S. M. Stirling

  "Menchino, Alfredo," John said, nodding. The huntsmen were brothers in their early thirties, one fair and one dark, with the slab-sided, high-cheeked faces of the Tuscan peasantry.

  "Master John," Menchino said, making the half-bow as the Draka stepped down from the car and the driver pulled away in a chuff of steam and sough of pneumatics. There was a smile on his face; hunting was the brothers' religion, and John Ingolfsson had been a devout fellow-worshipper since he was old enough to carry a rifle.

  "Missy—" Alfredo began. "Mistis," he corrected, as she frowned and tapped her gunbelt in reminder of her adult status. Adult as far as serfs were concerned, at least. A slight glance out of the corner of his eye to the other serf, the hint of a shrug; she suspected it was the thought of two young females going after a dangerous beast. Italian serfs were funny about things like that, and Ma said it would take another generation or two to really break them of it.

  They had learned not to let it show some time ago, of course.

  "Well probably be back fo' lunch," Yolande said to the middle-aged housegirl on the veranda. "Myfwany, yo' pick y' mount?"

  The serfs lead the horses over, and the Draka checked their tack. Light pad-saddles, with molded-leather scabbards for their rifles; the huntsmen had much the same, though without the tooling and studs. The two Ingolfssons and their guests slid their weapons into the sheaths and fastened the restraining straps. Their pack was sitting quiet, but the dogs knew what that meant; tails began to beat at the gravel of the drive, and deep chests rumbled eagerness.

  "I'll have the dapple," Myfwany said, reaching for the bridle of a spotted gray mare. It blew inquisitively at her, and politely accepted a lump of brown sugar. She turned eyes bright with excitement to her friend. "Less'n yo'd rather?"

  " 'S fine," Yolande said, gathering her own reins and vaulting easily into the saddle one-handed. The brown gelding sidestepped, then quieted as she gathered it in and pressed her knees. She ran a critical hand down its neck, checking the muscle tone, and turned an eye on the others. They were fresh but not rambunctious, which meant the lodge staff had been exercising them properly.

  "Keep the dogs well in hand," John said to the huntsmen. "They not used to anythin' bigger an' meaner than they are."

  "That's it!" John said, reining in on the bank of the little stream. The sound of the pack had changed, the deep gerrr-whuffi barking giving way to a higher belling sound. "They've sighted."

  "Less'n they've taken out after a deer." Myfwany grinned, reaching down beyond her right knee. The rifle came out of the scabbard with an easy flip, and she rested the butt on one thigh. The other Draka followed suit.

  One of the Italian serfs snorted, and the other coughed to cover it. John laughed. "Not this pack," he said. "Not when we gave them a clear scent."

  They heeled their horses down the slope in a shower of gravel and dust. Two hour chase had brought them deep into the high hills; the Monte del Chianti were mountains only by courtesy, more like steep ridges, few more than a thousand meters high. It was just enough to keep the air comfortably crisp as the morning turned clear and brilliant. The forest was shaggy and uneven, part old growth, much new since the conquest; you could see the traces of old terracing, or the tumbled stones of peasant houses. Oak and chestnut covered the lower slopes, with darker beech and pine and silver fir above; feral grapevines wound around many, and there were slashes of color from the blossom of abandoned orchards.

  This spot was cool under tall black pines, full of their chill scent. There were poplars along the stream; the mounts stepped through cautiously, raising their feet high as horseshoes clattered on the smooth brown rocks. Spring rains and sun had brought a brief intense flowering where sun reached through the trees; the far slope was too thin-soiled to carry timber, and it blazed with wild field lilies, grape hyacinths, and sheets of purple-and-yellow crocus. Yolande rose slightly in the stirrups as the gelding's muscles bunched to push it up the hillside in a series of bounds. The bruised herbs raised a sharp aromatic smell, of sage and rosemary and sweet minty hyssop that shed anthrophora bees and golden butterflies in clouds before the horses' hooves.

  "Hiyaaaaaaa," Yolande shouted, as they broke onto an open ridgeline and swung into a loping canter. One of the serfs sounded a horn, taaa-brrrt, and the sound of the dogs rose to a deep baying roar; the prey was treed or at bay. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears, and the wind cool after them; it tugged her hat down and blew streamers of pale hair free of her braid, flickering at the corners of her vision. The horse moved between her knees like a beating heart, a long weightless rocking and then the rhythmic thumping of hooves, snort of breath, a creak of leather, and rattle of iron.

  "Whoa-hey," John said. The dogs were raving, just out of sight ahead, and then the voice of one rose to a shrill scream of pain, cut off sharp as a knife. Another sound, a wild saw-edged snarling shriek that never came from a canine mouth, and the cries were echoed and re-echoed as if from stony walls, fading to a harsh far-distant clamor. Yolande's horse laid back its ears and shook its head slightly, and she tightened her legs to reassure it.

  The horses slowed to a fast walk as they went under the shade of a stand of tall fir, then again as they emerged into a semicircle of open space surrounded on three sides by trees. The ridgeline was broken here, with a steep slope that turned into a cliff ten meters high. The spot had been improved slightly, the sort of thing the Conservancy Directorate did to encourage the game: a spring had been dug out halfway up the cliff and funneled through a stone lion's mouth, leaping out to feed a pool and the trickle that drained down toward the creek. A big maple grew out of the cliff near the spring, thick twisted roots gripping at the rocks like frozen snakes, the trunk sweeping out almost horizontally and then flaring upward. Six of the liondogs were leaping and calling beneath the trunk; five more were clustered around the base of the tree.

  "Merda!" Alfredo swore. One of the pack was lying at the base of the slope, still twitching but with its intestines hanging gray and pink out of its rent belly. It was plain enough what had happened. The five dogs at the tree were barking frantically toward the dense foliage farther out, making short dashes out the broad sloping surface of the trunk and then retreating, as if daring each other. Through the leaves the hunting party could see a flash of brown and orange, and the yowling screech of the leopard. Only one dog could approach at a time. A liondog might outweigh a leopard, but its jaws alone were no match for the big cat's claws and speed.

  "Call them in, Alfredo," John said, without taking his eyes off the tree.

  The Draka all dropped their reins, and the horses froze into well-trained immobility. Nervous, though, and sweating with it, their eyes rolling at the scent of carnivore so close. Alfredo blew a series of notes on his horn, and his brother rode among the dogs snapping his whip. They milled, bellowing, then drew back with a rush, standing in a clot with their muzzles raised toward the tree. Discipline kept them motionless and quiet, but there was a straining eagerness in their posture, and they shifted weight from foot to foot as unconscious whines of frustration slipped between their fangs.

  Yolande worked her mouth, suddenly conscious of its dry-dryness . The glade grew quiet; there was the soft background surf-sound of air through the trees, and the incongruously soothing rush of water into the pool, the small noises of the horses and dogs, and for a moment the fading echoes of Alfredo's horn. Gods, this is exciting, she thought. The branches shook as the leopard moved restlessly, then settled, and she could see its amber eyes peering through the leaves. Exciting. Quiet outside, inside a torrent of feelings: pity for the dead lionhound, awe and pity for the great deadly beast twenty meters away. The peculiar combination of sorrow and deep happiness she always felt hunting, but raised to a new level, an aliveness that seemed to reach out to encompass every speck of dust in the slanting beams of light, every movement of leaf and shadow. As if she could track the bees by their humming, or know every rock and crevice of the cliff…

  "F
ist fo' it," John said easily. He drew his binoculars left-handed and focused. "Hooo, lordy, that's a big one. He-cat, old an' mean. He not happy at all." Her brother laughed softly with pure pleasure as he returned the glasses to their case at his saddlebow. "Sprout, yo' first."

  They both beat their left fists through the air, then opened them simultaneously.

  "Scissors beats paper, towhair," John said. "Miz Venders?"

  "Myfwany," she corrected, raising her hand. "One, two, three—"

  The girl's hand came out closed: rock. The young man's was scissors again; he swore good-naturedly.

  "Yo' win, Myfwany. Remember, he'll come down fast; that's, oh, thirty meters. Ten in the leap from the tree, then a couple bounds to us. Got it?"

  "Mmmmm-hm," the redhead said. There were two spots of crimson high on her freckled cheeks as she kicked one leg over the neck of her horse and slid down, then went to one knee. The muzzle of the rifle stayed pointed half-down, and rock steady. The breeding pairs for the Italian leopards had been imported in the late '40s from the Atlas and Kayble mountains, and not much hunted since; they would have little fear of men. Still, it was possible this one knew what a gun meant; if nothing else, the scientists used dart-guns for tagging specimens. She was equally careful not to stare directly at their prey.

  "Yo' next, sprout."

  Yolande brought her right leg over the low horn of her saddle, rested her left hand behind her and eased herself down to the ground. The springy turf gave beneath her boots; it was a long way down, a fifteen-hand horse and a short person. She dropped the reins, which meant "stand still" to a gun-trained mount, and brought her Sherrinford to high port. Her brother waited a few seconds and then dismounted, careful to make no abrupt movements.

  "Menchino," he said, in the same soft, conversational voice. "Take yo' rifle, circle around and come up behind that tree. Don't shoot less'n yo' has to. Iff'n yo' has to, don't hesitate."

  "Grazie, Mastah," the serf said; some Draka might have sent him up there unarmed. He drew his own plain single-shot hunting weapon and dropped back to follow the edge of the trees around the clearing and approach the maple from behind.

  "Spread out," John continued. The two Draka fanned out from Myfwany, leaving her directly facing the tree. Alfredo snapped leashes to the collars of the lead dog and bitch, drawing them to one side to anchor the pack. They could all hear the leopard moving restlessly in the branches, a coughing grunt and an occasional snarl, glimpses of patterned hide.

  "Mastah, there's a cave back here," Menchino called from the dense scrub at the base of the slope. The soil was thin there, but the rock was damp with seepage and carried dense thorny maquis, rock-rose and broom. "Sign and scat."

  "Lair," John called. "Ignore it." He waited until the huntsman was well-positioned at the base of the tree. "Can yo' see him?"

  "Yes." There was a tight quality to the serfs voice. "Jesu and Maria, Mastah, he's a big one. Two and a half meters long, easy."

  "Good. Now send him down."

  Menchino shouted and began kicking the underbrush around the base of the tree; he roared insults, waved his arms, skated rocks out toward the thicker branches. Yolande wiped her hand on her jacket and took a firmer grip on the rifle. To a cat, noise and motion were threat; it would probably break forward. And predators were more sensible than humans, they were dangerous when cornered or where their young were concerned, but they rarely attacked something except in self-defense or to eat. Leopards were an exception sometimes, though… The serf fired his rifle into the air; then she could hear the hasty sounds of his reloading. Again.

  That brought the cat out into the open, out along a thigh-thick branch that had only a tuft of leaves at the end. Flowing out, liquid metal in motion, then halting blinking in the sun. The light seemed to catch fire on its coat, hot spotted gold rippling like living metal, and the tawny pools of its eyes with the pupils slitted against the sun.Wotan, it is a big one, she thought delightedly. The North African breed were larger than the sub-Saharan variety, but this was exceptional even so. An old male, one ear chewed to a stump. Not a happy one, either; the head was forward and the ears laid back,the tail lashing. Menchino fired again, in to the upper branches of the tree, and cut twigs pattered down.

  That's decided him, Yolande thought, with a pins-and-needles sensation that ran down to the small of her back. The long body froze, tail extended and rigid, and then the haunches moved, settling and gripping. She could see the muscles bunch,the claws extend and dig in to the rough pale bark. The leopard screamed.

  And leapt. An impossible distance out from the branch, soaring as if in flight. Myfwany's rifle came up, seeming to drift with deceptive calm of a motion that is fast but very smooth. The muzzle halted, steady, and the flat crack of the heavy game round broke the air with a startling suddenness. The yellow grace recoiled in midair hitting the tall grass with an audible thump; it thrashed, sending stalks and wildflowers and divots of turf flying amid a wild squalling that set the horses shuddering and the liondogs growling like thunder. Then it was up again, flowing like swift water across the open ground, stretching and bunching. Yolande brought her own weapon up, and saw the fangs barred in the V of the backsight. Myfwany fired again, and the predator seemed to stumble with a grunt, fall, sliding into the ground shoulder-first, tumbling end-for-end, then lying still. Time began again.

  "Wait fo' it!" John called. They waited, in a moment that seemed forever. Yolande met her friend's eyes, bright in a flushed face, and felt a shock that seemed to run down to the pit of her stomach.

  Myfwany glanced away. "He's not breathin'," she said, slightly hoarse. Yolande looked at the leopard; it was smaller, somehow. The eyes and mouth were open, the tongue lolling like a pink flag; blood pooled out, and there were flies on it already. She walked over to Myfwany, putting a hand on her shoulder, and together they looked down at the dead leopard. It was a little past its prime, marked with the scars of its prey and of mating fights, but still sleek and strong. Triumph and a huge sorrow mixed to make a feeling that was wholly pleasure; she took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, letting the moment pass with it.

  John came up and clapped Myfwany on the back. "Nice shootin'," he said heartily." 'Cross the loins with the first round, an' right through the lungs with the second," he continued, pointing out the wounds with his toe. "Want to skin him out?"

  "Nnnno," the redhead said, breaking open her rifle and letting the spent brass tinkle down to ping on rock and bounce off the warm skin of the cat. Loosening the sling, she hung it muzzle-down across her back. "I'll water the horses, iffn yo' don't mind."

  The young man nodded, slung his own weapon and drew the long clip-pointed Jamieson from its sheath along his leg. The honed edge glinted in the morning sunlight, a line of silver along the blackened steel of the narrow blade.

  "Alfredo, give me a hand," he said, kneeling and holding the hilt in his mouth while he rolled back the sleeves of his hunting jacket.

  Yolande let the barrel of her rifle fall back onto her right shoulder, reaching left-handed for the reins of her mount Myfwany collected the other four, soothing them with words and a firm stroking hand on nose and neck, leading them carefully around the bloody bodies of dog and leopard. They shied slightly at the smell as they passed, then quieted a little; the wind was from the hillside, and she thought it must still carry the dead cat's scent, if it had been denning here. She gathered the reins and pulled her horse's head around, following her friend.

  "Masta! Look out!" Menchino shouted.

  She looked up, and for a second perception warred with knowledge; the leopard was dead, but a leopard was charging toward her from the shrub beyond the pool. Running in long low bounds, the tail swinging to balance it, fluid and sure. Menchino fired from above, and his bullet kicked dust and spanged off stone by the animal's side. It swerved slightly, the platter-sized feet spreading and gripping in automatic adjustment; swerved toward Myfwany. The horses were rearing and neighing. Myfwany's hand was tangle
d in their reins; she was fighting to free it, clawing with her other for the pistol by her side. Alfredo's rifle was still in its scabbard on his saddle; John's was across his back, and his hands busy with the skinning.

  Yolande felt the reins burn through her left palm. The Sherrinford's muzzle came forward as she yanked at the stock with her right hand, but slowly, so slowly, caught in air thick as honey. Only the leopard was moving at normal speed, the bounds lengthening. Myfwany's face was chalk-pale, the green eyes enormous. Slap and the forestock of her rifle hit her palm, hold the breath squeeze the trigger. Bam! and recoil hammered at her shoulder, another spurt of dust by the cat's forefeet, and now it was rising in the final leap, head high, Yolande let the muzzle drop again straight-on shot ran through her head and bam!

  Then she was running toward the tangled figures on the ground, rifle held high by the barrel, shouting wordlessly. She swore as she ran, every muscle tensing for the single blow, then froze. The leopard was not moving, but neither was Myfwany… Yolande dropped the rifle heedlessly, buried her hands in the cat's ruff and strained backward, heaving at a limp unresisting weight that was like a roll of damp canvas; the animal's bones and sinew moved in their natural courses, but flopping loose without a directing mind, hampering. She heaved it half off the other girl and dropped to her knees, hands smoothing blood-matted hair back from blood-slicked skin.

  "Myfwany !;" she said frantically. "Oh, gods, Myfwany, are yo' all right, please be all right, I tried, oh please, I love yo', please!"