Dog Tales

by Jack Dann

“Your friend’s body is poised on the brink of life. If you handle it roughly it may overbalance. If you strip off the bandages he will only die the quicker. You cannot help him.” Then, reading the Mouser’s question, “No, there is no antidote.” Then hastily, as if he feared to take away all hope, “But he will not be defenseless against them. He is strong. His ghost may be strong, too. He may be able to weary them out. If he lives until midnight he may return.”

  The Mouser turned and looked up at him. Again the old man seemed to read something in the Mouser’s merciless eyes, for he said, “My death by your hand will not satisfy those who howl. If you kill me, you will not save your friend, but doom him. Being cheated of my ghost, they will rend his utterly.”

  The wizened body trembled in an ecstasy of excitement and terror. The hands fluttered. The head bobbled back and forth, as if with the palsy. It was hard to read anything in that twitching, saucer-eyed face. The Mouser slowly got to his feet.

  “Perhaps not,” said the Mouser. “Perhaps as you say, your death will doom him.” He spoke slowly and in a loud, measured tone. “Nevertheless, I shall take the chance of killing you right now unless you suggest something better.”

  “Wait,” said the old man, pushing at the Mouser’s dagger and drawing a pricked hand away. “Wait. There is a way you could help him. Somewhere out there”—he made a sweeping, upward gesture with his hand—“your friend’s ghost is battling them. I have more of the drug left. I will give you some. Then you can fight them side by side. Together you may defeat them. But you must be quick. Look! Even now they are at him!”

  The old man pointed at Fafhrd. The bandage on the barbarian’s left arm was no longer unstained. There was a growing splotch of red on the left wrist—the very place where a hound might take hold. Watching it, the Mouser felt his insides grow sick and cold. The old man was pushing something into his hand. “Drink this. Drink this now,” he was saying.

  The Mouser looked down. It was a small glass vial. The deep purple of the liquid corresponded with the hue of a dried trickle he had seen at the corner of Fafhrd’s mouth. Like a man bewitched, he plucked out the stopper, raised it slowly to his lips, paused.

  “Swiftly! Swiftly!” urged the old man, almost dancing with impatience. “About half is enough to take you to your friend. The time is short. Drink! Drink!”

  But the Mouser did not. Struck by a sudden, new thought, he eyed the old man over his upraised hand. And the old man must have instantly read the import of that thought, for he snatched up the dagger lying on the book and lunged at the Mouser with unexpected rapidity. Almost the thrust went home, but the Mouser recovered his wits and struck sideways with his free fist at the old man’s hand so that the dagger clattered across the floor. Then, with a rapid, careful movement, the Mouser set the vial on the table. The old man darted after him, snatching at it, seeking to upset it, but the Mouser’s iron grip closed on his wrists. He was forced to the floor, his arms pinioned, his head pushed back.

  “Yes,” said the Mouser, “I shall drink. Have no fear on that score. But you shall drink, too.”

  The old man gave a strangled scream and struggled convulsively. “No! No!” he cried. “Kill me! Kill me with your knife! But not the drink! Not the drink!” The Mouser, kneeling on his arms to pinion them, pried at his jaw. Suddenly he became quiet and stared up, a peculiar lucidity in his white-circled, pinpoint-pupiled eyes. “It’s no use. I sought to trick you,” he said. “I gave the last of the drug to your friend. The stuff you hold is poison. We shall both die miserably, and your friend will be irrevocably doomed.”

  But when he saw that the Mouser did not heed this, he began once more to struggle like a maniac. The Mouser was inexorable. Although the base of his thumb was bitten deep, he forced the old man’s jaws apart, held his nose and poured the thick purple liquor down. The face of the old man grew red and the veins stood out. When the gulp came it was like a death rattle. Then the Mouser drank off the rest—it was salty like blood and had a sickeningly sweet odor—and waited.

  He was torn with revulsion at what he had done. Never had he inflicted such terror on man or woman before. He would much rather have killed. The look on the old man’s face was grotesquely similar to that of a child under torture. Only that poor aged wretch, thought the Mouser, knew the full meaning of the howling that even now dinned menacingly in their ears. The Mouser almost let him reach the dagger toward which he was weakly squirming. But he thought of Fafhrd and gripped the old man tight.

  Gradually the room filled with haze and began to swing and slowly spin. The Mouser grew dizzy. It was as if the sound were dissolving the walls. Something was wrenching at his body and prying at his mind. Then came utter blackness, whirled and shaken by a pandemonium of howling. But there was no sound at all on the vast alien plain to which the blackness suddenly gave way. Only sight and a sense of great cold. A cloudless, sourceless moonlight revealed endless sweeps of smooth black rock and sharply edged the featureless horizon.

  He was conscious of a thing that stood by him and seemed to be trying to hide behind him. Then, at a small distance, he noted a pale form which he instinctively knew to be Fafhrd. And around the pale form seethed a pack of black, shadowy animal shapes, leaping and retreating, worrying at the pale form, their eyes glowing like the moonlight, but brighter, their long muzzles soundlessly snarling. The thing beside him seemed to shrink closer. And then the Mouser rushed forward toward his friend.

  The shadow pack turned on him and he braced himself to meet their onslaught. But the leader leaped past his shoulder, and the rest divided and flowed by him like a turbulent black stream. Then he realized that the thing which had sought to hide behind him was no longer there. He turned and saw that the black shapes pursued another small pale form. It fled fast, but they followed faster. Over sweep after sweep of rock the hunt continued. He seemed to see taller, man-shaped figures among the pack. Slowly they dwindled in size, became tiny, vague. And still the Mouser felt the horrible hate and fear that flowed from them. Then the sourceless moonlight faded, and only the cold remained, and that, too, dissipated, leaving nothing.

  When he awoke, Fafhrd’s face was looking down at him, and Fafhrd was saying, “Lie still, little man. Lie still. No, I’m not badly hurt. A torn hand. Not bad. No worse than your own.”

  But the Mouser shook his head impatiently and pushed his aching shoulder off the couch. Sunlight was knifing in through the narrow windows, revealing the dustiness of the air. Then he saw the body of the old man.

  “Yes,” Fafhrd said as the Mouser lay back weakly. “His fears are ended now. They’ve done with him. I should hate him. But who can hate such tattered flesh? When I came to the tower he gave me the drink. There was something wrong in my head. I believed what he said. He told me it would make me a god. I drank, and it sent me to a cold waste in hell. But now it’s done with and we’re still in Nehwon.”

  The Mouser, eyeing the thoroughly and unmistakably dead things that dangled from the ceiling, felt content.

  Demon Lover

  by M. Sargent Mackay

  Wolves are by nature communal. They are strong, smart, cunning killers that hunt in packs, except for the few “lone wolves” that have lost their mates. These renegades live and hunt in the wilds on their own.

  In the fast-moving story that follows, a brilliant debut by new author M. Sargent Mackay, we travel into a future where both dogs and men must confront the ancient demons howling in the wind . . . and “lone wolves” aren’t always wolves.

  * * *

  The late afternoon sun was hot on Willow’s coat, and she let her mouth hang open as she worked her way through the undergrowth. There was almost no breeze, and the thick, rich odors of autumn filled her nostrils to the choking point. Of the missing ward, however, she could detect no trace. She sniffed her way around a particularly dense clump of multi-flora rose, reeking of rabbit, mouse, and fowl, but not of what she sought. Frustrated, she sat down to pant for a minute.

  Her coat was alrea
dy thickening up for the winter, and this fall warm spell was giving her fits. She scratched energetically and shook herself free of the twigs and leaf particles and whatnot that had attached to her from the brush. A sudden stabbing itch on her flank brought a flea to her attention, but she hunted for it without success. She had rid herself of most of last year’s crop in the course of the summer, by frequent bathing and eating of certain plants, but one or two always seemed to survive. She stopped and panted again.

  On the whole, it was an irritating afternoon.

  She picked herself up and started on; the missing ewe had got to be found, stupid and troublesome as she might be, ever lagging and straying. She cursed to herself as she pushed through a hole in the next hedge. Maddening to have to be moving and hunting about in the heat of the day.

  A sudden baying in the near distance made her prick her ears.

  “Found! Found! By the run, near six willows, hung up in a hedge. Found!” Her young cousin’s voice. Thankfully, she threw back her head and bayed a response. Then she turned and started for the run.

  When she came to the place the third searcher, her uncle Quailflusher, had already got there, and was investigating the ewe in the hedge. The youngster, Grabchuck, greeted her with enthusiasm. He was a five-year-old, only recently graduated to watch-standing status, and was bubbling over with his success.

  “She’s hung up pretty badly,” he said. “I tried to get her out, but she bleated so, I thought I’d better wait.”

  Quailflusher growled from the hedge, “Help me here, Willow. Her leg’s caught.” Willow shouldered into the hedge. “Just put a foot there . . .” He braced himself, seized the ward by the rump, and with a sharp jerk of his head yanked her leg free of the prisoning branch. The old ewe sprawled out on the grass, complaining prodigiously. Grabchuck nosed her and pushed her back on her feet. She bleated with pain and limped a couple of steps, holding her near hind leg up under her at a funny angle. It was scratched and bleeding. Quailflusher sniffed at it suspiciously.

  “Broken,” he declared. He sat back on his haunches and looked at the ewe with disgust.

  Willow considered. “How old is she? She didn’t lamb this year.”

  “Last year, either,” Quailflusher said. “I don’t know. She must be as old as I am. Too old, I guess.” The three wardens sat and watched, their tongues lolling. Grabchuck offered no opinion, awaiting his elder’s decision. The ewe hobbled a couple of steps, stopped, and cropped grass.

  Quailflusher sighed, “Well, she can still walk, a bit. You can take her on back to camp, Grabchuck, and don’t run her off her legs on the way. If she gives out before you get there, you’ll have to drag her the rest of the way.”

  “Right.” Grabchuck started up, collected the ewe, and headed her downstream in the direction of camp. The two older wardens sat and watched him out of sight. Quailflusher scratched his ear thoughtfully.

  “That old ewe’s been around as long as I can remember, and she was always troublesome,” he observed.

  “She’ll eat tough,” said Willow.

  Quailflusher flicked an ear in agreement. He rose and scratched, then lifted a leg and marked the hedge where the ewe had been. Willow rolled briskly in the grass, then jumped up suddenly and plunged into the run. A moment later Quailflusher joined her, and they romped and splashed through the pools of the swift-flowing run, getting soaked to the skin.

  “Ah, that’s good,” Willow said, shaking herself vigorously. “I can’t believe the heat, so late in the season.”

  “Aye.” The air stirred faintly; scarcely a breeze, but they sighed thankfully. Quailflusher stretched luxuriously. Willow watched him from the corner of her eye, admiring the smooth play of muscles. Quailflusher was nine, a young dog warden in the prime of his life. He saw her and grinned, then sniffed a couple of times, suggestively.

  She looked away, embarrassed. “We’d better be getting back to our sections,” she said. She stood up and started off down the run. Quailflusher followed, and they trotted along in silence. A klick or so farther on they parted company to find their sections.

  Willow had left hers in a protected pasture, between two tree-topped hillocks, partly hedged with dense rose. They had got pretty well scattered in her absence, and she must spend an hour or so routing them out of the bushes. The sun was setting fast by that time, and she headed them down to rejoin the main flock in the night pasture.

  Her second cousin, Killed-a-Savage, relieved her, and they exchanged greeting sniffs. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed. Willow snarled at him in irritation. He laughed rudely. “If you want any meat, you’d better get back to camp,” he said. “It was half-gone when I left. And I think Grandmother will have some advice for you . . .”

  Willow offered him some advice of her own and started back to camp in a huff. Her blood was definitely stirring, despite the season, and her emotions unsettled; she needed no commentary from males who were forbidden in any case. She was seven years old, in the full flush of youth, and she knew herself beautiful. In spring she would choose a mate, and herd with his band thereafter. There was a certain one in the Rock Hill clan—handsome, smart, a beautiful voice—she permitted her mind to wander till she got back to camp.

  The warm smells of camp greeted her as she came up in the dark, the close smell of her kinfolk, each clearly individual, yet adding up to the definite, ineffable whiff of her own band. Food smells mixed withal: pheasant (fresh feathers scattered before the cave), ’possum, fresh-killed sheep. Smoke whuffed in her face from the small fire sheltered by the overhang; her great-aunt greeted her where she lay tending it.

  “Hey, Willow,” Quailflusher’s voice, his scent rank and close. “We saved you some of the meat.”

  “Thanks, Quail.” She took the meat (a sizable chunk of shoulder; Quailflusher was always good to her) and lay down with it against the wall.

  The faint sounds and smells of the others informed her as she ate. Younglings squeaked and tumbled about in the dark, her elder sister’s two from this spring and her first cousin’s three yearlings. The mothers conversed in low tones. Grandmother and Grandfather, of course; at thirty-two, Grandfather didn’t go out much. Grandmother Starfall, who was five years younger, had been running the clan for years. In camp her word was law; she was versed in the lore of her folk, and ruled the female rites and mysteries. Quailflusher was in a corner with his mate, and two or three off-duty bachelors lolled in the back of the cave. They were stirring about somewhat, and she realized that the atmosphere in the cave was becoming tense. She must be further along than she thought. She gnawed thoughtfully on the scapula, finding the last few bits of gristle.

  A rustling, and Grandmother lay down beside her. She sniffed Willow’s face politely but curtly. Willow waited, apprehensive.

  “You’ve come in,” said Grandmother bluntly. Her voice was soft, but quite firm.

  “Not yet . . . not entirely . . .”

  “Close enough.” Grandmother was exasperated. “Listen to those oafs fidgeting back there.” Willow turned her head away, though the gesture was not visible in the dark. “We don’t need this. Your cousin Crawfish-Bit-Her is barely out, and your own mother came in the day before yesterday.”

  “My mother!” Willow was startled.

  “Yes, surely. She let me know she would hunt alone for a few days, like a sensible creature, instead of hanging about camp getting the males all stirred up to no purpose.” She paused significantly.

  “I’m sorry, Grandmother. Perhaps I should go and keep her company.”

  “By all means, if she’ll have you. She may really want to be alone.”

  “Did she say where she would hunt?”

  “Along the river.” Grandmother was silent for a moment. “Fall heats are sent by devils. Winterborn are a drain on the band, and unlucky besides. There was a winter birth when I was eight, I don’t say to whom, in a hard winter, too. Three younglings, none lived to be five. One died of some curse before a year. One was drowned, playing the fool. The l
ast lived to stand watch. A lion came in the dusk, and he gave his life for the band. That was Stonetumble. He was brave, but unlucky.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandmother. I must have neglected some rite.” Willow was suitably impressed.

  “Three fall heats . . . and last year there were none. The devils are after us for sure. When you get back we’ll have purifications, as many as necessary. If we can’t ward them off, it’ll be a rough winter.” She breathed quietly, her mind full of ritual. “I’d better purify the camp, too, as soon as you leave.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandmother. I’ll leave tonight.” Willow rose.

  “Well, you can leave in the morning. It’s warm out. Sleep downwind of camp, it’ll be all right.” Grandmother rose also. “Time to sing, soon,” she commented, in a louder tone. Murmurs of acknowledgment came from the others. “Go ahead, dear,” she added, nosing Willow gently in the side. Willow went out.

  The night air was pleasantly cool, and a light breeze had come up. It ruffled her coat slightly. She went and lay down on a rock break, a little way downwind of the cave. After a while she heard the others come out and walk about, stretching their muscles and getting ready for the evening’s activities. One of her aunts arrived from the pasture, and two of the bachelors left to go on watch. A fox barked, and Willow twitched her ears.

  Off to the west a savage began to sing, his characteristic yapping call. He sang the glory of the evening; he sang of his wit and craft in the hunt; he sang the death of prey and the taste of hot blood. His mate joined him, and the shriller voices of his whelps (seven of them; savages were prolific). Willow curled her lip contemptuously; savages knew only one song. They were puny creatures, crafty enough in their way, but no match for a warden. They would steal lambs if they got the chance, but they hadn’t the wit to keep flocks of their own; so they lived short, harsh lives, and produced enough whelps to make up the difference.