The Jupiter Knife

by D. J. Butler

  Hiram nodded.

  “Keep an eye on his knife, and grab it the instant you can. I have a plan.”

  Hiram nodded.

  “A close eye,” Michael said. “Watch the bishop’s knife. Don’t watch me.”

  Footsteps walked down the slickrock toward them. “I would have preferred to kill you under the arch,” Gudmund Gudmundson said. “That is the sacred site, and the true slaughterhouse. But I can kill you just as easily here.”

  Hiram fired his shotgun into the center of Gudmundson’s chest. Boom!

  The bishop fell to the ground. He promptly stood again. Powder darkened his pale chest, but his flesh remained whole.

  Hiram’s heart fell.

  “More shells?” Hiram asked Michael.

  “In the truck,” Michael said.

  Gudmundson leaped forward, and Hiram prepared to dodge—

  but the bishop wrenched the rifle from Michael’s hands and tossed it aside, down into the wash.

  “I’m going to offer you another act of mercy, Brother Woolley,” Gudmund Gudmundson said. “I’m going to kill you first.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hiram dropped the empty shotgun. The clatter of its fall echoed back at him from the amphitheater of rock.

  “Good,” Gudmundson said. He looked strange, naked save the belt that held his sheathed Jupiter knife. “We’ll fight with bare hands, like the animals we are.”

  “Like God intended?”

  “Like members of the Pack.”

  Hiram threw a punch. Fear that his blow would be futile might blunt the attack, so Hiram willed himself to believe that he could knock Gudmundson unconscious. He snapped with his hips and shoulders, putting all the impetus he could into the motion of his fist.

  He connected with Gudmundson’s jaw, and rocked the man’s chin slightly to one side.

  Gudmundson smiled. Hiram hadn’t left a mark.

  The bishop then stepped in close to Hiram, punching him in the stomach. The air left Hiram’s lungs and the blow hurt. The sheer force of the attack raised Hiram off the ground—surely, without the protective force of his chi-rho amulet, that single punch would have snapped Hiram’s spine.

  Hiram staggered back a step and raised his fists defensively. Around him and Gudmundson, a ring of werewolves prowled. They made music as they slunk in a circle, their throats emitting melodic whines and low, guttural yips. Michael stood within the ring, but the wolves ignored him; he had his hand inside his shirt—probably touching his own chi-rho medallion.

  Hiram wished Michael hadn’t come to rescue him. It only meant that Michael would die here along with Hiram.

  Only…what was the plan that Michael had almost told Hiram?

  Hiram had to keep his eye on the bishop’s dagger and grab it when he could. That was Michael’s plan.

  Perhaps Gudmundson’s strength came from the Jupiter knife. Perhaps that was what had saved him from the shotgun blast. All the more reason to get the blade away from him.

  Was Michael going to distract Gudmundson?

  Images of the Reverend Majestic’s death flooded Hiram’s mind—his last charge, his howl of “Satan!”, the rotting, skeletal foot emerging from his boot, the fire scattered, and Hiram’s life saved…but at a high cost.

  Did Michael intend to sacrifice himself as well?

  Hiram felt sick.

  Farther up on the ridge, Hiram still saw the silhouettes of antlers that told him that the Hoof was participating in this ceremony just as much as the Fang was.

  The bishop swooped in again, swinging blows at Hiram’s belly and face. Hiram backed away, catching most of the flurry of blows on his forearms. That shot lightning bolts of agony up Hiram’s shoulders, since the flesh was already torn by Clem’s bite; the few attacks that got past Hiram’s guard hurt worse, rocking him at every contact, and a final blow to the shoulder, glancing as it was, sent Hiram staggering back up the slope and almost knocked him down.

  Hiram’s retreat had been uphill, though not intentionally. Michael and the wolf-men had kept pace with his march backward—unfortunately. Michael watched Hiram and the bishop intently, a referee watching an unevenly matched pair of boxers, ready to step in to save the weaker man the minute he hit the canvas.

  But there was no canvas here; only hard rock.

  And no sign of dawn.

  Jupiter was at Hiram’s back, beyond the Schoolmarm’s Bloomers. He felt the presence of both the planet and the rock formation like a pair of malevolent giants, intent on doing Hiram harm. The Jovial lantern spilled milky light all down the rock slope on which he stood, elongating Hiram’s shadow.

  “No more witty banter?” Gudmundson closed in again.

  Hiram jabbed with his left, then again, and both times drawing a block as Gudmundson hunkered behind his balled fists. He didn’t need to block, Hiram thought, so why was he doing it? Habit? He hadn’t always been—apparently—impervious to attack.

  Perhaps it was only on this night, during the Tithe, that the Jupiter knife made the First of Fang invulnerable. Would Hiram ever know?

  He launched a right across the bishop’s face, and connected on the man’s temple. Hiram knew his own strength—an ordinary fighter would have been stunned, and maybe knocked out of the fight.

  Gudmund Gudmundson smiled, and stepped in to attack again.

  Michael lunged in.

  “Leave my Pap alone!” he yelled.

  The young man’s charge was awkward; he still had one hand inside his shirt. He rushed forward as if he were going to try to wrestle Gudmundson, and the bishop responded as if he were being molested by an inconvenient fly.

  Without even looking, he swatted Michael with a backhanded blow to the face. The blow lifted Michael off the ground and sent him flying among the werewolves, who howled their approval.

  Something clattered to the ground behind Gudmund Gudmundson.

  The bishop turned, poised on the balls of his feet, and he and Hiram both looked down at the source of the sound—

  and saw a silver dagger lying on the rock.

  A close eye, Michael had said. Close. On the bishop’s knife.

  Hiram looked back to Gudmundson’s hip and saw the man’s sheath and dagger there.

  The knife on the slickrock was Preece’s.

  Gudmundson bent at the waist, hands swooping in to grab the dagger on the ground, which left his own knife exposed, on a hip facing Hiram—

  Hiram grabbed the bishop’s dagger.

  Both men leaped away from each other, each holding his blade low, point upward. A puzzled growl arose among the pack, and their circling stopped.

  Michael scrambled to his feet. He hadn’t been holding his chi-rho amulet, after all, but Lloyd Preece’s dagger. When had he acquired it?

  Hiram shook his head—this was no time to be distracted.

  The knife would work for him, Michael had been earnestly certain. Could that be true? It could, Hiram thought, if he was in fact twelve years older than Bishop Gudmundson, and born with Jupiter in the same sign.

  But maybe Hiram misunderstood how the knife worked.

  This fight, with his life as the stakes, would be the test.

  In any case, he was happier with the dagger in his hand than in Gudmundson’s.

  The bishop laughed. “Oh, Michael, you’re a clever young man. You’ve done to me what I did to Lloyd Preece—taken away some of my power. After I’m done killing and eating your father, and I’m going to kill and eat you. Every member of the pack will come away braver tonight, for having eaten the flesh of Hiram Woolley, and smarter, for having eaten the flesh of his son Michael. But your deaths are mine, and mine will be the greatest glory and the greatest gain.”

  “Go to hell,” Michael said.

  Gudmundson attacked. He moved slower now, without his Jupiter dagger, but he was still a younger and stronger man than Hiram, with quicker reflexes. Gudmundson feinted, slashed, feinted again, and then swung at Hiram’s belly, and Hiram, who had never been a knife fighte
r, was hard pressed to avoid the blows. He blocked the first attack by catching Gudmundson’s forearm with his own, and avoided the second by leaping backward—

  landing underneath the Bloomers.

  The footing here was even, a small natural cockpit for a close fight to the death. It felt like a place where a hunter would want to trap and finally kill his quarry. Michael crept beneath the stone formation and pressed himself against the rock, lips moving and his hand again inside his shirt.

  Michael had been faithful, and smart, and right.

  Except about Diana Artemis. He had thought she was a charming distraction, that Hiram’s reaction to her was natural and harmless. Instead, she had turned out to be a wicked criminal, and the fire she had kindled in Hiram’s loins had generated so much smoke that it had blinded him, and nearly choked him to death.

  Was Michael right about the dagger? He must be.

  If not…what other chance did Hiram have?

  “I’m still willing to negotiate,” he said. “Let my son go.”

  Gudmundson chuckled. “The pot roast promises to be delicious, as long as we agree to let the cake go free. No deal.”

  Hiram attacked. He did feel faster, and he pushed himself. Some part of him relaxed, and restraints that held his muscles back seemed to disappear. He struck like a snake, cutting at the bishop’s face and arms, stabbing toward the large veins of his thigh. He managed to scratch Gudmundson along the back of a forearm, and to nick his shoulder. Gudmundson remained quick, and he had much more skill with his knife, so Hiram’s attacks quickly melted into parries and dodges, trying to keep the counterattacks from his face and chest.

  The song of the wolves returned, and rose in volume and pitch.

  Beyond the wolves, shadowy presences told Hiram that the were-deer had closed in to see the kill. They rotated around the fight in the opposite direction from the wolves, and raised a bleating, rhythmic song that lay underneath the cry of the wolves. It was eerily beautiful, the combined liturgical hymn of the Fang and the Hoof.

  It was not music that Hiram wanted to die to.

  Hiram realized that he didn’t feel winded. The aches he had felt in his muscles had disappeared, too. He felt strong, young, and vital. Even his chewed-up left arm felt better.

  But still, he couldn’t get through Gudmundson’s defenses to land a decisive blow.

  How long until the wolf-men tired of watching Hiram and Gudmundson dance, and closed in to help their leader?

  Indeed, if Hiram defeated the bishop, would he then have to face the entire pack, swarming him together? Or worse, the Fang and the Hoof at the same time?

  As if in response to his thoughts, the pack’s circle tightened. There was barely room to maneuver beneath the arch, penned in as they were by a curtain of gray fur.

  If the bishop was worried about the Jupiter knife, Hiram could attack in other ways. He feinted with the knife, and when Gudmundson blocked him, forearm to forearm, Hiram jumped in close to attack, not with the knife—but with his head.

  Hiram slammed his own head into Gudmundson’s face. Hiram was the taller man, so he didn’t break the bishop’s nose, but instead landed a ringing hammer blow, forehead to forehead.

  The bishop staggered back, blood spraying from split skin in the man’s face, and Hiram pressed the attack. He lowered his shoulder and charged. Before, that had resulted in his being tossed to the stone. Now he managed to smash Gudmundson up against the red rock, and with satisfaction he heard air whoosh from the bishop’s lungs.

  Gudmundson was still young and athletic. As Hiram turned to try to elbow the man, and maybe get his knife into play again, Gudmundson dropped, falling from his grasp, and rolling away across the stone.

  Hiram took a moment to regain his balance after the sudden disappearance of his target, and when he turned, knife up defensively, Gudmundson was charging.

  Now it was the younger man who threw elbows and kicks, punching with his left and attempting to push Hiram with his body. Lloyd Preece’s dagger seemed to float in the air like a lure, forever draining Hiram’s attention, but slipping back out of reach and drawing his own knife in response rather than ever attacking. Hiram felt mesmerized, like a prairie dog in front of a rattlesnake.

  Gudmundson kicked Hiram’s ankle out from underneath him, and Hiram fell. He hit the stone hard and rolled away, narrowly avoiding losing his head to a vicious stomp attack from the other man, and then his guts to a long running slash with the knife. Werewolves scattered, making room, and he thought for a moment that an avenue of escape might open up—

  the rock floor fell away beneath him.

  Hiram slid on his belly. His hand rattled on stone and he feared he’d lose the dagger, but he closed his fist tight around the hilt and held on.

  Arms spread-eagled, he slowed his descent and came to a stop partway down the rock.

  Gudmundson bounded down the slope, stomping. Hiram threw himself sideways, which meant skidding a few more yards down, but also saved him from being crushed. While Gudmundson struggled to slow his descent, and then turned and scrambled back up, Hiram climbed the slickrock to again put himself within the ring.

  “Whip him, Pap.” Michael’s voice was surprisingly calm. “Jupiter is with you. Can’t you feel it?”

  Gudmundson threw a rock. The stone was the size of Hiram’s head, but Gudmundson threw it easily, as if skipping a dollar-sized wafer over a pond.

  Hiram ducked, and then Gudmundson was immediately stabbing at him again. Hiram caught the blow and counterattacked, and he did indeed feel strong. Pushing with his legs, he hooked one arm through the bishop’s elbow and tossed the man to the ground.

  “Surrender,” Hiram growled. “Confess to the murder, and everyone else goes free.”

  Gudmundson rolled away and stood. The werewolves growled uncertainly about him.

  “I’m tired of this,” he said.

  Turning, his flesh bulged, thighs swelling, arms swelling, as hair sprouted from his skin. His belt burst. He grew taller, leaner, his face elongating. Teeth lengthened. Fingernails became talons and where a man stood before, now was the form of a hunched man-wolf, furry and yellow-eyed and snarling.

  Why had Gudmundson fought him in human form at all? To show his power, to Hiram or to the pack?

  The pack howled.

  “That’s fear, Pap.”

  Gudmundson might be afraid, but that didn’t ease Hiram’s worries. He backed away from the large slavering teeth and the low, swinging tail. The wolf-man’s bite seemed more fearful to him than the stab of the bishop’s dagger.

  The werewolf snapped once, and then again, and Hiram leaped away. He felt strong and agile, and he moved quickly, but he feared the bite.

  “Pap,” Michael said. “He’s afraid of you.”

  Gudmundson the wolf-man leaped at Michael. Hiram leaped, too, but he was too far away, and in his mind’s eye he saw the beast’s jaws closing on Michael’s throat—

  only Hiram got there in time. He knocked the werewolf away with his shoulder, sending the big beast into its packmates with a yowl.

  Gudmundson came rushing back immediately, and Hiram met him in the center of the killing floor. He stabbed and dodged, stabbed and dodged, but could neither connect, nor see any hope of escape.

  The fighters came apart and circled. The howling of the wolves became louder still, and Hiram heard the clatter of deer hooves on stone beyond.

  What of the coming dawn, and the disappearance of Jupiter?

  A chill struck Hiram’s heart. Would the agility and strength and speed that flowed through his body now, transmitted through Scorpio from the planet Jupiter, disappear?

  If that happened, he was doomed.

  How soon until sunrise?

  “Pap!” Michael called. “He can’t hurt you!”

  He can’t hurt you.

  Was it true?

  But the Jupiter knife—if it worked for Hiram—would harm and even kill a member of the Pack. Gudmundson had killed Clem with it. The muscl
es of Hiram’s belly tightened.

  There was only one test to make.

  Hiram charged the beast-man. This time, once Gudmundson had dodged his attack and leaped to bite Hiram on the shoulder, Hiram stood still to take the charge. The werewolf’s jaws clamped onto Hiram’s shoulder, close to his throat. Hiram pulled the monster closer with his left arm, feeling sharp toenails scratch at his belly and thighs. He brought the Jupiter knife up behind the wolf—

  then slashed.

  The blade caught the wolf-bishop in the neck, and it cut through with ease. In a single swift motion, Hiram cut off Gudmund Gudmundson’s head.

  Chapter Thirty

  Blood gushed down Hiram’s chest.

  The weight of the werewolf’s body disappeared, and a naked human trunk crashed to the stone. The head came away in Hiram’s arms, and he found himself holding it.

  Mercifully, the head retained the wolf’s form.

  The howling stopped instantly. The clatter of the running deer-men continued for a few seconds, and then a stunned hush fell over the entire amphitheater.

  The Jovial light shed over the scene seemed to throb.

  Michael stepped to Hiram’s side, turning to stand shoulder to shoulder.

  Would the beast-men all attack Hiram and his son now?

  Hiram dug his fingers into the thick fur, now slick with blood, behind the wolf’s ears, and raised the severed head high. The monsters stared at him, and their muzzles drooped.

  Hiram slowly raised the Jupiter knife, pointing its tip toward the nearest wolf-man. He met the beast’s gaze, and stared until the creature flinched and looked away. Then he stared down the next, and the next, turning slowly and displaying his trophy until every one of the wolves was cowed and shrinking.

  The deer-men fled before the wolves had finished submitting.

  When all the werewolves crouched low, Hiram tossed the wolf-bishop’s head to the ground beside the naked human body of Gudmund Gudmundson. Only when the head touched the stone did it finally revert to the shape of Gudmundson’s human skull, with its broad face and its strong chin. Hiram was grateful that shadow obscured the man’s facial expression.