“Jus’ so,” said the Puli. “Maybe, Denmark, there be hope yet for us all.”
“But is there?” replied the mongrel. “One or two dogs taking a stand isn’t exactly overwhelming. Sometimes I wonder if life isn’t meant to be a setup. Things like the Fourth Question, the density of some dogs—it almost seems designed to keep the old feud going. Maybe it isn’t meant to end.”
“Jah love, Denmark, you really believe the world could be designed in such a way? I an’ I t’ink not—”
“‘Design?’” interrupted Blackjack. “‘Meant?’ Spare me, please. Basic animal nature is a good enough explanation for all this Purebred-and-mongrel nonsense. You don’t have to go dragging superstition into it. That’s just the mentality that got this mess started in the first place. Why not try being a little bit feline in your outlook? You might rest easier.”
“Never talk God to a cat,” said Denmark, quoting an old proverb.
“If there is a God,” the Manx retorted, “and if He’s really on the ball, then obviously He must have intended me not to believe in Him. Which would mean that, out of the three of us, I’m the only one content to fulfill my role in this life without pestering Him with stupid questions. Am I right?”
Denmark fell silent, either considering or sulking. They moved on a little farther, coming closer to the bridge. Across the gorge they could see the approaching clouds, hear muted thunder.
“That storm looks foul,” said Blackjack.
“This whole place is foul,” said Denmark. The words were his last. All at once the wind changed, bringing a new scent, causing Rover to start and Blackjack to bristle in sudden recognition. Only Denmark did not sense the danger immediately.
A mound of rotting leaves on the slope to their right exploded, and death fell snarling among them, white fur and teeth.
IV.
“I’ve dreamed a great deal,” Hobart told them, sitting on the edge of the bed, flexing his bedsore muscles. “Dreamed and dreamed. And learned. Yes, I understand a great many things now that I didn’t before. Or think I understand.”
His eyes found Puck’s, and the younger sprite thought Hobart looked strangely revivified, stronger and more alive, despite his long sleep, than he had on New Year’s Eve when they had flown into ambush at the Tower.
“Rasferret the Grub is alive, of course,” Hobart said. “We did not kill him at the end of the Great War—that part of the history is a lie.”
Shock registered on the faces of Macduff and Lennox. Butts the physic gasped aloud, though he was a simple fellow, not much for stories, and knew less than any of them about the War. Of the other sprites in the room—and a good many of them had come crowding in to see the miraculously recovered Eldest; physics, attendants, and patients from elsewhere in the healing rooms—their reactions ranged from startlement to barely controlled terror. Only Puck and Hamlet seemed impassive, unsurprised by the revelation. Perhaps they had been doing some dreaming of their own. Why else had they both awakened this morning with the sudden inspiration to end their period of hiding and come here?
“You remember the story I told on Halloween, the Death Story Laertes so wanted to hear?” Hobart spoke directly to Puck and Hamlet, but a good number of the others also nodded. “Most of the details were correct: the final assault on The Boneyard involved two contingents, one large one to draw off Rasferret’s main force, a second smaller one led by Eldest Julius to take care of the true business at hand. But we did not go in with the intention of killing the Grub—we were afraid to try that, not even sure it could be done.
“No, we tricked him instead, attempted something so unexpected that perhaps its very unexpectedness is what allowed it to succeed. We imprisoned him. We hunted him down, drew him out with his own overconfidence by pretending to fall back immediately before his magic and his personal guard. A series of our own illusion magics completed the trick—Rasferret was trapped in a box, a magic box designed to hold him, alive but powerless.
“We put him in the box, then put him in the ground. It was far more difficult than you can ever imagine. The Rats did not let us alone for a moment, and there was the rainstorm raging around us, and . . . and Rasferret himself. He did not go quietly. Every seam and crack of the box was sealed in such a way that his own magic could not get out, but there was a hole in the seal, and through that hole he performed one last animation. It happened just as we had finished digging a deep enough pit for the box, just as we were lowering it in. My own crossbow—I do not know why it happened to be mine—turned in my hands, fired of its own volition.” Hobart touched his left breastbone gravely. “Julius was struck right here, through the back and out again through the front. He faded almost instantly.
“There’s little enough to tell, beyond that. The breach in the seal was fixed with panicked swiftness; the box went into the ground. We filled in the hole, and then those few who remained alive tried to make an escape, for still the Rats did not give up. And only I—a very young sprite in those days—actually got out of The Boneyard. Only I knew the secret of what had really been done. Before long the Rats did disperse, either dying or returning to their original form, I’m not sure which. But The Boneyard remained a haunted place, and in time I saw to it that a ring of magic stones was placed over the burial site, stones enchanted to frighten off animals and sprites. I did not think that the Big People would desecrate one of their own graveyards, and did not worry about them digging up the box. Perhaps I should have worried; but perhaps I was not meant to. In any case, Rasferret the Grub was never killed, though I had hoped after a century that he might simply have died in his box. Yes, I hoped that very much.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Butts the physic spoke up, after a long silence. “But what exactly does this mean to us?”
“Rasferret’s got out, of course,” Puck spoke up.
“And he has enough Rats assembled,” added Hamlet, “to destroy us all.”
“Good God!” Macduff exploded. “Och, we’re not prepared for war. If—”
“We’re a sideshow,” said Hobart, and all attention turned back to him. “It’s one of the understandings I’ve come to,” he continued. “We didn’t kill Rasferret the Grub then, and we’re not going to kill him now. He’s got another purpose, he’s someone else’s foil—just whose I’m not sure.”
“What are we supposed to do, then?” piped up Lennox.
“Organize and defend ourselves as best we can,” said Hobart. “Until Rasferret is killed, or his power broken—if it’s broken—we’re all in very grave danger.” He stood shakily and buckled on his sword, which had lain beneath his bed for the past two months. “One way or another, there’s going to be a great killing before this day is over.”
V.
You’re all done, cat,” Dragon said, blood flecking his teeth. “All done.”
Denmark was dead, Rover Too-Bad nearly so. The Wolfhound’s attack had been unbelievably swift—he had moved more like a serpent than a canine—and both Puli and mongrel were out of the fight before they had had any real chance to react. Only Blackjack had dodged the initial assault, propelled by the memory of the Hell-town where he and Luther had almost been torn apart by the Purebred pack. Moving with a serpentine swiftness of his own, the Manx had slashed at Dragon, scoring on his flank and then scuttling away . . . into a death trap. Stupidly, he had run onto the suspension bridge, inviting, but a mistake since it was flat, narrow, and gave no cover. Ten feet in he had realized his error, turned to backtrack, and found the way behind already blocked.
“Go ahead,” Dragon challenged him. “Run, cat. Run for the other side. You’ll never make it—I’m fast, faster than you, and I’ll snap your spine halfway across. But go ahead, try it.”
“You’re looking pretty thin, Dragon,” said Blackjack, terrified but determined not to show it (Out, out, how do I get out of this?). “Maybe you’re not as fast as you think anymore.”
“Oh, I’m fast.” And indeed, though the mark of the Road was heavy on the
Wolfhound, Blackjack had seen well enough that this was true. Dragon might have grown lean, his once pure-white coat might now be tangled and dirty, but he still looked every inch a killing machine, slimmed down to its most basic outline. “I’m fast like death, cat. Where’s the mange?”
The question caught Blackjack by surprise and he could almost sense Dragon probing him, using that uncanny mind-reading ability that some few animals had. Though Blackjack had no answer to the Wolfhound’s query, still he thought to evade him.
“Why did you kill the Bulldog?” he asked in return.
“I was hungry,” said Dragon. “Where’s the mange, cat? Gone away? Not back yet? Yes, that’s it . . . so the dreams were true.”
The Wolfhound began to advance, jaws wide and dripping. Blackjack backed up, keeping an even distance between them.
“Dreams, Dragon? What dreams?”
“Dreams that I killed you. Both of you. And guess who dies first, cat?” He poised to launch himself forward, and just then, back on the gorge path, Rover Too-Bad struggled to get up. The Puli had one leg broken and another torn nearly off, but he got halfway to a crouch before collapsing again.
“Jah,” he said incoherently. “Blackjack, I an’ I t’ink—”
Dragon was distracted from his prey for the barest instant. Blackjack was off like a shot, tearing for the far side of the bridge. But the Wolfhound was after him almost immediately, and the Purebred had not lied: he was fast, fast as death, faster than the Manx. Midway across the span he caught up and angled his teeth to break Blackjack’s back. But Blackjack rolled, losing only a chunk of flesh and hair out of his side—that was bad enough—raking Dragon in return with both sets of claws. The Wolfhound recoiled briefly, his muzzle torn, then darted his jaws down again for a second bite. The Manx did not give him time to clamp on—he shot between Dragon’s legs, heading for the dog’s rear quarter, for that which was the most sensitive target on any male animal. But what he found—or rather, did not find—stopped him short.
Castrated! he thought, stunned. Someone's castrated him. The ‘catchers must have—
“All done, cat!” Dragon caught him by the hind leg and tumbled him over onto his back. There was pain, blood, but no snap of bone, not yet. Blackjack reacted with a fury, clawing and spitting as never before. Bloodied but still by far the stronger, the Wolfhound released him, and they faced each other nose to nose, ready for a last grapple.
“You can’t win,” Dragon told him, triumphant. Blackjack, still wondering how this murderous apparition had come to find him, knew it to be true. The Purebred was too powerful and too full of hate—he was hopelessly overmatched.
“You’ll pay in blood, though,” the Manx said, hissing. “I’ll leave you some scars to remember me by, ‘Bred.”
“And I’ll carry your corpse in my mouth, to show to the mange when he comes. What do you think he’ll say, cat? When he sees you dead?”
“Maybe,” said Blackjack, filled with sudden inspiration, “maybe you won’t have my corpse.”
“What?” Dragon’s eyes narrowed, and Blackjack sprang—not at the Wolfhound, not forward or backwards along the bridge, but sideways. The bars on the safety fencing were set too close together to squeeze through but the Manx flattened himself out, slipped beneath them.
“NO!” Dragon roared, moving to stop him. If Blackjack had had a tail he might well have been caught and drawn back, but he did not, and was not. He passed under the fence and tumbled from the suspension bridge, falling just as Preacher had fallen, and from almost exactly the same spot. But the river below was not the same as it had been on New Year’s Eve. Then it had been frozen, the ice snow-swept; now it was thawed and roared with the body and strength that yesterday’s rain had given it.
Blackjack’s last thought before he struck was Christ, I hate the wat—
THE BATTLE OF WILLARD STRAIGHT HALL
I.
The Parade got under way two minutes early. The Green Dragon was ready to roll, and the Architects were becoming increasingly nervous about the weather. The clouds had closed ranks above The Hill, cutting off the last bit of blue sky, and the wind was dervishing.
“Rain, do you think?” Modine asked, as dozens of students bent their backs to get the Dragon moving.
“No,” Larretta told him. “Feels like an electrical storm. Fireworks.” To the crew: “Let’s GO, people!”
The spectators on the Arts Quad—it was packed near to overflowing, now—cheered appreciatively as the Dragon first appeared around the side of Sibley Hall. Yet apprehension about the darkening sky dampened the festivities: several bright green kites that had been lofted, tentatively, at the wind’s first stirring, were now being rapidly reeled in.
“Come on, come on!” Larretta was shouting at the pushers and pullers of the Dragon. “Double time, let’s beat this damn storm!”
One minute to noon. The Dragon completed its transit between Sibley and Tjaden Halls and entered the Quad proper. Its makers need not have hurried so—the beast was destined to go no farther than here.
Not until the Story was finished.
II.
“Has anyone seen Zephyr?” Puck asked, as they gathered themselves to move.
“Oh, she’s gone to the Tower, sir,” Butts told him. “Flew up there just a short while ago.”
Puck and Hobart exchanged glances, remembering New Year’s Eve.
“But there’s no time,” Hobart said firmly. “If the Rats have gotten in there again, she’s on her own and we can’t help her.”
“If there’s another glider around here,” said Puck, “or a plane—”
“No, Puck—”
“Or I could go on foot. It might take a long time, but—”
“No,” Hobart insisted. “The Rats will be all over The Hill by now, preparing to attack. I’m quite certain of it. If they’re not already in this building I’ll be very surprised. We have to muster a fighting force of our own as quickly as possible.”
“Aye, an’ you’ll find a great lot down below,” Macduff spoke up. “In the Oakenshields kitchen with the Big People. There’s t’ be a banquet tonight o’ sorts, and with all the cookin’ . . . well, many a tidbit’s to be had. Look for your army there, Hobart.”
“Good,” said Hobart. “We’ll go there first. Lennox, I want envoys sent throughout the campus as swiftly as possible to warn the rest of our people.”
“I could be envoy to the Bell Tower,” Puck offered.
“No, Puck,” Hobart replied, with a note of finality. “My granddaughter is an able enough duelist . . . either she’ll hold her own against whatever comes there, or one extra sword won’t help very much.”
Puck disagreed—it was obvious from his face—but Hobart held his eyes a moment longer, willing him to obey. Then the Eldest said to them all: “Very well, swords ready! We go!”
They moved as a body, picking up extra fighters as they went. Lennox turned off early, seeking out envoys, but the rest proceeded downward, toward the lower level of the Straight where the human dining rooms and kitchens were. The kitchen complex serving Oakenshields Dining was huge and sprawling, and the sprites had put in many secret entrances and exits for their convenience. As the war party drew nearer to their destination they began splitting off into the various forking passageways that gave access to Dining. At one such fork Puck broke away from Hamlet and Hobart, taking a different path. Hobart let him go; as Eldest he expected to be obeyed, but as a grandfather he would secretly be relieved should Puck double back and head for the Tower against orders.
Good luck and godspeed to you, the Grandfather thought, as Puck vanished from his view around a corner. I only hope you’re not too late to help her.
It was the last Hobart ever saw of him.
III.
The kitchen was bustling. In addition to the serving of the lunchtime meal, preparations were well under way for that night’s Cross-Country Gourmet Special. The guest chef was a burly blond Norseman imported from a restaurant in coast
al Maine. His name was not common knowledge—the regular Oakenshields cooks simply called him “the Swede"—but he bore the look of a mad Viking and might well have numbered Grettir and Beowulf among his ancestors. He made most everybody in the kitchen distinctly nervous, puttering around humming a nonsense tune ("Duh-heen, duh-hyun, duh-heen!") under his breath, and the student work supervisor, statuesque and a touch Nordic herself, did her best to keep out of his way. Mad or not, though, the Swede knew what he was about, and dinner prep progressed rapidly.
“Ah, but Little Peoples must earn their keep also—duh-heen!” barked the Swede, facing a table crowded with pies. The other cooks could see no one whom he might be addressing and shrugged, pretending not to notice, but the baker’s dozen of sprites who scurried here and there on the table top—they had been preparing to siphon one of the pie fillings—were suitably impressed. The Swede was in good health and did not appear to be drunk, so if he could see them then it followed he truly was insane. The Little People paid attention as he barked out instructions to them. Shortly thereafter the human kitchen workers began to find small tasks being completed, as if by magic, when their backs were turned.
Humming away—"Duh-hyun! Duh-heen!"—the Swede went from one end of the kitchen to the other, impressing every last sprite into the work force and offering encouragement to Big and Little Persons alike. Things ran even more smoothly now, though the humans were damned if they knew where the extra efficiency was coming from. The Swede just clucked happily. “By Loki!” he cried, “Little Peoples should be more often!”
There were well over a hundred sprites in Oakenshields that day, ducking around the pots, pans, and people; all of them wore their swords and some carried crossbows on their backs as well. Even lacking advance warning, with so many pairs of eyes the Rat assault force should have been spotted relatively quickly, and a battle engaged. But now, busy with the tasks they had been given, the sprites didn’t see as the first of Rasferret’s vermin came up out of drains and holes where only cockroaches had tread before. These lead Rats had tasks of their own to perform, swift acts of sabotage.