The Dog and the Wolf (27 page)

She snickered. “’Tis easier when you’re not, though it hasn’t barred some from seeking my help.”

“They know you for King Gradlon’s daughter—”

“I’m done with that,” she cut him off. “I take no more alms of anyone.”

Her tone became crisp: “Well, now, these are my terms. For coming to your kine and treating them, you shall send back with me a barrel of well-ground oats, sufficient for a year. If the herd grows well, and it will, each month for thirteen months you shall send me a large ham or the same weight in smoked chops. Have I your pledge?”

“That is … much to pay,” he demurred.

She grinned. “From elsewhere am I already supplied with wheat flour, butter, and cheese, besides small things for small services. As yet, I have need of more clothing
and other woven goods. You may give me those if you’d liefer, but it must be to the same value. I do not haggle. Agree or take your leave.”

He had had enough forewarning to sigh, “Be it so. The oats and meat. By my honor.”

He had half feared she would require a stronger plighting, but she accepted his word, as well she might. “Good. We’ll be off in the morning. I see you meant to guide me back—no magic; you brought a second horse. But take your ease. I’ll soon have a meal ready.”

With deft hands she fetched a skinned and drawn hare from her larder, cut it in pieces which she rubbed with fat and salt, roasted it on a spit. He wondered whether she had snared it in the ordinary way or sung it to her knife. Also on his trencher went a boiled egg, leeks, roots, and hardtack, while she kept his cup filled. It was strange, having a princess and witch serve him as any housewife might. His head began to buzz in the smoky air.

She kept mostly silent until at the end she said, “You will clean the things tomorrow ere we leave.”

Briefly he was astounded, he reached for his dagger, then the meaning of it went into him and he laughed. “Very well, she-chieftain!”

“Your saddle blanket isn’t rightly dry,” she said, “but I’ll lend you covering. Wait here.”

She went out. When she came back he took his turn, letting his water in the dark and the rain. As he reentered, he saw her beside the narrow bed, naked. Light flowed tawny over small breasts and subtly rounded flanks.

Desire upwelled. “Lady—” He moved toward her.

She raised a hand. “We will sleep.” A drawn sword might have spoken. “Step no nearer, or you will weep for it throughout the rest of your days.”

Terror smote. “I’m sorry. You’re b-beautiful, and—I’m sorry.”

“Blow out the lamps when you’ve undressed,” she said indifferently. With a nod at his bedroll on the floor: “You shall sleep soundly tonight, Bannon.”

To his astonishment, he did, quickly drifting off into dreams. Weird, full of music, afterward half remembered, they haunted him until next the moon was new.

2

That summer was cruel to sandy Audiarna. An outbreak of the Egyptian malady wasted it, especially among its poor. Victims turned feverish and strengthless; they grew leathery membranes in mouth and throat, could scarcely swallow, and were apt to bleed heavily from the nose; pulse was weak and rapid, the neck swollen, the face waxy. Most died within a few days, while those who recovered took long to regain full health and in the meantime often suffered paralytic attacks.

This caused ships and overland traders to stay away, thus cutting tax revenues when they were most needed. Hinterland peasants must feed a city which they entered reluctantly. Then at harvest season a new terror struck them.

Gratillonius heard about it from Apuleius, to whom the tribune of Audiarna had sent an appeal for help. The two men discussed it at the senator’s house. “A great beast of unknown sort prowling about,” Apuleius reported from the letter received. “It’s killed and devoured not only livestock, but lately men—twice. When they didn’t come home from outlying fields, searchers found their broken, scattered bones. There’s a talk of pugmarks like a lynx’s, and sight in twilight of a shape that seemed feline—but enormous. They fear it’s a creature from hell, loosed on them for their sins, and huddle in their hamlets with the crops left untended, waiting for the first heavy rains to ruin the harvest.”

“Hm … a bear?” Gratillonius wondered. “No, not with such a track. Nor’ve I ever heard of bears behaving that way. … Are all men in the city too sick to go after the thing?”

“Or too demoralized. Their prayers and the prayers of their clergy have availed nothing. They ask the spiritual help of Bishop Corentinus and the temporal help of those whom God has spared.”

Gratillonius nodded. “They remember how the King of
Ys brought former Bacaudae into these parts to keep the woods safe.”

Apuleius looked closely at his friend. “I can understand your bitterness toward the Audiarnans, after they denied a place to your fugitives last year,” he murmured. “But in the name of charity—”

Gratillonius laughed. “Oh, never fear. I’ll have Rufinus whistle up a gang of huntsmen in short order. And I’ll lead them myself.”

“What? No, you can’t be serious. This may truly be a demon. And whether or not, your life is too valuable to risk.”

Gratillonius uttered a rude soldier’s word. “I’ ve been dealing with one petty squabble after another, or scarcities or regulations or—It’s like wading through a bog of glue. By Hercules, here’s a chance to get out and do something real! I’m bound away as soon as I have my men, and that’s that.”

“A small cry brought his attention around. Verania had entered. “No, please!” she begged. “Not you!”

“And why not, my dear?” asked Gratillonius with a smile.

“I’ve tried to tell him why not,” sighed Apuleius. “Well, I daresay you came in to announce dinner.”

She nodded. Her lip quivered. Gratillonius rose with her father. He wanted to pat her on the head, or better hug her, and speak reassurances. Of course, decency forbade. “I don’t send men out on hazardous duty I wouldn’t take myself,” he said to her. “Though I hardly think this compares with a war. It’s just a hunt, Verania.”

“Adonis w-w-went hunting,” she stammered, and fled the room.

Perforce she waited in the triclinium, beside Rovinda and Salomon. She had blinked back tears, but Gratillonius still wanted to console her. Having a pretty girl fret about him felt so warm. The best that occurred to him was to say to her brother, “You’ve heard too? I’m off after the beast that’s been preying around Audiarna. Shall I bring you its tail?”

Worship looked back at him.

3

The devil was elusive. Gratillonius, Rufinus, and their ten followers quested for three days. They found the merest traces, and trails too cold for their hounds.

Each morning they went forth in groups of three, each evening returned to camp. Gratillonius had had the tents pitched upstream from Audiarna, well out of sight and contagion. Fields greened deserted, silent but for the cawing of crows that unhindered robbed them. Forest hemmed and darkened the northern horizon. Likely that was where the brute laired, and the men coursed its tracklessness daily. However, Gratillonius chose to base himself in the open; there a sentry could see whatever was coming. Also, that was the way the creature must fare if it would again have human flesh.

Ranging about or idled at night beside the fire, Gratillonius found his thoughts slipping their moorings. They would not abide by the question of what the thing was that he hunted or how to slay it. Instead, against his will they drifted to his own fate. No longer could he keep himself busy enough in his waking hours that sleep fell straightaway upon him. What did he hope for? Chief of a colony founded in desperation, he lacked any vision of its future by which to guide it. Ninefold widowed, he lacked any son to carry on his name, and of his two living daughters, one had made herself an outcast. Celibate as Corentinus, he lacked any God Whom the sacrifice might please. Among men he found companionship, and two or three good friends, but always some barrier, faith or purpose or something less clear, between their hearts and his. Among women—

He needed a hand-graspable achievement.

Rufinus’s sardonic wit and the banter of the company provided a little distraction. They had been chosen for cockiness in the face of man, magic, or mystery. Gratillonius wished he could join in their japes, as once he did with his legionaries, but his mood was too heavy.

The end of the search came in a rush. He, Rufinus, and a woodsman named Ogotorig were on their way back from yet another sweep. Leaving the forest, they started toward the river, careless of trampled grain. At the water they would drink before following it on south to camp. Wearisome hours lay behind them—endless trees, brushwood that fought, flies, mosquitoes, stinging ants, heat, thirst, silence broken only by their curses or the mockery of a cuckoo—and they plodded mute, their dogs droop-tailed behind them. Going in deeper than before, they had emerged late. The sun was down. Dusk drifted westward through coolness that still smelled green. The stalks rustled softly. Swifts darted half-seen across violet-gray heaven.

Suddenly a hound growled, then gave tongue. At once the rest were clamorous. They darted forward, fast lost to sight. “Ha!” Rufinus exclaimed. “Has
he
stumbled on
us?”
He broke into a lope. Gratillonius pounded alongside. Their boar spears bobbed to their haste. Ogotorig stopped to string his bow and nock an arrow.

A deep growl coughed through the baying of the hounds. A yell tore loose, ended in a rattle, the voice of death. The dogs barked, shrill and afraid. Gratillonius heard how they milled about. What a damnable time and place to meet the quarry. How could you see where it was, what it did?

He tripped over the ripped body of a hound. The blow that killed it had flung it yards off. “’Ware charge!” Rufinus called. Gratillonius saw the grain wave before him, like water when an orca attacks from beneath. Rufinus half moved to get between him and it, but the onslaught was quicker. Gratillonius barely had time to ground his spear.

The thing that rushed at him was dim in the gloaming, huge, he felt the soil shiver beneath its weight. He had a glimpse of shagginess, a mane, eyes agleam and cat-gape open. The shock came.

It knocked him down. The beast had not plunged at him like a boar, but veered. A clawed paw slashed air as he fell. It could have shattered his skull. Rolling over, he bounced to his feet and drew sword.

Blood ran black where his spearpoint had furrowed. That was a flesh wound, and the brute had turned on Rufinus. The man danced aside, jabbing. Did he laugh
into the snarls and the brief, thunderlike roar? Gratillonius heard him: “Back, Grallon! Stay clear! Give the archer a shot!”

Ogotorig’s bow twanged. A shaft smote; another, another. The monster retreated. Wrath rolled in its throat, but it swung about. Making for the wood, it went slowly, the off hind leg lame. “After it!” Gratillonius bawled, and took the lead.

Exultance leaped in his breast. He never thought how readily he could die. He stayed wary, though, senses alert until the fading light could have been noontide. To breathe the rank smell was to drink wine.

In—thrust home—the blade grates past a rib, meets heaviness beyond, twists back out—spring aside—blood pours off steel—emboldened, the hounds bay, rush in, tear at legs and flanks—the tormented giant shakes itself, drops fly like slingstones from its gashes, and turns around again to do battle—Rufinus drives his spear in from behind and cackles laughter as he shoves deeper—Gratillonius stabs near a shoulder—the beast sinks to earth, the hounds are upon it, it smashes one and maims another before the men can drive them off—Ogotorig looses arrow after arrow—the creature shudders, blood bubbles around a snarl—Gratillonius steps recklessly close, looks into the dimming eyes, and gives the mercy thrust, for this has been a valiant foe. Nonetheless, it—no, he—takes a while to die.

The wrecked hound yammered till Rufinus ended its pain, the last hale one flopped down and panted. The men stood amidst flattened stalks and peered through the darkness that rose and rose. Early stars were out.

“What
is
it?” whispered Ogotorig.

“A lion.” Awe hushed Gratillonius’s tone.

“First I’ve seen, aside from statues and pictures,” Rufinus said.

“Same for me,” Gratillonius answered. “But he’s a sign of strength and courage, you know.”

“How on earth did he get here?”

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. Escaped from a cage somewhere. I’ve heard that rich patrons in big cities can get animals from afar for the games, though not often any
more. Maybe this one was bound for Treverorum after being shipped through Portus Namnetum when he got free and wandered this way.”

“He limped, did you notice? From a fight with a bear, or what? Anyhow, not fit to live off deer. When he started taking cows and sheep, the peasants drove their stock into byres or pens. No wonder he snatched a couple of men when they happened by. Poor creature. Poor lost, lonely, unsurrendering lion.”

In the exhaustion that now welled up within him, Gratillonius had dropped into Latin, and Rufinus had responded likewise. “What do you speak of?” Ogotorig asked in his native language. “How on earth did he get here, you wondered.” He bent, smeared a little of the spilled blood on his forefinger, daubed his breast with it. “How off earth, I’d say. Wizardry at work. Cernunnos, hunter God, keep us from harm.”

The man could be right, Gratillonius thought. What had come was freakish: first pestilence in the city, then this in the hinterland. It was as if a vengeful spell were cast on Audiarna.

4

The bridge boomed underhoof, triumphal drums, and Gratillonius rode through the gate into Aquilo. Sunlight slanted along the road behind him and made a glory of his tousled hair. Soon enclosing houses had him and his followers in shade, but women and children spilled out of them to mingle with their men in the streets. The cheers surfed around, before, everywhere through town. “He’s won, he slew the demon, God be praised!” For riding at his back came Rufinus, who bore on a spearshaft the clean-boiled skull of the lion.

Thus Verania saw him from the portico of her father’s home. She had dashed out at the sounds of jubilation and nearly fell. Salomon caught her in time. She squeezed her hands together above her bosom and erupted into tears.
He must swallow hard before he could stand in manly wise.