Fool on the Hill (48 page)

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 coastal 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.

Actually, one sprite did see the Rats, yet said nothing: it was Laertes, the angry brother of Saffron Dey. He had been out walking in the Rain yesterday when something fell stinging into his eye; today his mind felt strangely . . . clear. He saw two of the vermin scuttle out from under the big dish machine carrying an object like a cherry bomb between them. He raised an eyebrow and went back to his business.

Until the explosions began.

IV.

Lightning struck the Clock Tower at precisely noon. The bolt—crackling and blue—contacted the pinnacle of the Tower, but the whole structure seemed to surge briefly with electricity; the Clock stopped, hands frozen at twelve. A frightened murmur ran through the crowds below.

“Jesus, Larretta—” Curlowski began.

“Shut up!” The Mastermind wrung her hands in despair. The clouds boiled darkly in the sky above, and fog was creeping steadily up The Hill; to an observer standing on the crest of Libe Slope, the world would seem to end just below West Campus. “Damn it!” Larretta demanded of the weather. “Why did you have to pull this today? We had history made, here!”

Curlowski was shouting to the Architects surrounding the Dragon now: “Get the wings folded! Get them down! Oh, f—”

The wind gusted; another, louder murmur escaped the crowd. Larretta turned around and her heart broke.

The Dragon was tottering.

A moment later, it fell.

V.

The deep friers in the south end of the kitchen were the first things to go; those standing nearby heard a low blatting noise followed by a
whoosh!
and the oil was blazing. Half a breath later a sequence of explosions—it was impossible to count how many—rocked the place from end to end, damaging equipment, shattering pipes, spreading more flames. Throughout the Straight an alarm sounded as fire doors swung automatically shut. The human occupants of the building began a speedy exodus, and none so quick as the kitchen workers. A panic gripped the cooks, the pantry staff, the student help, sending them running. Someone hit a black
EMERGENCY
button on the wall in passing, activating mounted extinguisher jets that doused the friers, but other than that there was no attempt at fire control: the Big People just wanted out.

Which left the sprites alone on a sudden battlefield filled with smoke, steam, and a host of enemies. “To arms!” the cry went up, as the Rats swarmed out in full force now, swords and bows drawn for the kill. Caught by surprise and in no small state of shock, the Little People reacted slowly at first, and were nearly overrun. Yet even as the first swords were crossed, Macduff arrived at the south end with one of the groups from upstairs (Puck was no longer among them). They counted not so much for reinforcement value as for the sense of battle-readiness they brought with them.

“Aye, ye bastards!” Macduff cried, striding into the smoke unperturbed and impaling a Rat on his sword. “
Aye!
”

The killing began in earnest.

VI.

The crowd watched the Green Dragon topple. Many of them had been present to see last year’s Dragon fall as well, had seen it land in a wreck, frame snapping under its own weight.

Curious that it did not happen that way this time. The Dragon’s carven talons touched the ground and splayed out instead of breaking; the short arms bent to absorb the shock of landing.
We didn’t design those to be flexible
, Curlowski thought, his heart beating a little faster. The snout of the beast kissed the earth, yet rather than accordion in on itself, the neck—which had also not been designed to be flexible—bent smoothly, so that the Dragon’s chin rested comfortably on the grass. The wings ceased to flap in the wind and folded up neatly against the body. And the tail . . . the Dragon’s tail, which had originally connected to the whole at a ninety-degree angle, now ran smoothly out with no hint of such a sharp bend. The Architects who had been walking under it scurried out, and when the last of them moved away it became impossible to tell where the juncture was, or what had happened to the wheels beneath the main body structure.

The thing no longer looked like an artificial construction. In the dimming light, it began to look more and more like it might be alive, or almost alive.

Larretta caught her breath. As did Curlowski. And Modine. And the other Architects. And the campus police. And the crowd. They were all waiting for something to happen; they all knew, somehow, that something would. But none of them saw the sandaled figure perched on the roof of Goldwin-Smith Hall, a figure who had left his Writing Desk and come down to the World to take a ringside seat at this Story.

“Hey-ho,” Mr. Sunshine spoke to the clouds. “Let’s clear the field, shall we?”

The wind screamed; lightning flashed anew, lighting up the Sibley Hall Dome. A second bolt hit an old tree on the Quad, scattering branches and breaking the crowd’s paralysis. A stampede began, identical to the stampede at the Straight; as the thunder crashed over them like a wave, even Public Safety forsook their duty and scrambled to escape.

“That’s right,” Mr. Sunshine said. “Run home, run hide. And sleep.”

Doors flew open on the buildings surrounding the Quad; more refugees swarmed out. A group of Bohemians led by Lion-Heart linked arms and fought against the press of the crowd. Even with this safety precaution Z.Z. Top, well oiled on cheap beer, managed to become separated from his companions. While the rising tide of panic forced the others to abandon him in a rush for Risley, he blundered into the bushes along the western face of Lincoln Hall, crawled under, hid his face in the dirt, and passed out, waiting on the end of the world.

The fog crested The Hill and crept over the floor of the Quad; the spider’s web was almost sealed.

VII.

Hobart’s group came out in DMO, Dish Machine Operations. This was a long rectangular area near the north end of the kitchens. Along one wall was the Dish Machine itself. Directly opposite it was a conveyor belt that brought in trays and dishware from the two dining areas. Running parallel to the last twenty feet of the belt was a trough through which water jetted constantly. Uneaten food scraps, napkins, and other garbage were dumped into the trough before the dishes were run through the Machine. Water swept the debris down the trough and into a nasty-looking device aptly named The Grinder, after which it was never seen again.

Both the Dish Machine and the conveyor belt had shut down immediately after the explosions; steam now hissed from within the Machine’s belly. Water still jetted in the trough, however, and The Grinder pounded on at full speed, making the stilled conveyor belt a distinctly dangerous place for a battle.

“Somebody help me, here!” Hamlet cried, as a sprite faded beside him on the belt, leaving him to face two Rats on his own.
Puck, where are you when I need you?
He ducked back around a dirty drinking glass, parrying desperately. The Rats pressed him hard, not letting him off the defensive, and Hamlet found himself being backed toward the edge of the trough. “Damn it!
Somebody!
”

But the other sprites within hearing distance had problems of their own; Hamlet was not the only one outnumbered. He twisted to avoid a sudden sword thrust and felt empty space at his heels; he heard the rush of the water.

Something crashed into the Rats from behind, sending one tumbling past Hamlet and into the trough, where it was swept away. The other tried to turn toward this new assailant but was dead before it completed the motion.

“Jesus, Troilus, and Cressida,” said Hamlet, “that was—”

He stopped, seeing the face of his savior. And the expression he wore.

“So you’re alive,” Laertes greeted him, hand tight around his sword hilt. He continued, in the most conversational of tones: “And where’s the sprite who murdered my sister? Is he here too?”