Fool on the Hill (8 page)

“Gut him,” ordered the Wolfhound. The Dobermans fell on the Spaniel from all sides.

Luther closed his eyes and turned his head away. This did not prevent him from hearing the sounds, but fortunately the execution took only a moment. During that moment, a strange thing happened; Luther felt his fear slipping away, to be replaced by an oddly spiritual calm. Moses’ words began echoing in his mind again.

“Enough!” the Wolfhound commanded, and the Dobermans backed off, their teeth and muzzles bloody. What was left of the Spaniel did not much resemble a dog, or any other animal for that matter. The Dobermans returned to their places surrounding the mound, and one of the Bull Mastiffs came forward to drag away the carcass.

“So,” said the Wolfhound, “what’s the next order of business?”

The Great Dane in front of Luther barked tentatively.

“Hello, Aleister,” the Wolfhound greeted him. “You have something for us?”

The Dane and the other dogs who surrounded Luther moved aside, revealing him to the crowd. The Wolfhound’s eyes widened, and the Dobermans began barking in earnest.

“
Mange
,” said the Wolfhound gleefully. “Aleister, you’ve found us a
mange.
"

“Oh, well, it wasn’t just me,” the Dane disclaimed, trying to seem modest. The Boxer and the two Shepherds looked at him in irritation. “I had help capturing him.”

“We shall have to reward all of you, then. Where did you find him?”

“Right out in the street,” the Boxer interjected before the Dane could reply. “He was just sitting there, like he was waiting for something.”

The Wolfhound digested this. “Could he have been waiting for another mange? Or a group of them?”

“I don’t know, Dragon.” The Boxer looked nervous, as if he were afraid of being punished for the oversight. “I suppose it’s possible. I’m sorry, we didn’t wait around to see.”

“We’ll have to make a search later on, then. After we’ve taken care of this one. Can’t have manges wandering loose in the town.” He focused his attention on Luther. “Step forward, mange.”

Still inexplicably calm, Luther did as he was told, moving to the place the Spaniel had occupied. Blood stained the ground before him.

“What is your name, mange?” the Wolfhound asked.

“They call me Luther.”

“You say ‘they’—were there others with you before you were captured?”

“I’m the only . . . the only ‘mange’ . . . that I know of in this place.”

The Wolfhound squeezed his eyes down to slits, concentrating.

“You’re lying,” he said. “No, not exactly . . . but you are hiding something. You were traveling, traveling with a companion. Who was it? What type of animal?”

He can see into me,
Luther realized.
Just like Malcolm. But his sight isn’t as strong as Malcolm’s was.

“Why don’t you figure it out for yourself?” Luther challenged him. “If you can.”

“Do I detect a touch of impertinence? Or is that a show of courage?”

“You mean to kill me,” Luther replied. “I don’t have to look into your mind to see that. You’ll fancy it up and make a big deal of it, maybe, just so you can have some fun, but in the end it’ll still be dog killing dog. Raaq is in your hearts, all of you, and I guess it doesn’t make any difference if I’m ‘impertinent’ or not.”

Several of the Terriers howled in amusement at this, while the Dobermans growled continuously. The Wolfhound merely nodded.

“Impressive speech. My name is Dragon, if you haven’t already gathered that. I am Pack Leader of this domain. I don’t suppose I have to tell you your crime, do I?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“You are a mange. An unnatural and disgusting intermingling of breeds meant to be kept forever separate. Under our law, your very existence is a crime.”

Now Luther barked mirthfully. “If you mean to say that I committed a crime by being whelped, you must think I’m God. Creation is His responsibility.”

“The crime,” continued the Wolfhound, “is punishable by destruction.”

“Destruction is God’s responsibility too. Dogs can only murder. That’s what you really meant, isn’t it?”

Dragon studied him. “You have spirit, mange. Much more than Booth did. Can you fight?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You can’t, or won’t? I somehow find it hard to believe that you’re a coward.”

“I won’t join you in killing. Raaq may take my life, but he won’t have my soul in the bargain.”

“Not a coward, then. Merely stupid. That’s another mange quality. You see now why we have to be so stringent in our breeding regulations.”

“Booth didn’t look all that smart,” Luther observed.

“Booth was a sad exception to the rule,” replied the Wolfhound. “But in
a way that’s your fault, too. The more manges in the world, the fewer Purebreds, and the smaller each Purebred line. Booth’s ancestors were forced to breed too closely, due to a shortage of Spaniels in the area.”

“And it backfired,” Luther pressed him. “So maybe it’s not such a good system.”

“Oh, mange. Even a crippled Purebred is infinitely superior to your kind, don’t you understand that?”

But Luther refused to be baited. “If that’s true,” he said, “then you must have to check out every new member of your Order carefully, to make sure his ancestors were all all right. . . .”

“Pedigree,” said the Wolfhound. “All Purebreds must have a clean pedigree going back at least five generations. We have ways of making sure they’re telling the truth about it.”

“But only
five
generations?” said Luther, feigning surprise. “That’s hardly anything. Where I come from, the Purebreds have to check out to
twelve
generations.”

This stunned all of them, in a way Luther would not have imagined possible. More than a few of the Purebreds started to get very nervous, as well.

“
Twelve?
” exclaimed Judas, twitching uncomfortably. “Twelve, that wouldn’t be right, not at all. How could you expect any dog—”

“He’s lying!” the Wolfhound said, probing Luther’s mind. “The pesthole he comes from doesn’t even have Purebreds.”

“But why are you so jumpy?” Luther inquired. “You’re Pack Leader, Dragon.
You
could trace back twelve generations, couldn’t you? Or is there a stain somewhere in your pedigree?”

“My pedigree is flawless!” Dragon insisted. “And you, mange, you’re dead. Slowly and painfully.” He glanced at the Dobermans. “Cerb—”

The command was interrupted by a new thought-voice, loud and frightened, which came from the unblocked alleyway.

“. . . missa dog, ya don’t wants to botha me. I’s jes an ol’ cat, an ol’ puddycat what don’t botha nobody, nobody t’all. Ya ain’ts gonna wanna
hurt
ol’ ’Jack, is ya? I sho do hope—”

“Move it!” ordered another.

A black cat with no tail tumbled past the guards into the courtyard, followed by an angry-looking Malamute. It took Luther a moment to realize that the cat was Blackjack, because the Manx was moving and holding himself in a way that he had never seen before. Luther finally put his paw on what it was: Blackjack was acting humble, and a scared humble at that.

“What do we have here?” asked Dragon.

Judas barked joyously. “It has no
tail!
Look at that! A cat with no tail!”

Blackjack crouched low to the ground not hissing or defensive, but appearing to be more terrified, if that were possible, than the Spaniel had
been. “I found this . . . this
tom
,” the Malamute explained distastefully, “wandering in the street. It asked me if I’d seen a mange named Luther. I thought you’d want to know about it, Dragon.”

“So,” the Wolfhound said, making the connection, “
this
is your traveling companion.”

The Malamute seemed perplexed for a moment, then growled as it caught sight of Luther.

“Move the mange off to the side!” Dragon ordered. “We’ll do the cat first, and let him watch!”

It was no sooner thought than done. Luther was hustled to the sidelines by the Great Dane and the Boxer, and Blackjack was shoved violently forward until he occupied the spot where the Spaniel had been killed.

“What’s goin’ on?” the Manx asked, shuddering. “What’s y’all plannin’ to do? I’s jes an old puddycat, ya don—”

“Stop your whining!” the Malamute snapped.

“Cerberus.” said Dragon. The Dobermans rose. “You are at your own discretion, Cerberus—but make it entertaining.”

Blackjack’s fur stood on end as the Dobermans approached him. He tried to back away, but the Malamute set up a fierce barking that scared him out of his retreat.

“Please, missa dog,” Blackjack groveled, prostrating himself. “Please, ya don’t wants to hurt me, does ya? I’s never done nothin’ to a dog, never
would
do nothin’, no, not this puddycat. . . .”

“Now I know where you get your courage, mange,” Dragon said. “You must have stolen
his.
"

Luther made no reply. He was studying Blackjack, wondering what in hell had happened to him. Could something have driven him mad?

“Please, missa dog, please . . .”

The Dobermans encircled him now. They spent a few moments snapping at him, teasing him and driving him back and forth. Then one of them, one that was slightly larger than the other two but otherwise identical, moved in until he and Blackjack were almost nose to nose. Like Dragon before, the Doberman’s lips were drawn back so far that he seemed to grin. Saliva dripped from his exposed fangs.

“I bet he’s going to take his balls,” Judas offered. “Hey cat, he’s going to take your balls!”

“Really?” said Blackjack, sliding his claws out and locking them. “I’m afraid he’ll have to do it by smell.”

“Cerberus!” Dragon warned, too late. “Cerberus, look out!”

The last thing the Doberman had been expecting—the last thing
any
of them had been expecting—from the panicked cat was an attack. As a result, the dog did not even have a chance to defend itself as the Manx reached past its muzzle and calmly and professionally tore out its eyes.

“Much too easy,” said Blackjack. The Doberman whipped its bleeding head back and howled in agony . . . as did the other two Dobermans.

Blackjack began to run. The two unwounded Dobermans regained their composure a moment later, and leapt blindly for the spot where the Manx had been. Not finding him, they began to bite and tear at each other instead.

“That,” said Blackjack, looking back over his shoulder, “is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever seen. Luther! Come on!”

Luther heard the call and ran for it, momentarily unimpeded. The sight of the ruined Cerberus held the Purebreds entranced. Luther caught up with Blackjack, and the two of them had actually gotten almost two-thirds of the way to the alley before Dragon awakened to their escape.

“Stop them!” the Wolfhound ordered. “Tear them apart!”

Now the other dogs all rushed forward, and it might have seemed that Blackjack and Luther had no chance. But if there was one thing that the Manx had learned long ago, it was that a task that can be performed easily by a few often proves impossible for an army. The air was already heavy with a blood smell, and this drove a number of the Purebreds into a killing frenzy—or perhaps the spirit of Raaq entered them. Those that did not immediately find their intended victims in many cases turned and attacked one another.

Luther somehow slipped through the initial wave of attackers. Later he would suggest to Blackjack that God or Moses’ ghost had aided him, and out of politeness Blackjack would say nothing. Once through this front wave he was caught in a press of dogs, all straining to get into the fray. He was bitten any number of times—the frenzy had spread to all the Purebreds by now—but none seemed to realize that he was the dog they were trying to get to. Little by little he began to work himself through the crowd toward the alleyway, which was now unguarded.

Blackjack saw two German Shepherds coming at him from the front, a Great Dane and a Malamute from the right, four assorted Terriers from the left, and an unruly and uncountable mob from behind. He picked the tallest approaching dog, stayed low, and shot right under it. Taking advantage of the ensuing chaos, he too skirted around toward the alleyway, disabling any dog that attempted to stop him.

Dragon shoved his way through the throng, searching. Two big dogs reared up on their hind legs in front of him, grappling with one another. He separated them, then dove on an animal he thought was Luther. It was not; it was the Boxer who had helped bring Luther in. Dragon had picked it up by the neck and worried it to death before realizing his mistake.

Then, by chance, he glanced at the alleyway, just in time to see Luther and Blackjack scurrying away. No one else had noticed their departure.

“No!” he cried. “They’re escaping! They’re escaping! Stop fighting each other and go after them! Stop fighting each other. . . .”

But it was a while before he could get the Purebreds to listen to him.

IV.

“What happened to you, Blackjack?” Luther asked as they scrambled out of the alleyway. “You were gone so long I thought something had gotten you.”

“Something almost did,” the Manx told him. “ ‘Catchers. A pair of goddamned ‘catchers in a big van. They got the puss. I had her spotted and was just about to make my move when they came along and nabbed her. A minute later and I guess they would have gotten me too—caught me in the act, so to speak.”

“Did they see you?”

“That was why I was gone so long. One of them came after me on foot. Ran pretty fast for a two-legged. He was shooting at me with some funny kind of gun and once he almost hit me. By the time I shook him and found my way back, the ‘Breds had already grabbed you. So I found that Malamute and let him grab me.”

“You did a good job acting scared, Blackjack. You almost had me convinced you’d lost your mind.”

“It wasn’t that hard to act,” the Manx admitted. “I’ve never run into a group of dogs like that before, but if there are more of them scattered around the countryside, I can see what Malcolm’s so paranoid about.”

They zigzagged through the streets, following no definite path but being careful not to double back. Luther scented for Heaven, but could find no whiff of it in this place.