Page 78 of Blacktail

The beagle did not answer, but only sat shaking in fear. Milo licked his cheek and whispered something, and after a moment the little dog recovered himself enough to continue. “Then he cut off my tail.”

“What?”

“It…it didn’t hurt as much as you might think. Not at first. I thought I had sat on a sharp rock. I was slobbering all over him, and—and then he held it up, held up my tail, and I scented it, and I thought, I couldn’t understand, I thought perhaps I had wagged it off, and—and then while I was still wondering…he, ah, he started on—on—on—”

“Then he started on your ear,” Milo said quietly. He took the beagle’s enormous, floppy ear in his jaws and lifted it gently. It was cut about halfway through. The long scar shone white in the moonlight. “Do you see?”

Blacktail did see. “What did you do, then?”

“What did I do then?” the beagle repeated. He laughed a little. His laugh was a dry, terrible thing. “I screamed, of course. I screamed like I have never screamed before. I tried to bite him, but I was still very weak, and he had some sort of covering on his hands. Like skins. I couldn’t get through them.”

“Was he trying to kill you?”

“Who knows? He wasn’t trying to be friends, that’s for sure.”

“What happened, then? Did your pack rise up? Did they defend you?”

“Not the pack,” the beagle said quietly. He looked at his priest. “You tell the rest.”

“It was not us who rose up,” Milo said. “Whatever faith we have now was asleep then. Perhaps if Sarge had been here, then we might have tried something, but”—he shrugged—“we didn’t. It never occurred to us. It never occurred to me.”

“What, then?”

“Don’t you know?” Milo asked. Part of his tone was honest curiosity, but part of it, Blacktail realized with amazement, was contempt. Searching his memory, he could not think of another time anyone had spoken to him in such a way. Well…maybe Apple.

Milo looked Blacktail in the eye. “It was her. It was Mercy. She was the one who saved the beagle, just as she saved us all.”

“The next thing I knew I was covered in brains,” the beagle said. “I don’t know how she did it. Magic, I expect. She’s not so big, for a two-legs.”

“It had to have been magic,” Milo agreed. “Mercy’s mate was twice her size. Perhaps even more than that.”

“The two-legs have magic to make the weakest of them a killer,” Blacktail said. “It is not the same as what hunters do.”

“Maybe not,” the beagle said. “But it served me well enough.”

“Hmm,” Blacktail said. He was quiet for a long time, thinking. When he spoke again, his tone was gentler. “I do not doubt your sincerity, little fellow. It is your wisdom that I struggle with. Tell me, has it occurred to you that this kindness you speak of may be no more than an afterthought? A diversion? The whims of those in power often appear as more than they really are, when viewed by the powerless. I do not come here out of cruelty. I seek only to awaken you from your long dream.”

“It’s no dream, lord,” Milo said, still meeting Blacktail’s eye. “Her kindness has no bottom. What you propose is—forgive me, Lord Hunter, but I must say it—it is a sin. We know what the world is like, what it has become. I am not a fool. I cannot stop you from hunting her. Perhaps none of us can. But we will die in the attempt.”

Blacktail sighed. He didn’t especially want to do this, but…heresy is heresy. “Very well, then.” His head shot out, white teeth flashing in the moonlight. He seized Milo in his jaws and threw him against the trunk of a broad oak. Milo struck chest-first. More than one of his ribs cracked.

The beagle turned and scampered back into House. “Mommy!” he shrieked. “Mommy, mommy!”

vi

Some say that the best way to take the measure of another’s heart is to love them, but Blacktail knew that the greatest truths are learned only in battle. As he and Sarge circled and studied each other, Blacktail was forced to admit that the dog was a gifted hunter. He did not boast or cower or bark out little challenges. He only circled and watched. He is good, this one, Blacktail thought with the tiniest flicker of fear. And on the heels of that: That such a beast has been taken in by Mercy is an insult to the Forest God.

Blacktail waded in.

Most fights in the wild are over quickly, but the two of them were well matched. Blacktail was larger, but Sarge was quicker. Blacktail had fought and killed all manner of beasts, but Sarge had spent his youth killing men; he had learned their tricks, defied their magics, and somehow survived. Not all of a fight is strength and speed.

When Sarge was close enough to strike, Blacktail snapped out toward his throat. It was a very bold move, an attack suitable for deer or puppies. Blacktail thought it might be outside the dog’s experience—if so, the fight would be over quickly. That was a mistake that nearly cost him his life. As Blacktail extended his neck to strike, Sarge ducked low and snapped at Blacktail’s forepaw. Blacktail danced away quick enough to save his paw, but in doing so he overbalanced—not much, but enough. Sarge shot in underneath him, snapping at Blacktail’s belly. In so doing, Sarge exposed his neck, but Blacktail had not been expecting this. He missed his chance to strike. For the first time since his puppyhood battle with the lynx, Blacktail felt another beast tearing into his belly.

The pain was immense.

His instinct was to jump away from the pain and teeth, jump as he had when he bounded the wall of Renren’s garden so long ago. Sarge’s hind claws dug into his throat and jaws, destroying rational thought. In another bite, perhaps two, Sarge’s jaws would be in his guts…jump, yes. But in the last moment Blacktail sensed Sarge’s ploy.

He is not digging into me, but only biting down. He wants me to spring up—yes, jump, and in jumping rip my own guts out on his jaws.