By John W. Burge
Crouched in the underbrush, Phezz sniffed the stagnant air. The stench hung like a poison. It even crowded out the musty scent of the old dog behind him.
He clasped the longest of his antler-handled knives, secure in the bandolier around his chest, but ready to fly free at the flick of a paw. He stood and trudged ahead, leading the enormous hound onward.
“You smell familiar,” Tumble-Spring said. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
Phezz glanced back.
Tumble-Spring’s nostrils twitched at the end of his graying muzzle. His clouded eyes darted from shadow to shadow beneath the trees. Age seemed to be stealing his senses. Younger dogs immediately identified Phezznibbet Maplebark as a squirrel, pursuing him with fiery vigor up the nearest tree.
Phezz’s fur ruffled. Squirrel. Hardly a greater insult to a Xintixa. Phezz could easily distinguish between a wolf and a hound, yet dogs showed no such courtesy. That fact alone was reason to help this dog find his human.
The sooner he was out of Phezz’s forest, the better.
“I’m sure,” Phezz said. “I leave poor first impressions.”
“Nonsense, pup,” Tumble-Spring said. “You don’t smell that bad.”
Phezz frowned.
As they emerged from the leafy underbrush, Phezz halted, gagging at the stench now thick as a stone wall. Here the earth was bare and hard-trodden, a pale scar on the land as though carved from above. He absentmindedly brushed the scar running down his snout.
Tumble-Spring darted past Phezz, his nose working furiously against the ground. “Foulness is strong here,” he growled. For the first time Phezz heard menace in the old hound’s tone. “It separated me and Friend-Master.” Tumble-Spring lifted his nose again. “This way. The foulness deepens.”
Tumble-Spring bounded away in stiff but sure steps. Phezz followed.
Occasionally Tumble-Spring froze, stuck his nose in the air, worked his nostrils, and continued on. Midday light gave way to deepening shadow. Soon the dog’s stride slackened. Finally, the path opened to a wide circle, equally hard-trodden and pale, caged in by thick brush that seemed to absorb all sound.
Stench overwhelmed everything. Phezz fought the urge to vomit.
“Scents are mixed, but the foulness is too strong,” Tumble-Spring said. “I am sorry, pup. I am ashamed to say it, but I fear my nose falters with age. I cannot tell where Friend-Master—”
Phezz’s ears flicked a half-moment before a crack split the air.
A huge black form erupted from the underbrush. Phezz rushed at Tumble-Spring, knocking him from the path of the stampeding mass. The form skidded to a halt. A wicked red eye fell on Phezz.
He froze.
It belonged to the biggest, blackest, filthiest boar he’d ever seen. Foulness was too kind a word. It stank of death. Yellow tusks were caked with reddish-brown, dried blood. Hideous spines stuck from its back.
It turned its enormous head toward him and charged.
Tumble-Spring collided with the boar, age-worn teeth bared in fury. For a blood-chilling moment Phezz saw the dog as he once had been.
A hunter without fear.
Tumble-Spring sank his teeth into the boar’s neck with a rasping snarl. Rough-hewn claws tore at the evil red eyes.
The creature squealed, a wretched cry that grated Phezz’ ears. It spun, throwing Tumble-Spring to the side.
True to his name, Tumble-Spring hit the ground, rolled, and recovered his footing. He stood, legs shaking, and charged the boar again. The boar did likewise, slicing its tusks upward. By fortune or training, Tumble-Spring’s legs buckled, escaping the tusks. His jaws locked onto the boar’s throat. It squealed in a maddened rage, thrashing against the dauntless old hound.
Fire roared to life in Phezz. He skittered toward the maelstrom of tusks and teeth. Phezz sprang onto the boar’s back, sinking his claws into the hide for purchase. Its squeals grew wilder. Phezz unsheathed his long knife. At the base of the neck, Phezz struck.
The boar shrieked and writhed, throwing Phezz across the clearing. He landed nimbly on all fours.
Tumble-Spring hung onto the boar’s throat, grappling with the beast until it fell still with a final, rattling breath.
Tumble-Spring sniffed the boar closely. His nose led him to the knife, buried to the hilt in the creature’s thick hide.
“Well done, pup.” Tumble-Spring panted. “Though you have lost a tooth.”
“I have more,” Phezz said.
Tumble-Spring barked a laugh. His nose continued searching until it reached the spines. Only then did Phezz see them for what they were: arrows sunk into flesh, fletchings worn away, likely by the boar’s trek through the underbrush.
Tumble-Spring’s ears perked. He whined, then bounded into the opening from whence the boar had emerged. Phezz extracted his knife from the fallen boar and wiped it on the coarse fur.
New life seemed to have filled the hound. Phezz sheathed his knife and followed on all fours. Even then Tumble-Spring bobbed in and out of sight through the branches.
A piercing howl stopped Phezz mid-stride. Cautiously he followed Tumble-Spring’s scent, now mingled with a new one. He sighted the hound beyond the brush’s edge.
At Tumble-Spring’s side knelt a man, dressed in leathers common among human hunters. On his back hung a bow and empty quiver.
He scratched Tumble-Spring’s ears. “Windsor!” the man exclaimed in the dauntingly complex tones of human language. Phezz recognized a laugh. “I thought the Forest Devil got you. I never should have doubted you.”
Tumble-Spring began telling his story in low growls and rumbles.
It was futile. Dogs always seemed to think humans understood their speech. Some humans, too, thought the same of dogs. Phezz had never known any but the Xintixa to be capable of grasping both.
Despite himself, Phezz smiled. Tumble-Spring—Windsor—was the first dog who hadn’t tried to eat him. Perhaps they weren’t so bad.
He ran a finger down the scar gouging his snout. His smile faded.
How foolish.
Phezz plodded silently back into the forest.
Rate this story:
(0 votes, average: 0.00 out of 3)
You need to be a registered member to rate this.
Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tell us your thoughts!