Chapter 6 Mercy #6
“No? Well, bear with me. Perhaps I’ll surprise you.
You recall that I spoke of God’s first riddle—the one of time?
How the moments seem to us to be a great many, but in truth there is only one?
That is one of the principles relevant to this conversation.
Here is another—perhaps you will find this one of more interest. Magic is bound by balance.
They say witches can heal. It may look that way, but it is not exactly so.
For one to recover, another must sicken.
” The cat looked into his eyes. “Tell me, wolf, whom do you think I would choose to balance the scales of Mercy’s health?
Who would I see sicken and die in her place? ”
Blacktail drew back half a step, his eyes wide.
“Do you feel it? A stirring in your guts? A sharp pain in your lungs? No? Not yet? Well, be patient. It is coming,” the cat purred. “That much I warrant. That much I guarantee.”
“What have you done?” Blacktail growled.
“I have given you what you desire, wolf. I have come to the hunt with you. Not all of it is tooth and claw. Didn’t you know that? It won’t be much longer—one moon cycle, perhaps less—before you begin to feel her diseases in you. Honestly, I’m a little surprised that you haven’t already.”
Blacktail stepped forward until his snout was almost touching the cat. She made no attempt to move, only licked her paws. “What are you doing to me?” he hissed.
The cat met his gaze. Blacktail saw the certainty in her eyes. “Doing? I am doing nothing. It was done three winters ago, not long after you killed Hate. You are murdered, wolf.”
Blacktail scented the cat and felt no lie. “Perhaps,” he said, “but I am not the only one.” Then he bit off her head.
viii
A few breaths later Blacktail limped into the back chamber, the sleeping chamber where the scent of Mercy was strongest. It was empty save for the beagle and his sleeping mistress.
The beagle had planted himself between Blacktail and Mercy. Blacktail padded forward until he loomed over the ridiculous little dog. He wasn’t running away, Blacktail realized. He came here to protect Mercy. He came to serve as her final guard.
“Go on now, little fellow,” Blacktail said gently. “Enough of us have died. Don’t you think?”
“I told you to stay away from her,” the beagle growled.
“What is it with you—you…you dogs?” Blacktail cried, exasperated. “How can you not see the foolishness of this? You may die for nothing, and worse than die—do you think the Forest God will welcome the likes of you to the Far Hill?”
“Bite you and bite your fucking Forest God,” the beagle said. “You stay away from my mommy.”
“Bah,” Blacktail spat. He snatched the beagle up in his jaws and threw him against a wall. The little dog struck it hard and bounced off, then lay there, dazed. Blacktail had heard something crack when he struck the floor.
“Watch this, you little idiot,” Blacktail said. “Are you watching?” He sprang up onto the sleeping pile of Mercy.
“NO!” the beagle shrieked. “STAY AWAY FROM HER! MOMMY—WAKE UP, MOMMY! RUN, MOMMY! RUN! RUN! RUN!”
Amazingly, Mercy was still asleep. Magic acorns indeed. Blacktail licked its face cheerily. “Two-legs? Can you hear me, you vile monster? It’s time to wake up!!”
The two-legs pried one eye open. Seeing Blacktail’s bloodstained muzzle grinning down at her, she jerked awake. She sat up, scrambling backward. When her back pushed against the wall, she froze.
“That-a-girl!” Blacktail barked at her. “Goooood puppy!” He looked back over his shoulder at the beagle. “Are you watching this, little fellow? Do I have your full attention? I have something important to show you.”
“Please,” the beagle whined. “Please, please, please don’t hurt her.”
Blacktail considered this. “Very well,” he said, jumping down from the bed. “You lot seem fond of your lessons. Here is one of mine, just for you.”
The two-legs’ paralysis broke. She scrambled out of bed in a flurry of sleeping skins, fell, and jumped back to her feet. She shouted something Blacktail couldn’t understand at the beagle.
“RUN, MOMMY!” the beagle shrieked back.
“Yes,” Blacktail said dryly. “Run. Do. Let your loyal servants die here in your stead. I would expect nothing else.”
The two-legs cocked her head at the sound of his voice. She stared between Blacktail and the beagle for a long moment, wondering but not understanding. For the briefest instant, Blacktail felt a surge of unease—he would have expected her to be gone by now.
But no sooner had he thought it, the two-legs turned and ran down the hall.
Blacktail blew out a long breath. He turned back to the beagle. “There,” he said. “Do you see, you little idiot? Do you see? Now do you see?”
The beagle watched her go. His expression was impossible to read.
“Run, Mommy,” he said softly. “Run away.” When she was out of sight, he made a halfhearted attempt to drag himself away from Blacktail with his forepaws.
But it was no use; he was too fat, his wounds too severe, the pain in his hip too much.
He curled his lip up at Blacktail, then closed his eyes and waited to die.
“Gah!” Blacktail spat. “You are impossible. I—”
At that moment, Blacktail’s head exploded with a blinding flash of pain. He heard a clatter of wood on wood. Splinters rained down on the floor around him. He staggered, dazed. What happened? Did a tree fall on me?
“NO, MOMMY! Don’t! This one is—He’s—You CAN’T win! He’ll KILL you! RUN AWAAAAA-AAAAA-AAAAA-AAAAY!”
Blacktail staggered back a step or two, then turned to look at the entrance to the sleeping chamber. Mercy stood there holding the shattered remains of a long stick. She bared her teeth at him.
As Blacktail watched, Mercy squatted down between the beagle and Blacktail, protecting the little dog with her body. Blacktail gaped at this, unable to credit what he was seeing. He heard a liquid sound, looked down, and saw a fat drop of blood plop onto the floor of the den. Is that mine?
Mercy, still not running away, looked directly at him and shrieked something at the top of her lungs.
“What?” Blacktail asked stupidly. Another drop of blood fell. “What?”
“She…she said…” the dog gasped, “ ‘Get…away…from…my…Babykins.’ ”
“What? What the hell is a babykins?” Blacktail asked, still not understanding.
“It’s me,” he spat. “It’s what she calls me. It’s…”—here the little dog coughed up an amazing amount of blood—“it’s my name.”
Blacktail backed up a step farther and regarded Mercy, who still had not run.
As he watched, the beagle—Babykins, Blacktail thought, that’s his name—pulled himself over to be close to her in their final moments.
Blacktail heard a faint, wet grinding. His ribs.
The absurd little dog whose courage had no bottom stifled a moan as he moved. He did not cry out.
As Blacktail saw them together, a memory floated to the surface of his mind.
It was his first real memory, his oldest memory, the memory of his mother’s death.
He remembered the crack of gunshots. He remembered the icy burst of fear pulsing from his guts at the sound.
He remembered branches whipping at his face as he moved through the woods, remembered the sound of his own scream when he crested the hill and smelled his mother’s blood.
He remembered entering his childhood den and seeing them there, seeing how his mother had tried to shield her puppies with her body, how she had died with her tongue a little way out, died still trying to clean his sister’s wound.
He remembered looking on this with a terrible species of wonder, unable to comprehend the mind of the monster that would destroy such love.
Blacktail crouched low on his haunches, then sprang up and crashed through the wall of House. He landed nimbly on his feet, shook the blood from his fur, and bounded back into the forest, leaving the survivors to the stewardship and mercy of their god.
At dawn he lay down to sleep, but the shame he felt kept him awake until the sun was high in the sky. When at last he did sleep, he heard no voices calling out to him.
He did not dream at all.