Swift to Chase

by Laird Barron

  Moving within the mazeworks, I speculate as to whether an alarm has been raised by the monks back on their mountain. Yes. Although it may be delayed while the monks seek a method to extract themselves from an untenable position. Trajan’s displeasure is invariably fatal.

  This alarm being a given, has the news broadened to include a notice against Dad and me? Yes again. Marcello would add two and two and be first to give the order. Dad trained him well. He is a clockwork, dire Marcello. His loves and hates are suits he folds away as the occasion warrants. His duty shall prevail against all else. There can be no doubt that if he spies us lurking about these halls he will kill us if he can. I drool at the idea of this confrontation

  Iades? Iades is loyal to Dad. He is also a Praetorian. He will do as Marcello does. Dad is the most loyal of us all — he could’ve divided the Legion and loosed his partisans against the Emperor, perhaps even set himself upon the throne. Instead, he’s chosen the lonely path of the assassin, the man who will pay to liberate the country from an error in judgment with his own life.

  Dad may not desire the death of his men, although I would happily gut them one and all at this point. My ire is stoked. We travel by secret ways and come at last to the inner sanctum of our dear Emperor. The way Dad chooses is arduous — it involves no small measure of slithering through vents and clambering over shelves with precipitous drops yawning at our toes. Dad’s wounds pain him; his muscles labor. I worry he will fail. He is tough, my old man. He persists against and my focus narrows to ward him from a sudden fall.

  Artificer Lyth nearly has us because of this. He is waiting in the shadowy heights of an arch and descends with horrible alacrity. The pleasure upon his unmasked visage is manifestly unsettling. Artificer Lyth detests us as much as we detest him. He does not summon the Guard. He radiates a craving for homicidal glory. The Artificer thinks us relics easily dispatched by his dreadful craft.

  Dad kneels near a vertical drop into a bottomless crevice. His arms shake with the stress of the climb. He snatches for his gladius. Too slowly, alas. Thankfully, my reflexes prevail. I spy the enemy and charge, roaring. Magnetized plasma jets forth and shrouds the enemy in a corona of fire.

  To my chagrin, his shielding absorbs the worst I can dish. I suppose I should count myself fortunate he doesn’t manage to reflect the sluice back upon me and Dad. That would be embarrassing and fatal.

  The Artificer bats smoking cinders from his hair, rubbery mouth slack with malice. A drop of blood gathers in his left nostril. The hem of his robe wisps smoke, charred along the panther trim. He flings elongated arms outward and makes claws of his fingers. Around me the air is rent with screeches and flickers of lethal geometry. Cracks race along the ageless granite pillars. Little fires slither, rootless. Most dogs would perish right here — smashed and burned to founding atoms from the grasp of Lyth’s telekinetic machinery.

  Not me. I am Rex, left paw to the Consulate General, and greatest of my kind. Artificer Lyth isn’t the only one who can play this game. Trang embedded a network of kinetic shields and dampers into my war harness to counter precisely this sort of emergency. The harness is a powerful artifact, proof versus any detonation short of a tactical nuke, according to the literature. It’s a near thing, regardless. My foe’s malevolent gesture shorts the circuit and I bellow in agony as the harness melts and fuses into my hide. Consciousness contracts to a keyhole. Rationality is obliterated. However, I am spared and my foe is screwed.

  Artificer Lyth cries in distress when his attack fails. He attempts to scuttle back up to his nesting place, and he is quick, but I am on him and my fangs are at his neck. And that is the end for Artificer Lyth. I hobble back to Dad and drop the Artificer’s gaping skull at his feet. Dad nods approvingly and gently scratches my ears like old times. His jovial camaraderie belies a deep concern for my condition. I am brave and try not to signal the graveness of my injuries or how much I suffer. We must hurry, for the commotion will soon draw the attention of the Guard and loose ends yet dangle.

  We limp and stagger and redouble our pace through these secret ways.

  Emperor Trajan reclines within his vasty solar. Dad has chosen this moment well, for the Emperor is inclined to sleep late after titanic debaucheries. Our leader is alone save for drugged slaves and a handful of Praetorian guards — only select favorites are permitted access to his person at these revelries. Sadly, these dregs are mixed with two or three men who have served honorably. There is nothing for it, however. I lick my wounds as Dad makes his preparations to seal our fates as traitors or liberating heroes.

  Dad has brought several terrible weapons, which he activates from the safety of a hidden nook. Soldiers are obliterated where they stand and soon the Emperor has been stripped of his final layer of security. Dad takes a moment to ensure the great obsidiron doors are sealed. It will require technicians with plasma torches many minutes to breach them.

  To slay Trajan would be simple. His eyes are glass, he snores. He is unaware of the carnage at his feet; he is oblivious to Dad’s looming presence. His slaves suffer from a similar malaise, sprawled about his dais, twitching with visions of erstwhile heroics.

  Yes, to slay Trajan would require a mere gesture. Dad must only slide the knife between his ribs. Yet, he stays his hand and Great Trajan snores on. A dull gonging begins against the massive portals. I imagine the chaos beyond, the panic as the Guard is summoned to breach these gates.

  So how now? Dad is vexed and bemused. I cannot help him in this matter, notwithstanding my confusion at his hesitation. The will to stand deserts me. I lie on my side and pant heavily, and encourage him with small whines and groans.

  “I have destroyed one emperor,” Dad says. “How wrong can a man be? This venal creature deserves the mercy of neither bullet nor blade. I will not stain my honor with his thin claret.” His gaze wanders the length of the chamber and alights upon the answer to his dilemma. Nine elaborate cages depend above a steaming mud pit in the southwest quadrant. Nearby is a device that controls the pulleys and wires. This device swings the cages to my level and one by one he inspects them. In eight he discovers limp barbarian corpses, but in the ninth, is a healthy specimen who contrives to feign death until I bark a warning and Dad bangs the bars, provoking the prisoner to stir.

  Wasted from abuse and neglect, the barbarian remains a formidable mass within his prison. He reeks of righteous malice. Dad smiles at him and burns the lock half through with his gladius. The barbarian observes with hateful stoicism. His tribe plot devilry and vengeance unto their last exhalation. Their clans war in family units. Doubtless it has been his brothers and sisters boiled in these cages. I smell the pungent rage he experiences regarding the fates of his kinsmen.

  Dad does not speak the barbarian tongue. Thus, he makes his intention clear with a casual glance toward the Emperor. Then he drops the gladius and walks away. It would require scant effort for a beast such as this imprisoned warrior to fling his bulk against the lock and be free to raven throughout the peaceful solar. Who knows what havoc he might wreak before the Praetorians gain entrance.

  The portals tremble as tremendous efforts begin upon them in earnest. Still faint; there is much time as time goes. Farewell, my Emperor. I think the kid we met in the mountains will do fine in your absence.

  Dad makes a travois of his cloak and wraps me in its folds. I protest — he must abandon me to my end and save himself. He doesn’t listen. He has spoken, usually when drunk, of the primordial pact between man and dog. The pact has existed since men squatted in caves by their fires. Man and dog have been pack since we were more troglodyte, since we were more wolf.

  We depart. Of course, this is a relative term. There is nowhere to go.

  11.

  Because he was beloved before he earned the title of tyrant, the old Emperor’s tomb is a grandiose complex of marble. It is built upon a hill not far from where Dad derailed his train as he escaped from Prime. Wildflowers sprinkle the terraces. The old Emperor’s statue rises above the m
ausoleum dome and its stony eyes do not meet Dad’s when he kneels to offer his respects.

  I lie nearby, swaddled and if not peaceful, resigned. I press my snout to Mom’s white kerchief that Dad took from his pocket to dab the gore draining from me. He whispers that I should go on ahead and clear the way, I am a good dog and he loves me. I breathe Mom’s perfume. She is here, her scent stronger than any dim memory of my own canine mother or littermates. She strokes my heaving ribs. Her touch is soft.

  Dad’s weapons are spread beside me in a fan. Even now my mind ticks with possibilities. Is there any strength left in these bones? Could I summon a last effort to fight at Dad’s side when the Legion comes to snuff him for our treason?

  Grassy fields curve unto sky notched by clouds. Somewhere the metropolis buzzes and wasps boil from the hive. At last I observe tiny shadow flickers of gliders and kites between the seam of heaven and earth. I imagine Marcello’s colors among the van. They search in swooping patterns that will soon intersect our hill.

  The sun is warm on my muzzle. I drowse.

  A stag appears in the field below. He coughs a challenge and nods his majestic skull. He gives me an insolent flick of his stub tail and eases toward the tall grass. Instinct, oh she truly is a bitch, and I’m on my feet in pursuit.

  Pain swells, then recedes. My gait steadies. I breathe deeply of grass and musk. The breeze quickens and the sky dulls. Snow begins to fall. Soon, the stag has vanished. His tracks are swallowed in white drifts. The grass freezes like blades of upright knives.

  I don’t know how long this goes on. I wander for hours, for days, for ages. Long enough that I forget what drew me here or where I’ve been. The dark and the cold and the wind and my loneliness are everything. I hear a voice from afar and my ears prick up. The voice of the wind calls my name and draws me to a hill of ice and stone. Ruddy light glimmers from within the mouth of a cave. I smell cooking meat. The two sides of my dog’s mind have a skirmish.

  In the end, I creep forward. Smells good. I’ll go inside and see what’s there. Perhaps I’ll warm myself by the fire.

  III: Tomahawk

  Black Dog

  While watching the door he found himself humming “Love Will Tear Us Apart” under his breath.

  She walked into the restaurant two minutes late. She dusted cigarette ashes off the sleeve of her coat and hugged him and accepted the rose he’d brought. First date and the rose was the nicest of the bunch, wrapped in baby’s breath and pink tissue paper. He’d destroyed some other pretty nice flowers to get this sucker out of the refrigerated cabinet at the store. He’d also gotten stabbed by a thorn and it made him wonder if this might be a sign from whatever gods watch over the chariot races of the Hippodrome of Romance.

  They sat across from one another for a few moments without speaking. Her eyes were brown. No, her eyes were green. The glow from the lamps changed them moment by moment. Looking into their depths disoriented him as if the building might be rotating upon the crest of a wave. He noticed two things: the top button of her blouse was undone and his collar felt a little tight. Also, the room seemed warm. He gulped some ice water, but the ice had melted and the water went down his throat like blood.

  “Your eyes change color,” she said.

  “I get lizard eye. When I’m tired. Or in a mood.”

  “In the mood?”

  “A mood.”

  She raised her brow and tried her water. Her throat moved and he regarded the patterns in the canopy overhanging the walkway.

  Dusk was upon the world again. It was All Hallows Eve. The sky glowed as softly as the belly of a wine bottle. Street lights and lights in shop fronts were flickering to life along the slope of the avenue. The breeze through an open window tasted of wildflowers and moss and dying leaves. Her scent was lilac in his nose.

  He’d been drinking. Scotch on the rocks. Probably not enough of it, though. When she removed her coat, he noted that the flesh of her arms was bruised purple. He breathed in the smell of her and observed how her skin shone, how her breast rose and fell, how her lips curved enigmatically, and nope, definitely not enough with the drinking for him.

  “Wasn’t something there a minute ago?” She pointed to the sidewalk and the sandwich board sign that advertised the restaurant.

  “A big fucking black dog,” he said. He’d seen the dog all right — huge and shaggy, black as the heart of night. Foam curdled its muzzle. Its tongue had lolled as it grinned at him from where it reclined at the foot of the sign. “Red eyes. Kinda spooky.”

  “Red eyes like in a photograph, or red eyes like the wolves in a Disney cartoon?”

  “Red eyes like a vampire in a motherfucking Hammer flick.” Wow; fucking, then motherfucking, no less, and in under the first twenty seconds. A personal best. He finished his scotch and loosened his collar and stared at the patch of sidewalk where the enormous black dog had lain moments ago. Had there been a leash? A master? He couldn’t picture the scene anymore. He remembered the last of the sunlight in its eyes, however. Those eyes were suddenly coals ignited by a breath, and its wide, friendly smile hinted at a sort of knowingness.

  “That’s not good,” she said.

  “It’s gone now. I’ve got no problem with dogs. Seemed friendly. Odd, is all.”

  “No, no, it’s bad luck. Or, wait. Not bad luck — a bad omen. To see the black hound means curtains for you or someone close to you.”

  “Oh. Where do you get that?”

  “Britain. A legend from over there. My dad went and lived on the moors when he graduated from school. He photographed mounds and menhirs, pillaged tombs. Et cetera.”

  “He’s an archeologist?”

  “Dad?” She laughed. Soft and lovely. “Hell no.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “May I have another?” He quickly raised his empty glass to the passing server. “I’m sorry.”

  “Makes one of us.”

  “Ma’am, a double on that scotch, eh?” Yeah, his collar kept cinching in like a noose.

  “What about you?” She studied him now. Focused upon him with an intensity that caused his heart to flutter.

  “My old man is alive and well and living in Lincoln, Montana. He races huskies. We don’t talk.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Trust me, it ain’t luck. Years and years of effort.”

  “Any kids? Wife? Girlfriend?”

  “One dog, an ex, my work. Back at you.”

  “A Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. I’ve never been married. What kind of dog is yours?”

  “A pit bull. I rescued her. She’s sweet and gentle.”

  She nodded. “That’s what everybody says right before their darling takes off an arm.”

  “Don’t care for them, eh?”

  “I had a bad experience. Where did you grow up?”

  “Alaska,” he said. “My dad was a hunter.”

  “Yes…and so the huskies. I think it’s cruel to put a harness on an animal.”

  “How about a saddle?”

  “Ha. Screw the Kentucky Derby. Horse racing should be abolished. Don’t you agree?”

  “Nice weather, isn’t it?” He studied his place setting.

  “Totally. I spent the day looking at houses for my mom. She’s in Florida.”

  “She’s moving back north. How nice for you.”

  “Nah. She just likes to shop online. Takes one of those video tours and convinces me to see the joint in person and report. She put in a bid on a place last month and then cancelled it. Decided the staircase was too narrow to lug her king sized bed up to the second floor. Jesus Christ. No way she’s coming back to New York. She’d freeze.”

  “Why does she send you around to recon then?”

  “She’s a sweet old bird. Who the hell knows why she does what she does?”

  The server came with another scotch for him and more ice water for her. They ordered dinner. She requested noodles and something else. He chose the fried rice without
giving a damn.

  “You’re divorced, huh? What went wrong?”

  “I was a neglectful bastard.”

  “Really? You seem different.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?” he said because she’d deflected the question earlier. It seemed impossible that she wasn’t. For the love of God, look at her. He’d already decided not to involve himself in any triangles, had resolved to get up and walk out depending upon the answer. A brief, early sting was easiest in his estimation.

  “Am I seeing anyone…Huh. Two months ago, my boyfriend left me for his ex. That one broke my heart.” She glanced at her hands, toying with the rings, then swung back to meet his gaze. “At the moment it’s you, only you.”

  He still wasn’t certain whether that was a yes or a no. Another sip, another moment spent lingering upon the lines of her jaw and neck, the sweep of her clavicle, and the strength to move drained from him. He wished like hell that he enjoyed mysteries.

  What did he know, then? She was in her thirties. She clerked at the library. She was a karate player at a local school. That’s where they’d first met a couple of years back. He’d flown into town to visit friends, a whistle-stop before his book signing at a lit bar in the city. His friends, who also attended the school, dragged him down to the dojo to meet the gang. She arrived on the scene, knotting her second degree black belt and wham, he was smitten. He’d been married at the time, so he shook her hand and smiled and ignored the sparks that shot out of their fingers and into each other.

  A lot had changed in three years. But not her.

  His pulse thrilled and that worried him. Married forever and a day, then suddenly alone again, and absorbed in his writing, he’d almost forgotten the rush that accompanied the new and the unknown. He felt a curious and unwelcome sense of vulnerability that reminded him of his youth, of plowing headlong into a towering blizzard. Since the divorce he’d spoken to many women. Here was the first one to get his heart beating faster.