Guardian Hound

by Cutter, Leah

  “Just a scale. No blood,” Mei Ling growled. Her golden eyes glared at the man.

  The man said something in the tongue they shared, his face alight with wonder.

  Lukas increased a bit in size, then went and stood next to her. He growled as well when the man produced metal tongs that reeked of magic.

  “Just to preserve it,” the man assured Lukas. Then he did a double take, looking at Lukas carefully. “Not your natural shape, my lord, is it? Interesting.”

  Lukas knew he’d given away too much. Only the royalty of the hound clan could change shape. He didn’t do more than give a soft rumbling threat, deep in his throat. He had this Albert’s scent as well.

  Rudi held out a paw-like hand next, submitting to having his black nails trimmed.

  Albert placed both the scale and the clippings in a glass jar that fogged the instant he sealed it. Then he turned back to Lukas. “I will concoct a potion that will put you in the right frame of mind for breaking the spell. How long were you—has he been cursed?”

  “Ten years?” Rudi guessed.

  Lukas nodded.

  “Ah. I will do what I can from my side, but then you, my lord, will have to do the rest.”

  “What does that mean? What’s he going to have to do?” Rudi asked, sounding as worried as Lukas felt.

  “Fight.”

  # # #

  Lukas lay on the small couch in his true hound soul form, trying to ignore how the cushions beneath him stank. The golden lamp above him blotted out the rest of the room. The light was warm like the sun, and just as impartial, waiting but not judging.

  Albert came into sight. He carried an oversized pair of shears, like garden clippers, made of red-hot steel, which he used to snip away strings that Lukas didn’t see until they’d been cut. Then they fell from the dark, beyond the golden light, landing and curling, like fishing line.

  When Albert cut the last one, Lukas lifted off the couch.

  “Fly, Prince,” the man whispered. “Fight and be free.”

  Lukas found himself in his human form, naked, on a battlefield made of mud. Soldiers all around him had fallen, their faces twisted in agony, then turned to stone. Black clouds marched across the sky to the horizon, where an angry sun boiled.

  The smell of decaying corpses, bitter magic, and the wet taint of shadows was bad enough to make Lukas gag. He reached for Hamlin, but found him curled up, far inside their shared body, sleeping heavily.

  Worry stirred and danced up Lukas’ spine.

  Hamlin, sleeping?

  Lukas asked Hamlin to rise, to come forward, to wake up and join him.

  But his hound soul slept on.

  Lukas shouted, begged, pleaded, but he couldn’t wake Hamlin.

  He didn’t know where he was. He suspected that unless he could get away, he’d never wake Hamlin again.

  The field of bodies stretched out as far as Lukas could see on all side. There was nowhere to go. Still, maybe there was something more, something better, somewhere.

  With the first step, Lukas knew he was in trouble.

  Shadows mingled with the mud.

  When Lukas moved, he’d alerted the shadows that there was yet something alive, something they hadn’t sucked the life out of.

  The shadows, as mud, crawled up Lukas’ bare legs, slimy and cold.

  He knew he had to fight them and get them off of him, or he’d die like everyone else here, a lifeless husk turned into stone.

  Was this the place where the shadows were born?

  Lukas ran as fast as his human legs would carry him, but the shadow mud was already circling his ankles and streaking up his calves.

  There was no end to the field, no end to the bodies, the carnage, and the stench.

  Lukas howled as he ran. It occurred to him, though, that he’d always run in his dreams, always tried to get away from the shadows, but he’d never succeeded—the shadows had always caught him, taken and drained him, when he’d run.

  This time, Lukas was determined to stand and fight. He remembered the knight, made up of Sally’s heart, Peter’s feathers, Mei Ling’s scales, and more—the poisonous bite of a viper, the magic of a tiger, and the eyes of a boar.

  Somewhere above Lukas shone that golden light, the one that had sent him to this place, the birthplace of the shadows.

  Lukas stopped, spread his legs wide in a fighting stance while forming his hands around the haft of an invisible sword.

  Let them come.

  The mud leaped on Lukas, sliding down his back before it grabbed hold. It danced around his knees before surging up his thighs.

  As the mud solidified, Lukas willed the sword of the knight into his hands.

  A golden beam shot up from his cupped hands, warming them, bringing a whiff of hope: fresh mint and Seattle cherry blossoms.

  Lukas struck down at the ground, freeing his left foot. The shadows shattered like ill-baked clay. Then he freed his right foot, flexing his ankle to shake the rest of the clinging mud away. Very carefully, he scraped the mud away from his back.

  But he was never truly free of it. The shadows kept coming back and there was no end to the field, no end to the atrocities, no end to their attack.

  Lukas pleaded again with Hamlin to wake up, but his hound soul wouldn’t wake.

  Exhausted, Lukas stumbled and slowed. It wasn’t just the battle; the shadows sucked the life out of him where they lingered.

  As he paused, the shadows crept higher.

  Lukas swung at them with all his might, even jumping into the air—but he wasn’t a raven. He couldn’t fly away. He wasn’t truly a knight, able to fight. He was just a hound. He could only be loyal, and endure.

  Lukas let the sword fall to his side as he stood, panting.

  The shadows saw their chance. This time, they didn’t creep. Like an unstoppable ocean wave, they flowed up and over Lukas, encasing him, blackening his world until all was dark and full of filth. They siphoned off as much of his life, his energy, and his joy that they could reach.

  Lukas resisted, hanging on. The shadows couldn’t get it all. They couldn’t touch Lukas’s true self, or his hound soul still sleeping so deeply inside of him.

  The shadows hardened around Lukas’ body like a great shell. They exhausted themselves, drained of what energy they’d stolen from him.

  Now, all Lukas had to do was break free. He knew he could. He had been brave and strong and true, all these years.

  Lukas had the greater heart, and he still carried the true joy of being hound.

  First, Lukas focused on breathing, flexing his chest; then, with a great snarling roar, he swung his left arm up and free. It felt as if it were made of lead, heavy and no longer supple.

  However, the mud broke away. It fell off slowly this time, like partially set paint flaking off.

  Lukas shook his head like Hamlin would, breaking his face and neck out of the mud.

  This time, when the mud fell, instead of falling in pieces, it collapsed into dust, unable to reform.

  Limb by limb, Lukas broke himself out of the shadow mud. He panted as he finished, exhausted to his soul, covered in dead shadow dust.

  But he was free.

  In triumph, Lukas raised his sword again, holding it above his head. The golden light pierced the clouds above him, and the true sun broke through, bathing him in light and blinding him.

  When the light receded, Lukas found himself curled up on Albert’s couch, the stench not as bad as it had been. It took him a moment to realize that he was in human form.

  Lukas tensed, counting the seconds.

  The shadows didn’t attack.

  Slowly Lukas sat up.

  The shadows still didn’t surround him.

  Lukas took a deep breath—his first truly deep, human breath for ten years. Grinning, he turned to Rudi.

  “Hi.”

  Interlude I

  Prophesy In Shadows

  Guatemala, 1947

  Bernardo woke early, as always, before the sin
ging of the chickens, as his friend Olan had jokingly described their noise. He rose from his simple cot and walked directly across the dirt floor to the porcelain bowl in the corner, not stumbling, though the sun hadn’t yet broken past the horizon. He splashed a little water from a cracked pitcher into the bowl, splashed the sleep out of his eyes and the corners of his mouth, then knelt down on his prayer mat in the center of his room with the ease of habit to start his morning meditations.

  First, Bernardo spoke to the gods, big and small. He thanked Q’ukamatz—Plumed Serpent—and Itzanam—Grandfather Iguana—as well as the nameless Christian god and his son. He thanked Saint Lonrad for the thick jungle surrounding the temple, and Saint Patrick for leading the viper clan to safety here in the highlands of Guatemala. He asked the gods to keep his feet on the Green Road and to turn his steps away from the Road to Xibalba, harm, and death.

  He also asked them to be kind to Olan, who’d just joined them in Heaven, to ease his friend’s way along the Unending Dagger and the Star Road, and not to play too many tricks on him.

  Bernardo paused. Tears pressed against his eyes, but he was also smiling. He missed Olan more every day, but the memories of his friend were warm and bright. As Olan had promised him, Death hadn’t ended their relationship, just made it more complicated.

  With a quaking voice, Bernardo sang a joyous hymn to the morning, thanking the gods for another day.

  He ended his prayers as he always did, asking the gods to put him to service, to use him as they saw fit.

  They had yet to answer that part, leaving Bernardo to chose his own path to duty.

  Bernardo stood easily. Despite the age hanging off his bones—he’d been born in the previous century—he was still strong enough to do his share of the temple work. He quickly folded up the rough, handwoven mat and placed it on the foot of his cot so that when he went to bed, he’d remember to spread it out for the next morning’s prayers.

  The smell of frying dough coated in honey greeted Bernardo as he stepped out of his cell. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance. The cooks were still trying to impress the new recruits with fancy, sweet dishes instead of what they usually served: Tamales with pork, hen soup, beef stew with potatoes and carrots.

  The cooks didn’t realize it was hopeless. Few of the viper clan came to the temple anymore; even fewer of the young would stay. Just over a dozen lived there full time anymore.

  The mystics had predicted that long ago, after the treachery of the raven clan that had decimated their people.

  Still, Bernardo didn’t blame the cooks for trying. Didn’t he still petition the gods daily, asking for his fate?

  A dull green canvas awning had been stretched from the squat building containing the kitchen to tall, wooden polls a few feet away. Half a dozen wooden tables with benches were scattered under it, with the students huddled around one.

  They used to fill all of the tables every summer. Now, so few gathered.

  “Buenos días, Diácono Bernardo,” called the students, using the polite term that referred to all the temple workers.

  Bernardo nodded and waved at the students, though he didn’t stop; instead, he walked directly into the sweltering kitchen.

  Rafe stood in front of the wood-burning stove in the corner, his long black hair braided, a stained white cap absorbing the sweat on his bronzed brow. He flipped the frying dough with a deft flick of his wrist, giving Bernardo only a nod while he sprinkled cinnamon and sugar across the pan.

  Bernardo opened the tall wooden cabinets next to the squat icebox. At least the cupboards were fully stocked—the viper clan might not come in person to the temple anymore, but they still knew their duty, and they tithed.

  “May I help you?” came the annoyingly smooth voice of Gezane.

  Bernardo bit back his rejection. He didn’t trust Gezane, an American. Gezane was always looking for a way in, wanting to advance himself, insinuate himself in the elder council. Like all youth, of course he knew better than they did.

  “Certainly,” Bernardo said, swallowing down his disapproval. He directed the young man to pour the grain for the porridge the mystics liked to eat, while he cut up plantains.

  Gezane focused on his work, his tan face serious, his long, silky black hair pulled back. He wasn’t a handsome man—his cheeks were too broad, his eyes set too far apart, and his lips thin and miserly, as if he hoarded laughter and smiles.

  After they’d assembled the trays and poured the xocolati, a cold chocolate drink made with vanilla and peppers, Gezane volunteered to carry a tray to the temple.

  Bernardo knew what the young man was doing. He’d thought that way himself, when he’d been younger: If he were near the mystics, maybe a prophesy concerning him would suddenly materialize out of the sacred smoke.

  But Bernardo had sacrificed his entire life taking care of the mystics, while fewer and fewer prophesies formed, waiting to be read.

  He’d thought, once, that maybe he could become a mystic; the smoke had spoken to him, telling him to stay here, at the temple.

  But the smoke told almost all to stay. Only a few obeyed.

  The usual calm filled Bernardo as he walked from behind the kitchen, along the white road that wound through the thick jungle, to the gray stone temple. Brilliant macaws flashed through the green canopy, screeching their disapproval. Monkeys chittered from the edges, not drawing closer until after the meals when the temple would throw the remains to them. Small voles and mice scattered through the underbrush, the sound of rustling leaves like rushing water.

  Dawn broke around the edge of the temple just as they stepped clear of the jungle, bathing the open air with a golden light. Bernardo paused, smiling, wondering if this was Olan saying hello.

  The pyramid rose far above the tops of the trees. Bernardo had seen paintings from when the temple itself had been painted, and covered in murals of blue, red, green, and yellow, depicting stories of the gods and heroes, while lifelike vines had crept up the sides, with flowers that never faded bursting on the edges.

  The only paint that remained were the names of viper clan’s heroes and saints, painted on the flat rise of the stairs. During the Festival of Remembering, in the autumn, the names would be repainted, and possibly repositioned, if there had been a recent hero.

  Bernardo couldn’t remember the last time the names had been changed.

  Gezane stood behind him, shuffling from one foot to the other, impatient as always.

  Bernardo stayed where he was, breathing in the morning for another long moment, trying to show the young man patience. His viper soul rose up briefly, circling around him, as if basking in the light as well.

  Then they walked into the cool pyramid. The thick stone held in the night’s chill and would stay cool all day. The songs of the four mystics floated through the air, harmonious for once. Bernardo paused, widening his eyes so he could see in the dimly lit outer hallway that circled the entire temple, then he led the way through a dark, narrow passage into the inner sanctuary.

  The sun had found its way through the high windows on the slanted walls of the four-sided pyramid, staining the air with its golden glow. Dust motes danced through the beams, weaving through the sweet smoke of sacrifice. Each long side held a carved seat, but the mystics weren’t at their places.

  Instead, the mystics slid gracefully across the center of the open space, stepping lightly in the cool, beige sand, their plain robes stained with neglect. They danced with blind, white eyes, their faces turned toward the apex at the top, singing their wordless songs. They never touched each other, never spoke to each other, yet always seemed to be in wordless accord, weaving esoteric patterns around each other.

  Bernardo didn’t know why the mystics sometimes danced, what it meant. Prophesies would come regardless if they sat or walked, slept or sang.

  Gezane came closer behind Bernardo, then stood still for once. It occurred to Bernardo that few had seen this graceful dance of the mystics.

  “We will wait,” Bernardo sa
id softly, “for a little while.” There was no way to know how long the mystics would dance, but they wouldn’t eat until afterward.

  Bernardo let himself be carried away on the high, soaring notes, floating with the song and the smoke, until he heard Gezane sigh. He took pity on the impatient young man and said, “Let’s go. We’ll come back with lunch.”

  Bernardo turned around, ready to leave.

  Gezane stood stock still, staring over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” Bernardo asked, half turning.

  The mystics had aligned themselves into a straight line, their eerie white eyes all staring at him. Their song continued, suddenly clashing, as they raised their left hands to point at him.

  Bernardo felt himself falling to the ground in slow motion, the breakfast porridge spilling over his shirt as his feet dissolved in smoke.

  He tried to tell Gezane, “This isn’t supposed to happen to me. I’m not the one supposed to have a prophesy.” He wasn’t certain if his mouth even contained a human tongue anymore, or if he spat venom instead.

  Or maybe the gods had finally decided to use him, to make him of service at last.

  # # #

  Shadows stalked the earth.

  Bernardo saw a rich man, locked away in his house of a hundred rooms, with lights on in each. The shadows still slipped under the threshold, around the window sill, stalking the man until they surrounded him and sucked him dry, leaving behind a husk of darkness.

  Fruit rotted in the orchards, while black blight swept over green fields, turning them barren overnight.

  Soldiers shot their weapons into nothing, killing only their friends around them.

  How could they fight a shadow? It had no form, nothing to grasp.

  Even the brilliant light of mankind’s worst bombs couldn’t kill them.

  The temple fell as shadows overtook the mystics. They spewed blackness over the jungle, killing the parrots, the monkeys, the iguanas, then the trees.

  Soon the world was sucked dead, the mountains flattened, the oceans boiled dry.

  And the shadows moved onto the next world.

  To stop them, Bernardo had to stop a girl—no, a clan—from mingling the shadows with their magic.