Copyright 1998, Mary Mannon Reeves. No part may be used in anyway without written permission from the author.
the dogs of war
By
Mary Mannon Reeves
The camp dogs howled, despite the moonless sky. Vashir shuddered off the noise and stepped away from the fire, refusing to recognize the sudden chill that took her. The hounds always belled the night before a battle, sensing their next meal on the wind. It was only one of the things these Northerners did that disturbed her, letting the curs feast on the dead.
But it was only one of her many complaints about this strange, twilight land. Six months she had been here, a Southern mercenary far from home, and she had yet to see the sun crawl more than a handspan into the sky. If Rolf was right, it would disappear completely soon, leaving the gloomy land gloomier. He had promised to show her its beauties, once the campaign season was over, but if she survived this latest push, she doubted she would survive the winter. Not at her age, not a child of the sand and sun.
The dogs howled again. Their voices blended in weird harmony then stopped as one. It was as though each master's hand had clamped around each dog's muzzle in the same breath of time. The sudden silence was as uncanny as the howling had been.
"Ho, my Shadow!" Rolf called from their tent. "Come share the warmth."
He had given her the nickname, not for her dusky color, but for her quiet step. He swore she hoarded the heat of the southern sun in her touch. She smiled at that, for she was so cold so often. It seemed that his was the touch that burned and melted hers.
She slipped through the reindeer doorflap and stopped short. There was a dog in the tent. Not uncommon for these shaggy barbarians who treated the animals like dim-witted and endearing children, but she had forbidden it in their own tent. Once she had seen the dogs at work, scavengers on the battlefield, she refused to share quarters with them.
And yet, there it was. Bigger than most of the camp mongrels, it lounged at Rolf's side, it's shaggy red coat a match for the Northman's hair and beard. It met her glare with an insolent grin and eyes of soulless black.
"Out," she hissed, first in her own liquid tongue, then again in the guttural northern one. "Out."
"What?" Rolf cocked an eyebrow. "What have I done this time?"
"Not you. The dog."
The smile slid from his face and the bright blue eyes darkened.
"The howling has gotten to you, Vashir," he murmured. "There is no dog in here."
And there wasn't. She shook her head and blinked against the smoky light of the brazier. She wondered if this land of half-shadows had ruined her eyes. A reindeer pelt, as red as Rolf, lay bundled against him in invitation. How could she have seen a hound in its folds? Imagined that look of cool contempt?
"You've just got the battle jitters. Come here, and I'll remind you that there are other things in life than blood and steel."
She let him collect her close, offering her comfort, As the sleeping time -- she could not call it night -- passed, there was more tenderness than passion and she wondered who was really being comforted.
Rolf was subdued as they readied for the battle. He hefted his massive ax and stared past its wicked edge at something she could not see.
"There are some," he said as they joined their line,"who believe they are carried from the battlefields by warrior maids on winged horses."
"Few enough of those up here," she said, "Horses...or maids."
He didn't smile at her feeble joke, but continued, almost to himself.
"Aye. Few enough. But there are dogs in plenty."
Before she could respond, the horn sounded and battle beckoned with its berserker lure. The only warrior women were those she stood beside and fought beside. The ring of metal on metal, the grunts and hoarse cries of rage and pain, the tattoo drummed by her blood through her body, this was her conversation now.
The enemy retreated briefly. Vashir squatted and gathered her breath, ragged fragments that whispered her age in each gasp. Wiping blood and sweat from her face, she scanned the regulars for signs of Rolf.
He was behind her, clinging weakly to the spear that impaled him, propped him from the ground like a grotesque puppet. Even as she ran to him, he fell, landing in the dark puddle of his own making.
She threw herself on the ground beside him and tried to shift his weight away from the punishing shaft. A shaggy head thrust into her vision. It was the not-dog, the one she had seen and hadn't seen the night before. Its growl was low and almost musical as it began to lap the spreading blood.
She roared with anger. She lunged for the beast, but her hands, stained even darker with her lover's blood, passed through it. A wet cold chewed at her fingers as they tangled with nothing more than mist. Again, she felt its contempt as it lifted its dark and empty eyes to hers