“Oh, my good sir, no!” The jackalwere sounded mortally offended.
“Yes, you were, and then you were planning on drinking my blood. Right?” “Not at all.”
‘You’re hungry, and you’ve got a brood to feed.” “I’ll have you know, sir, that we are subsisting quite well on your kindness.”
That reminded Pryce of how he had complicated his own situation in the disposition of the dead bodies, which pained his spirit as well. He groaned again, gripping the sides of his head to keep it from cracking open like an egg. Moving very carefully, he started to get up.
“Be careful, my good man,” Cunningham warned, stepping forward to assist him.
“You keep your distance,” Covington said sharply.
The jackalwere, now fully returned to his human state, placed a limp hand against his chest. “You injure me, sir.”
“Better I injure you verbally than you injure me physically,” Pryce countered. “Where am I, anyway?”
Cunningham took the chance of leaning over conspiratorially. “We are beneath the city, sir, in a series of tunnels I’ve found quite useful.”
Pryce glanced around, careful not to move too quickly. It was so dark that he couldn’t see much. Cunningham, being part jackal, could probably see as clear as day. “You haven’t been using this lair to claim new, uh… meals, have you?”
“Pardon my familiarity, sir,” the jackalwere replied haughtily, “but have you lost your senses? You especially should know that a creature of my kind on the streets of Lallor would last about as long as a shard of ice in Zzuntal. I am taking a certain risk just by traveling beneath the streets.”
“So why are you?” Pryce asked, hoping to gather enough of his senses to really think by the time the creature finished answering.
‘You truly are addled, good sir,” the jackal-man decided. “Do you not recall the words you left me with on the evening of our initial meeting? No, I have not forgotten your mercy, sir. Imagine, the great Darlington Blade, wasting compassion on the accursed likes of myself and my progeny!” He seemed positively giddy. Such was the fame of the great Darlington Blade.
“If you are truly grateful,” Pryce moaned, massaging his temples, “call me something other than ‘great’ Please? Why can’t I be the decent Darlington Blade, or the fine Darlington Blade, or the fairly convincing Darlington Blade? Why must I always be ‘great’?”
Cunningham shook his head sadly. He answered Pryce’s miserable acrimony with honesty. “You brought it upon yourself, sir,” he informed him. “Even in the short time that I have been privy to your actions, you have more than lived up to your reputation.” He stopped to seriously consider Pryce’s declaration. “Perhaps you would consider not being so great all the time,” he decided. “I’m sure the populace at large would eventually offer you a more fitting sobriquet”
Pryce stopped rubbing his head long enough to look at the jackalwere out of the corner of his eye. “That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?”
The jackalwere merely stood there in his somewhat shabby attire, looking for all the world like a butler who had seen better times. “You have truly great insight, sir, but, no. I am being completely forthcoming in my appreciation.”
“Thank you,” Pryce said, finally able to sit up. He looked askance at the jackalwere, realizing that a full belly gave the beast a much greater control over his animal nature. Then Pryce attempted to peer into the darkness again. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“I honestly don’t know, sir. All I know for sure was when I found you.”
Pryce looked at him patiently. “And when was that?”
“Quite some time ago, sir. At least the time it takes for the moon to travel an eighth of the way across the night sky.”
Pryce touched his head gingerly, carefully trying to find the wound. “You’d think that being out that long would at least give me some night vision,” he complained, then sucked in his breath when his finger found the lump. “Or maybe brain damage.”
“Are you all right now, sir?”
Pryce carefully outlined the damage on his head. “Thankfully the philosopher Sante was also something of a healer,” he said. “According to him, a blow to the front of the head stuns a person. A blow to the back of the head renders one unconscious. A blow to the side means death.” Pryce cautiously noted that his wound was between the back and the side of his cranium. “Apparently my assailant couldn’t make up his mind.”
Cunningham sighed. “As fascinating as all this is, sir, might I suggest a cessation of examination and an introduction of action? The longer I stay here, the greater chance that someone above will detect my presence.”
“Of course, of course.” Pryce looked around carefully, but could still see little farther than his hands. “Where are the little ones?”
“With any luck,” said the jackalwere, “still safe in their thickets.”
“This tunnel goes all the way to the outside of the city wall?” Pryce asked, incredulous.
“It emerges near the Mark of the Question, in fact. From there you have to be quick and cautious to reach cover, but it is a far sight more safe than strolling in view of the gate eye.”
“I should think so.”
“Come,” Cunningham pressed, offering his hand. “I’ll take you back to where I found you.”
This item of news was even more surprising to Pryce than the offer of a jackalwere’s hand. “You mean you didn’t find me here?”
“Why, no, of course not. You were far closer to harm’s way, I’m told.”
‘You were told? By whom?”
“Not whom,” said the Jackalwere solemnly. “By what.” Then he stepped back, and looming into Covington’s view were the two most shocking faces he had ever laid eyes on.
The broken one was named Devolawk. “He was named after the creatures he was mingled from,” Cunningham said sadly. Pryce, never one to be particularly squeamish about the workings of his planet, studied the unclothed animal man closely. It was still dark in the tunnel, and the great Darlington Blade wouldn’t have gasped, grimaced, or scrambled away at the mere sight of a few monsters. Pathetic monsters to be sure, but monsters nonetheless.
Where the “vol” part of his name came from was clear enough. One side of his snout was constantly quivering and had pine-needle-like whiskers. The eye on the same side was small, round, and dark, but could see clearly in the gloom. At least part of this beast was descended… or stolen… from a vole. The “awk” aspect of his name could be seen in the left side. His snout was actually a beak, and the left eye was large, bluish white, and surrounded by feathers. The thing was also part hawk.
“Devolawk,” Pryce mused aloud. “What does the ‘De’ part stand for?”
The jackalwere seemed about to answer, then slowly closed his mouth and stepped back. The broken one leaned close, and his snout-beak opened. Inside, Pryce could see teeth… broken, rotting, chipped human teeth. “De-e-ead man,” came the careful, tortured voice, ending in what sounded like a vole’s squeak and a bird’s whistle.
“Dead man,” Covington breathed, unable to completely cover his distaste. Even so, he leaned closer to survey the poor thing’s body. It wasn’t even as lucky as the head, which seemed to share its three pieces relatively equally. The body, however, was a riotous mix of the person, animal, and bird it was combined from. Flesh mingled with hide mixed with feathers, sometimes in the space of a finger.
Devolawk was painfully hunched over. The top of his human spine was obviously joined by the bones of a vole. One leg was mostly hawk, while the other was mostly vole and painfully shorter, ending in an incongruous human foot.
Pryce leaned to the right and looked at the jackalwere. “He was made from a vole, a hawk, and a corpse?”
Before Cunningham could answer, Pryce felt claws and feathers on his arm. The broken one was leaning down, a human cornea gleaming in the bird’s eye. “A reeeee-sus-citated corpse,” Devolawk wheezed. “I eeeeeven hafffff mem-mor-eeeees, sometiiiimes,” it said with unmistakable wistfulness and pain, “but I do not know whooooo from!”
