Terry Pratchett - The Long War

The kobold cringed. “What, what?”

“You got your walkman?”

“Stone that sings-ss?”

“Give it to me.”

“But, but, but, mm-mine!” He sounded like a child.

She grabbed his wrist so he couldn’t step away without her. “It’s that or your left bollock. Hand it over. Now we go back. Get ready to step, Jansson…”

Joshua backed away from Snowy, and from Bill, who scrambled to pack up the translation gear. Some instinct guided Joshua towards the river bank, the flowing water.

How the hell was he supposed to handle this? He was barely conscious as it was. The device on his back felt like a huge malevolent crab now, digging its claws deeper into his flesh with every pace. Maybe the painkillers were wearing off.

And Snowy followed. He wasn’t moving as quickly as Joshua, so the gap between them opened up, yet there was a steady, purposeful, relentless quality to his gait. Then he dropped to all fours, becoming even more wolf-like. A huge, big-brained, weapon-carrying wolf.

Joshua was aware of the trolls watching, apparently curious, but none intervened. Other dogs watched too: Li-Li, the mordant Brian. More warrior types followed, it seemed, come to see the show.

Suddenly all the beagles howled, a pack in full cry.

“Come, Joshua-aahh,” Snowy growled. “This fun-nn.”

“Get stuffed, Krypto.”

“And honour-hrr for you. Gift of Granddaughter. Life he-hhre, cheap.”

“Big litters?”

“Many born. All die. To die well is-s to have lived well-ll.”

“That’s your culture. Not mine.”

“Head high on her wall. Honour-hhr of place.”

“Whose head?”

“Yours-ss.”

“Thanks.” Joshua, succumbing to the inevitable, turned and started to jog, parallel to the river. “How can I win?”

“Die well-ll—”

“Any options aside from that?”

“ My head on wall-ll… Play fair-hrr.”

“What?”

“I play fair.” The beagle stopped, stock still, and closed its eyes. “R-run, human-nn.”

Joshua didn’t hesitate further. He ran. He tried to think like a wolf, like a dog. Or rather, cliché scenes from every bad wolf-chases-man movie flashed through his head.

What the hell. He dived into the river.

Given this was generally such a hot, arid world, the water was surprisingly cold, the current strong, and it swept him downstream fast. Heavy in his clothes, he struggled to keep his head above the water. He considered kicking off his boots, then thought about running over open ground barefoot, and kept the boots.

As long as he didn’t drown, this was a good plan, right? Throw the dog off the scent, like in the movies. But the pain from the lethal gadget on his back seemed even sharper in the cold water. And he felt like it was talking to him. You could always just step away. End it in a second. A bolt through the heart—how bad can it be? Better than getting your throat bitten out by Deputy Dawg back there . But he wasn’t dead yet.

The river soon swept him away from the cultivated country, the fields, and into rougher terrain. He’d been brought into this place unconscious, and hadn’t had a chance to scope it out. Evidently the Eye of the Hunter, the city of Granddaughter Petra’s Den, really wasn’t so large. He’d need to find a place to hide before Snowy caught up with him—

“Watch out-hrr.”

The voice came from downstream. He struggled to get his head out of the water. There was Snowy, sitting on a rock as if waiting to be fed by his owner, calmly watching Joshua get washed by.

He yelled back, “Watch out for what?”

Snowy glanced farther downstream. “The hrr-rapids.”

And in a heartbeat Joshua had been swept past Snowy’s rock, and over a low waterfall, and into the rapids. He was buffeted from one worn boulder to the next, a punch to the kidneys here, a slam in the chest there, as he tumbled through the rocks like a piece of lumber. He forced himself to give in to the surging, turbulent flow, to keep his limbs loose, to protect his head. But every time the pack on his back caught on some projection the pain was agonizing.

Then he was through, squirted out like an orange pip from a child’s lips, and he was hurled even further downstream. When he glanced back, he could see no sign of Snowy. At least he might have gained some distance.

A fallen tree lay across the stream. With a mighty effort he plunged that way, grabbed the tree as he went past, and pulled himself out of the water on to a bank of gravel. He sat up to protect his back, panting, one breath, two, three.

There was nobody about. No Snowy. But now he had stopped moving he had time to concentrate on the pain in his back, a raking, ripping, tearing anguish. Worse, his lower back felt slippery again, and the damp gravel under him was stained red with blood.

Joshua Valienté had been travelling alone in the Long Earth since he was thirteen years old. He had been in some tight spots before, and he was still around. There was no reason why he couldn’t get out of this one. And you can always step, just step into a different sunlight, and it will be over in a flash …

Not yet. Think ahead . Dogs and scent, right?

He pulled at his clothing. His shirt was a ruin anyhow; it fell apart easily. He threw one half into the water and let it wash downstream. Then he draped the other half over the tree that had saved his life. He stood, glancing around, and stared to paddle down the river, sticking close to the bank, staying in the water.

“Nice t-hrry.” Snowy was right in front of him.

Joshua lunged to his left, away from the river, and ran across broken turf-like ground, not grass, something similar. The fallen tree that had saved him from the river was part of a shattered copse that looked as if it had been smashed apart by a lightning strike. He dived that way, rolled into the shadow of a big fallen trunk.

The huge form of the beagle padded silently across his vision.

Then he heard a human voice calling from far away, a male voice singing: a thin, wailing song, something about remembering Walter… The sound seemed to trigger a reflex in Snowy, and he bounded away.

Joshua knew he had been granted seconds, no more. No point running. He clambered out of his cover, his back aching, and he could feel blood trickling down his bare flesh. He cast around the clearing, picking up fallen branches, testing them. Here was one, thick and solid, too long—he smashed it in two on a lichen-covered trunk. He had a weapon.

A soft growl.

He turned. Snowy had the chewed-up remains of Finn McCool’s walkman in his mouth. He spat the junk to the ground.

Without hesitating Joshua whirled, swinging the branch as hard as he could. It slammed into the beagle’s heavy skull. It felt as if he’d tried to brain a marble statue. The impact shuddered up his arms, his aching back and even his bad shoulder hurt like hell.

But the beagle stumbled, almost fell.

Joshua glimpsed knives of stone and iron in the belt at Snowy’s waist. One chance. He leapt forward, his fingers grasping for a blade.

But Snowy stood straight, almost gracefully, almost kindly, and simply shouldered Joshua to the ground.

Now Joshua was flat on his back, with the crossbow gadget digging painfully into his spine. The man-wolf was on top of him, standing easily on all fours, his paws pinning Joshua’s limbs, his heavy head above him, staring down.

A scent of meat on his breath. A glimpse of a wagging tail. Snowy actually licked his face.

“This won’t hu-hrrt.”

No, it damn well wouldn’t. Joshua braced to step, to put a clean end to this.

But that hadn’t been Snowy’s voice. He glanced sideways, in sudden hope.