D Cornish - Factotum

A muffled, unintelligible cry from on high brought shouts of approbation and jeers of playful derision from many.

"Bravo to you, sir!" the clerk cried, and sat again.

Rossamund could see several similar clerical fellows moving among the stalls, listening intently to the wagering calls of the chancers, scribbling upon tiny folds of paper and exchanging monies.

Rossamund craned to see down over the lip of the balustrade to the access that he could just make out below, curious despite himself to see what tribe of dog the contender would be.

With a clunk and a sustained whining rumble the iron gutter now shifted. Rising out of the floor, it slowly became a metal curtain dividing the pit in two. The tractor released his anxious hound and quickly retreated, the beast ravening suddenly, chasing the fellow from the pit and giving Rossamund a sharp start, though much of the crowd seemed well used to such shocks.

Left on its own, Skarfithin paced before the iron fence, its dripping tongue lolling hungrily, sniffing at the small holes that stippled the iron sheet.

Rossamund held his breath. He looked up into the stalls to find Rookwood, but the fellow was intent on the beasts in the pit below and laughing and talking with great animation to Eusebus.

A thump and another clang! warned that the near door below him was opening.

With a collective gasp the entire audience went quiet.

What manner of tykehound was it that caused such corporate dismay?

Rossamund pressed his forehead against the struts of the balustrade till it hurt, to get a glimpse of the competing dog. When the beast stalked into view, right there, right below him, the young factotum's innards went frigid. It was not another dog Skarfithin was to fight. It was… a monster.

Out stalked a nicker of the most weird appearance, walking upright with strange angular flexings of ropy, footless legs. Instead of a head it had a long writhing tentacle, with a similar appendage at its posterior end too, its arms of exactly the same form as its legs. Its warty skin was an ashen green, with vivid rings of purple mottling the darker hide of its back, its limbs and tentacles.

This was worse than a dogfight. It was a hob-rousing set between selthounds and bogles. Here was the cause of the anguished threwd!

Rossamund's soul revolted. What have I found!

"Goodly peoples," the rouse-clerk cried into the stunned hush from his safe seat in the lowest stalls, "I give you the Handsome Grackle!" He flung a dramatic gesture at the frighteningly alien and ungainly creature that awaited its doom in the rousing-pit. "What be your stakes?"

At this the watchers burst with the dispute of wagers, numbered white pugs waving as results were speculated and amounts offered. In the din it was still clear: most seemed convinced of the Derehund's victory.

Fixing his attention on the creature dubbed the Handsome Grackle, Rossamund could well understand why, for the creature staggered in palsied jerks into the middle of the pit. Staying back from the perforated fence, it turned quickly from side to side, both tentacles reaching out and up, rippling as if they were testing the very air. Feeling a delicate flutter in his head like the gentlest sending of a talented wit, Rossamund knew the thing was looking, searching by means unknown to find an escape. There was something about its parched, knobbled skin and bizarre physiology that spoke more of the vinegary deeps than of the bosky dells or forsaken pastures. As the beast twisted, the young factotum could see in the center of its torso a weird, vertical mouth quivering, making great "O's" as if it were gasping for breath.

Transfixed, Rossamund swallowed at the clench in his throat, his hand already grasping for a potive.

A shriek of clashing metal silenced the crowd.

With a penetrating boom! the iron curtain dropped and the foes were immediately confronted. In an instant Skarfithin was all hackles and maddened, shuddering growls. Saliva drooled from its gnashing fangs; its small red-shot maniac eyes rolled. Without a face the Handsome Grackle seemed little affected: its only reaction was to bend its tentacles and wave them slightly at its canine foe.

Without a backward crouch the selthound sprang, leaping the entire gap between it and the Grackle. There was a frightful crunching like the chewing of a fresh apple as the dog bit deep into the startled monster's left arm, the momentum of the leap bringing both crashing to the hardened dirt. The Grackle did not make a sound as it fell, no cry of agony or shout of fear. Even if it had, none would have heard it as the willing audience let out a roar of delight at its fall. Gripping alien flesh in its mighty maw, Skarfithin shook its head violently until the whole form of the Grackle rocked. Finally some piece of it tore free, leaving a deep purple gash in its arm. The Derehund was not intent on morsels, and struck again and then again. With every chunk of seltling flesh ripped away, the dog's assaults grew more frenzied, not allowing the mauled and flailing Grackle time to right itself.

"Come on, ye mighty daggy, rend the mucky salamander!" were the shouts from the lower stalls.

"Huzzahrah! Mother and the boys'll be supping hearty a'morrow!"

"I declare, bravo! Smash the brute to flinders! My entire purse is on your head!"

"Bravo!" came the cries from the high stalls; even Rookwood was calling out with babbling gusto.

Rossamund could scarce stand it. Without looking, he began counting through the slots of his digitals.

Suddenly the Grackle made a huffing, almost keening cry as, with a great thrust of its limbs, it threw Skarfithin back and sent the dog tumbling to the floor. Before Rossamund's eyes and all the wagerers' with him, the monster's ghastly purple wounds began to ripple, the flesh bubble and the wounds close.

It's mending itself! Rossamund stilled his face to contain his delight.

"It heals!" some observant soul across the way echoed, and a hush momentarily dampened the throng.

Undaunted, the Derehund pounced straight back as the Grackle tried to stand, the dog's great teeth clashing loudly on vacant air. Swinging its club-fisted arms, the nadderer managed to bay the Derehund.

Someone shouted, "Ten oscars on the sea-selt!" and the flurry of bets and jeers and mindless exclamations exploded again.

At this mighty noise Skarfithin got teeth into meat and pulled the nadderer's left arm, threatening to topple it again. Yet the Handsome Grackle was not so easily done for. With another austerating hiss it lifted its arm, hauling its foe, still clamped to the meat of its arm, clear off the floor. Writhing like a line-caught fish, Skarfithin growled and seethed and would not let go. The Grackle raised its other arm and, with a quick, powerful punch, sent the Derehund reeling, its mouth still full of monster-flesh, to smack with an unpleasant wet sound on the far wall and slide heaplike to the hard-packed dirt.

Dismayed at last, Skarfithin labored to stand and now paced more warily before its foe, head down, gaze murderous, calculating, its ribs heaving like a bellows.