The Pack (11 page)

“Trust me. I never said it would be easy.”

“And after?”

“Tell us where to wait and we'll meet … Then we'll go to get Floris.”

“Crazy,” Skreech said. “All of us crazy.”

Bradley noticed the “us,” but did not want to press it.

*   *   *

It was late afternoon the next day before Skreech placed a bowl of scraps for Hunger in the cage and the Weasel waved Bradley out.

“Time's getting close,” he said. “I hope for your sake that your dog's up for it.”

Bradley gave Hunger a stroke, a firm stroke all down his head. It was the one that forced his head back, that made their eyes meet.

“Whatever happens, I know you'll find a way to pull through.” Bradley said the words with clenched teeth.

While there is breath in me, I will fight.

“He'll be ready,” Bradley told the Weasel. “But he'd fight stronger and longer if he could hear me and Victor both shouting him on.”

“Get out of it,” said the Weasel.

“Look, just think about it for a minute. Hunger sees himself as part of a pack. Yeah, silly, isn't it? All the same, he feels when he fights that he's fighting for the members of the pack.”

“And that's you and that … creature over there.”

“Exactly. What have you got to lose? I'm not saying it'll be decisive, but if this fight's going to be as hard as I think it is, we need every advantage we can get.” Bradley hated to use that “we,” but he too was prepared to use anything for an advantage. He could see the Weasel's face narrow in thought.

“I mean,” Bradley pushed, “think if Hunger lost and Red Dog knew that—”

“All right, shut it. You,” the Weasel said to Skreech, “come here. You're going to go into that cage, clip this lead onto the creature's collar and bring him over here. You, Dog Boy, tell that thing to behave.”

“Victor,” Bradley called over to him. “Victor, don't fight the boy guard. Be calm.” Victor looked at Bradley with his wide, empty eyes and nodded slowly twice.

The Weasel unlocked Victor's cage and Skreech clipped the lead onto his collar and handed the end of it to another soldier, a mean-looking boy with hollow cheeks and dark-rimmed eyes. As he brought him over, Victor tried to stand, but the boy pulled on his lead, and Victor was brought down, choking, onto all fours.

“Good, that's the way,” laughed the weasel. The boy tugged the lead more for the weasel's amusement.

The Weasel took the lead and tied it round the bars of the cage. “There we are then, thing, there's your perfect viewing spot. Aha, I think I heard footsteps.” Then he turned swiftly to Bradley. “You'd better be right about this, Dog Boy. If you're not, you'd better start praying.”

The door was flung open with the usual banging and whooping as Red Dog entered, a mass of crimson chiffon billowing behind him. An ungainly boy soldier, who somehow had become caught up in the doorway with him, was held, then kicked sprawling to the floor.

“So, so, so, once again, ladies and gentlemen, welcome Red Dog, the only one—
once met, never forgotten; once crossed
—What's this?” He broke off, pointing to Victor.

“Ah, tactics,” said the Weasel importantly.

“Tactics?”

“Yes, tactics. I think that dog will fight harder if the creature's watching with Dog Boy. They're pack dogs, you see.”

“Clev-er, clev-er. You are the best of laugh-tenants,” said Red Dog. The Weasel beamed.

“But to return to formalities…” Red Dog rose up to his full height, his periwig causing the lowest crystals of the chandelier to tinkle together. “For a Christmas treat, Red Dog has invited, to share the joys of canine combat, his esteemed neighbor, the great warlord, Black Fist!”

Immediately, a guard of honor formed—six boy soldiers each side and all blowing furiously on small plastic trumpets. As Victor put his hands to his ears and rocked and whined, Hunger tore round his cage in fury.

At the end of the fanfare, two other children appeared, pulling a small trolley on which stood a mountain of a man, draped in black. The trolley stopped and the man-mountain swayed. The children looked up at him, alarmed, till he had composed himself. He stepped off and Red Dog took his hand. Bradley noticed what small, delicate-looking hands Black Fist had.

“Welcome, Black Fist. Let me introduce you to my champion. His name's Hunger and he's hungry for blood.” Red Dog's face opened with his pleased-with-myself look and his boy soldiers banged approval.

Black Fist peered in at Hunger. “Huh, it'll be a short fight then. My champion is undefeated in eight fights. No dog has lived that's stood against him. And this black creature will be no different.” Now Black Fist's soldiers yelped their agreement.

“We'll see,” said Red Dog. “What he gives away in weight, he makes up for in spirit. Anyway, enough talk. Bring in your champion.”

Black Fist clapped his hands and four black-clad boy soldiers brought in a huge gray dog. His back was level with his escorts' shoulders, his long jaws heavily muzzled. His shadow moved like a frieze along the walls.

“This, Red Dog, and make no mistake, is the Hound of Hell.”

“Well, Black Fist, originality was never your strong point,” Red Dog sneered.

The Hound of Hell's black eyes looked madly around the room. When he sensed Hunger's presence, he shook his head and, in spite of the muzzle, grumbled in his throat.

Hunger too was aware his enemy had entered the room. His hackles were up and he was freely growling at the gray monster.

“Good, good,” said Red Dog. “Just keep that up for a while, till we get our betting done.”

The Weasel now came between both men, as they dictated to him what they were prepared to wager: sacks of potatoes, material for banners, knives …

Meanwhile, Hunger and the Hound of Hell snarled at each other and pushed against the bars that divided them. The children's eyes gleamed.

Red Dog and Black Fist slapped hands in agreement, then both turned to the cage.

“And now,” Red Dog intoned, “the main event, this Christmas Day. This is a dog fight to find the Champion of Champions, a fight to the finish.”

Bradley glanced at Skreech. He scratched behind his ear, the sign they'd agreed on. The door was unlocked and everything else taken care of, as far as it could be. Whether or not they would be leaving with Hunger, they would soon know.

“Then begin!” shouted Red Dog to a clamor of shouting and whooping. The Hound of Hell's muzzle was slipped off, the Weasel unlocked the cage and the Hound bounded in.

But what on earth was Hunger playing at? Faced with his greatest challenge, he had dropped to his elbows in an invitation to play.
Chase me,
he was saying. Moreover, his tail was up, radiating confidence.

“Your dog's gone mad with fear,” said Black Fist.

The Hound of Hell couldn't understand it either. His head was cocked momentarily, as he considered this impudence. He'd been insulted.
Chase you?
he snarled.
I'll chase the life out of you. You don't deserve to be in the same cage with me.

Hunger easily avoided the first lunge. And the second. The Hound's effectiveness had been dulled by his rage. But now his head was clearing. He took command of the centre of the cage, his eyes riveted on Hunger, who stood low, silently baring his teeth.

With one great leap, the Hound was on Hunger. It was clumsy, but his weight toppled Hunger for an instant. The Hound stood over him and reached with his open jaws for Hunger's spine. As they closed on it, Hunger twisted out of reach and tore into the Hound's chest. Both had now drawn blood. Flesh wounds, yes, but both acknowledged the other's power to wound. When they looked at each other now, there was wariness mixed with the hate. The preliminaries were over. Both knew now that mind games wouldn't win this fight—only speed of reflexes, strength and determination.

The crowd filled the pause in the action with their clamour.

“That dog won't be so lucky next time,” Black Fist commented.

“We'll see,” said Red Dog. But he scanned his eyes worriedly down his wager all the same.

Victor had set up his own quiet chant: “Hung-ger, Hung-ger, Hung-ger, Hung-ger, Hung-ger.” It didn't vary in speed or intonation, as if he were willing each breath of it into Hunger.

They had been shadowing each other round the cage for so long now that you might have thought neither dog was prepared for another move; that neither was prepared to face the slashing threat of the other's teeth. That was not the way Bradley saw it.

The next time it's all up with you,
said the Hound.

Come on, then,
said Hunger.
What are you waiting for?

The Hound leaped. But this time Hunger was ready.

He brought his back down flush with the floor, almost in a cower, as the Hound hit against the bars of the cage. Then, twisting from below, he brought up his jaws and clamped them round the Hound's throat.

There was a choked growl from the Hound and he shook himself furiously, but Hunger knew this was his winning move and he clung on.

The Hound lowered his head and raked Hunger, his claws cutting into Hunger's back and chest. But Hunger held on, his mouth filling with the Hound's blood.

The Hound was weakening; his mad eyes roamed the room as he stood in the centre of the cage, Hunger hanging from his throat. His head steadily lowered.

When the Hound of Hell eventually went down onto his haunches and a little later fell over, Hunger was still fastened to his throat. Both were lying on the blood-stained floorboards. The Hound's glazed eyes already looked at Hunger from another world. His breathing was now a few gurgling rasps. Hunger released him and stood over him, his silver chest a bloody shield. He tipped his head back and howled weakly, as Red Dog's boy soldiers cheered.

“Well, Black Fist, I think that's the game over,” declared Red Dog. “Go see to my champion, Dog Boy”—and he waved the Weasel to open the cage.

That's when Skreech went into action.

He had wormed his way as close to Black Fist as possible, so that his black majesty could not help but notice, when Skreech seemed to spot something lying on the floor before him. Skreech's arms went out in surprise.
Cooler,
thought Bradley.
Cooler.
Skreech bent down to pick up the rag, from where he had only recently dropped it.

“What's this?” he said loudly, giving it a big sniff. “Oh, wow, what is
that?
”

Black Fist grabbed the cloth from him and thrust his nose into it. It was only paraffin, but its fumes were enough to convince Black Fist his dog had been drugged in some way—or at least to persuade him that here was some excuse for not handing over his wager.

“Trickery!” he yelled. “Your dog could never have beaten mine without it. And here's the evidence. You dirty—” He lunged now in the direction of Red Dog, his great weight scattering the dense rows of boy soldiers.

“You loser, you!” Red Dog bellowed above the noise.

“Dirty cheat!”

Both sides of boy soldiers now launched attacks on the other, slapping, punching, spitting, wrestling each other to the ground.

In the commotion, Bradley unclipped Victor and called to Hunger. Skreech shouted to his boy soldiers to charge and so led them away from the corner of the room that led to the door.

Bradley, Victor and Hunger slipped through the unlocked door. Brightness slammed into them and, for a moment, their senses were frozen, before the lights of the Invisible City fell back and a dark chasm opened up before them. Bradley turned the key in the lock. A broken stairwell hung in the open space. They took the unsure steps as nimbly as they dared. They were at ground-floor level before they heard the banging echo above them.

On the street, they didn't look back. They knew it would not be long before the boy soldiers were out and swarming after them. Hunger carried a limp and Victor loped, his fists brushing the snow.

The alleyway, two streets away, was deep with slush, but it wouldn't take their footprints as clearly as the snow. At its end they crossed a street and came to a road running parallel with a river. There were steps down to its edge. They ran as close to the edge as they could; often the freezing water lapped over Bradley's and Victor's shoes.

At the third bridge they came to, they stopped. And they waited. Their breath, spilling out in clouds, seemed a huge giveaway. But it wasn't long before they saw the slight figure running along the river's edge. There were no others in sight, though the occasional cry of disappointment punctured the night and the faint roaring of Red Dog made them shiver more than the cold.

Skreech came in under the bridge and crouched, panting, beside them. No one said anything for a while. Hunger and Victor continued to sniff each other, bringing their stories up to date.

“Hunger all right?” Skreech said, eventually.

“Hard to tell in this light,” Bradley said. “Once you think it's OK, I'll bathe his wounds.”

“Give it another hour,” Skreech said. “I think we're in the clear. Most of them went the other way. No one would think you'd head for the Invisible City.”

“That was scary,” said Bradley.

“Yeah,” and Skreech let out a long exhalation.

“Some riot though.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And Red Dog's face…”

“… will be something,” Bradley finished and they both smiled.

“Yeah, but he'll make someone pay,” Skreech said.

“But it won't be you.”

“No, not anymore.”

“My name's Bradley … Bradley,” he said it again to fill the silence.

“Oh,” said Skreech. “Yes.” Then he turned his face full on Bradley's. It was gloomy in there under the bridge, so although Bradley could see his eyes, he couldn't make out the expression he had on his face, when he told Bradley, “Hi, my name's Martha.”