Justin Allen

Uruk ran fast, but still he was pur­sued. The foot­steps were barely audi­ble over the sound of his breath­ing, but they were there.

For­tu­nately, he was almost to the city. Very soon he’d be able to lose his pur­suers among the twists and turns of the streets and alleys. He crossed a foot­bridge over the Ibex River and marched uphill. A few more farms and he’d be free.

Uruk was halfway through a bar­ley field, the new plants just begin­ning to bud, when he heard the foot­steps again. His hunter. Closer than ever and mov­ing fast. Faster than any man could run. Uruk glanced back at the river, then at Ur. At the speed they were com­ing, he’d never reach the city in time.

Bet­ter to face it, he decided. What­ever it was. He slid his sword from its scab­bard. From the dark­ness on the other side of the foot­bridge he could hear the thing pant­ing, its breath whistling through its teeth. Then Uruk saw its yel­low eyes.

Among his peo­ple there were sto­ries of demons that ruled the night, eyes blaz­ing in the dark­ness. Uruk had never believed those tales, as with all things super­nat­ural he was a skep­tic, but he gripped his sword tighter all the same. His heart raced as he went to meet this demon, what­ever form it might take. He was almost to the bridge when it trot­ted from the shadows.

It was a dog. In fact, it was the very same ani­mal he’d seen in front of the zig­gu­rat, starved near to death. Uruk laughed at him­self as he walked across the foot­bridge. The dog glanced up at him for only a moment, then slumped toward the river­bank. It was so tired that it lay down to drink.

Uruk sat down beside the dog and dug his toes in the mud. It looked over at him momen­tar­ily, and then went back to lap­ping up the river water.

“Care­ful dog, you will make your­self sick,” Uruk said.

The dog kept drinking.

Uruk took his tunic from his satchel, turned it inside out and dunked it in the water. He used it to wipe the clay off his chest, face and head. It felt good to be clean.

When the clay was all gone, Uruk rinsed out his tunic and slipped it on over his head. He sighed as the cold water ran down his back.

The dog was the color of the desert sands, with short hair and a long tail that curved up slightly toward its back. ‘A hand­some beast,’ Uruk thought. Or it could be, if only it wasn’t so skinny.

He took the remains of a pork shank from his satchel, tore off a chunk of meat for him­self and held out the rest.

The dog growled.

Almost too fast to see, Uruk back­handed it — flip­ping it over and send­ing it slid­ing in the dirt. The dog came up furious.

It jumped toward him again, growl­ing, and Uruk thumped it on the nose.

This time the dog yelped and leapt away. It hadn’t expected Uruk to be so fast.

Uruk held the bone out to the dog again. “If you want it, take it. But I will have no threats.” He grinned. “Espe­cially not when I am the one with the meat.”

The dog put its head down and inched for­ward. Its teeth and lips nipped at the air. Fear and hunger were at war within it. Finally, the dog dodged in, licked the meat, and dodged away. Hunger was winning.

Uruk put the bone on the ground next to his thigh. He could see that this dog had dealt with men before. In the Shi­nar, and even as far away as the coastal cities, dogs were most often raised for their meat. “I never eat hunters,” Uruk assured it.

The dog inched toward him again, this time with its head held high. Its eye­brows twitched as it sniffed him. Gen­tly, it bent and took the meat.

While the dog ate, Uruk pulled the Maid­en­head from where it lay hid­den in his breeches and held it up to the moon. The white light shin­ing through the jewel made a strange shadow, slightly red, at his feet. “Beau­ti­ful,” he mut­tered. Then he scooped up a hand­ful of mud and smeared it over the jewel, hid­ing the red glow beneath dark earth.

Beside him, the dog’s teeth clicked on bone.

From Slaves of the Shinar

The Over­look Press 2007

© Justin Allen