Impulse overcame reservation. Trader reached out, grabbed a handful of fur behind the animal’s neck, and lifted. The dog wasn’t that big, but his thick fur was logged with water. The canoe rocked as Trader found the right balance and dragged the dripping beast over the gunwale.
With one hand he reached for his war club, a wicked copper-bitted thing more handy for close quarters. Rather than try and smack the dog with the long paddle, Trader could easily brain him with a short stroke of the war club if he lunged at him. The dog staggered to his feet, sneezing, coughing, and shivering out of control. He gave Trader one terrified glance through glazed eyes, arched his back, and threw up.
Trader glanced at the shivering cur, then at the pitiful bits of leather, splinters of charred bone, moldy pumpkin husk, and yellow bile.
The dog licked his pointy nose, looked up, and cowered back in horror.
“That’s all you’ve got in your stomach?”
The dog continued to shiver, staring up with terrified eyes.
Dangerous? Still, one could never tell. A demon dog, drowning in the middle of the river, wouldn’t want to come across as an immediate threat. No, he’d want to lure an unsuspecting Trader into a false sense of security before he leaped up to sink fangs in a man’s throat.
The canoe was drifting sideways, spinning lazily out of the current. Trader lowered his war club, extending his paddle to right his course. The dog cowered in anticipation of a blow.
Trader considered as he stroked his way back to the center of the current. “If you’re truly a demon dog, you can understand human speech. So you should know, you’re not acting like a good demon dog should. Or is it that you’re a really poor specimen of a terrible demon? Is that why you’ve only got old garbage—and not much of it at that—in your stomach?”
The dog’s head lowered, ears pinned back. The soft brown eyes reminded him of worried wet pebbles.
Trader satisfied himself with his course, and reached down with the ceramic cup. The dog scrambled backward, trying to make himself small and invisible against the closest pack. Trader scooped up as much of the dog’s goo as he could. He washed the cup out over the side and scooped up some more of the spreading stain. Fortunately water drained out of the dog’s thick fur fast enough to help keep the mess in place. With each movement, the dog cringed as if trying to sink through the canoe bottom.
Trader replaced his bailing cup and cocked his head. Out of the water, his coat soaked, the thing looked like a collection of walking bones. Ribs, hips, and spine stuck out, while the belly made a hollow behind the ribs.
“I have to say, for a tricky demon, you haven’t been eating well.”
The dog blinked frightened eyes.
“Oh, blood and piss,” Trader exclaimed, the dog cowering back at the tone.
Trader reached into a leather sack beside him and drew forth a slab of dried venison. “Here.” He bit off a piece and spit it onto the canoe bottom in front of the dog.
The pointed nose quivered, ears slowly rising. A fit of shivering barely distracted the animal, and a thin filament of drool appeared at the corner of his mouth. Still the wary eyes remained fixed on Trader.
“It’s all right,” he said gently. “I think you’re starving.” Hunger overcame the dog’s good sense. With deliberate care, he reached out and plucked up the morsel. The jerky vanished in a wolfish gulp. To Trader’s surprise, the tail thumped twice.
For the next hand of time, Trader alternately chewed on his jerky and shared it with the shivering dog. The thing was ravenous. Nor did he ever snap, growl, or show so much as a whit of the glowing eyes the two hunters had described.
“What do I call you? Everything has to have a name,” Trader told the dog. The shivers had stopped as the dog’s stomach filled. The continuing drizzle ensured that his coat wasn’t going to dry out anytime soon.
“I don’t think calling you Demon Dog would go over well.” He imagined them pulling up at the Four Lance Town landing. “Greetings, I am called Trader. And this is Demon Dog.” He could see the suddenly grim faces, then Thwok! Smack! He could hear the sounds as a worried local drove an ax through the dog’s skull. Trader would probably feel more than hear the crack of his own head, unaware that another frightened individual had sneaked up behind him while he was talking.
People took things like demons much too seriously.
“Just like at that village back there.” He paused, trying to fit the pathetic beast crouched in his canoe with the story told by the hunters. “Let’s say that you showed up just as they had a little bad luck. Sometimes that happens. Traders are particularly wary of it. We always find an excuse and leave if someone comes down sick.” He took another sweep with the paddle. “Of course, we’re protected by the Power of Trade. People know that in return for protection while inside their borders, we won’t witch them. And if we ever learn of anyone using the Trade as a means of covering witchcraft, we’ll kill them outright.”