A plain-looking fellow, but I learned then that he was perhaps the most observant man I ever met. What he saw in Gwendolyn and me at that moment—some subtlety of expression, or posture—brought a gleam into his eyes.
“Young Benvenuti,” he said, puffing on his cigar, “I believe you have committed the gravest of sins. I speak as a soldier.”
“And what is that?”
“In classic Sfondrati-Piccolomini manner, you have engaged yourself simultaneously on two fronts. I predict you will have an adventurous life.”
I flushed, as did Gwendolyn. The General chuckled.
“I don’t disapprove, mind you. Love is not war, appearances and popular opinion to the contrary. Gwendolyn, it’s nice to see a softness, for once, on that blade of a soul. As for you, young Benvenuti, it’s always a pleasure to see a bloodline run true. You are, I trust, illegitimate?”
I gaped like a fish. Nodded.
“Excellent, excellent. I approve of Sfondrati-Piccolomini bastards. Got no use for the rest of that lot.” He turned back into his hut. “Come in, come in.”
Entering, I found that the hut was much bigger on the inside than it had seemed from without.
“You’ve added on,” said Gwendolyn.
The General looked uncomfortable. “Yes, yes, I have. It’s still the smallest residence on the estate, mind you. But I admit I’m stretching the limit of tradition. Still, I had no choice. The children needed more room to play, and Fangwulf was getting grumpy, not being able to stretch out properly.”
I could see it coming, tried to head it off, but Gwendolyn was too quick.
“Benvenuti’s just dying to meet Fangwulf!” she cried. The words out, she gave me an immense grin. Completely unfazed, she was, by my answering scowl.
Amusement gleamed in the General’s eyes. “Well, of course he wants to meet the top dog.” He stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. A moment later, a batch of children’s heads were in the door.
“Go fetch Fangwulf,” said the General. The faces disappeared in a flash.
“And mind you follow protocol this time!” he roared after them.
“He’s a good dog, Fangwulf,” explained the General. “But as he gets on in years, he’s getting prickly about the formalities.”
A minute or so later, a girl—perhaps six years old—skidded into the hut. She drew herself up into a rigidly military posture. Then, in a shrill voice, intoned the following:
“All hail Fangwulf! Fangwulf of Wide Fame!
“All hail the Fleshripper! The Hideous Hound!
“Fangwulf of the Loping Stride!
“The Ravening Gullet Himself!
“Sired by Consumption out of Omnigorge!
“The Slouching Rough Beast!
“Its Hour Come Round At Last!”
How shall I describe the dog who came into the hut? From a dispassionate, scientific, objective standpoint, the task is not too difficult. The beast was something of a triple-lifesize cross between a mastiff and a wolfhound, combining the most fearsome features of both—the great jaws of a mastiff with the long legs and teeth of the wolfhound. The fur was relatively short and bristly, colored black and brown except for a white spot above one eye.
But all this was trivial. For I am an artist, with an artist’s eye, and I could not help but think of a portrait of the great horror. The difficulty was in choosing a suitable title.
Death Incarnate would be too abstract. The phrase doesn’t capture the saliva dripping from the great canine fangs.
Slavering Beast of Hell, on the other hand, connotes a certain mindless rage. And while I could not miss the oceanic fury in those glowing red eyes, neither could I escape the great, cold, pitiless intelligence which gleamed there also.
Other titles flashed through my mind as well, in that last moment of my life: Satan’s Nightmare. The Big Crunch. Doom Itself.
I thought Gwendolyn’s description was utterly inappropriate.
“Isn’t he just the most beautiful dog!” she cried. And so saying, Gwendolyn flung herself onto the monster. When my horrified paralysis passed, I discovered that the thing was licking her face. While she, for her part, rumpled his fur and nuzzled his jowls. Fortunately, the more energetic antics she had conducted with the puppies earlier were forgone.
I saw the General’s eyes upon me, weighing and judging.